Against a male lead (2)
I stepped back, resetting my stance as Varen adjusted his grip on his greatsword. The sting of battle lingered in the air between us—sizzling heat, the faint metallic tang of blood, the crowd's distant roar. For a moment, my eyes lingered on him, watching as he steadied himself, his flames flaring like a second skin.
'Indeed, his swordsmanship is refined,' I thought, my smirk softening into something closer to contemplation. Each movement he made was deliberate, calculated—a clear reflection of the years he'd poured into his craft. There was no denying the discipline, the sheer effort etched into the way he wielded that blade.
But there was something else. Something more.
Even as I pressed him, testing the limits of his technique, I could see it—an evolution. In the way he adjusted, the way his strikes became sharper, more focused. He was learning, growing, adapting. Right here, in the heart of the fight, he was becoming stronger.