This time, there was no pause between her first and fifth strike.
The twig blurred. One. Two. Four. Eight. Thirteen, arcing and weaving with the soundless precision of a falling star. Each angle was different. Each tempo fractured. She was testing not his strength, but his capacity to learn.
And Ludwig answered, not with mastery, but with effort.
Each blow he deflected was sloppy, yet faster. Stronger. He tracked her position with his whole body, not just his eyes. Oathcarver rang now and again with glancing contact, not perfect parries, but interference. The blade didn't hold, only delayed.
"To anyone else watching, you look pathetic," the Knight King said. "But I see it. You're listening."
Ludwig didn't respond. His mind burned with every shift, every twitch of her shoulders. The ache in his knees deepened. His breathing, pointless though it was, matched the rhythm of her movement now, timing her tempo with his own useless lungs.
And then,
