Three days passed.
The scent of oil and blood clung to the courtyard stone—not from war, but from practice. From the sharp discipline of bodies refusing to go soft.
Asmodeus ducked, pivoted, and let Levia's blade skim past his shoulder, close enough to cut if she hadn't dulled the edge.
He moved faster than her follow-up. His hand caught her wrist and twisted. She hissed, but didn't drop the sword.
'Smart girls.'
Erika dashed behind him, dual swords in hand. He could feel her presence—the short, shallow breaths, the slight shuffle of boots on stone as she shifted her weight. She'd learned to stop telegraphing her strikes.
She still wasn't fast enough.
Asmodeus released Levia's arm, dropped low, and slid forward under Erika's punch. Her fist passed just over his shoulder. She stumbled off balance.
Levia slammed into her from behind.
"Too slow," he muttered.
