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The lake caught the last light of day. Ripples flickered with molten gold as the sun dipped lower on the horizon. Out on the shore, a training dummy stood silhouetted against the water. Wyll moved around it with the measured grace of someone who had spent his entire life perfecting an audience-ready form. His boots pivoting on the sand, his rapier flashing sharp arcs through the amber light. His strikes were precise and clean, each flourish seemed designed to kill and show off simultaneously. It looked like he was genuinely enjoying himself.
From the treeline, Magdalena emerged with a canvas bag slung over her shoulder. The fabric weighed heavy with laundry, but she slowed when she caught sight of him. For a moment, she lingered there with a smirk tugging at her mouth as she leaned her hip against a rock. He was good, she’d give him that. But the way he twirled the rapier at the dummy was as if an eager crowd of adoring fans was watching him. She tried to bite back a laugh. It seems like nothing much changed from the Wyll she knew as a child, if anything he’s even more full of himself.
Finally, with an exaggerated huff, she dropped the bag at the water’s edge and knelt down to untie the drawstring. Shirts and trousers spilled into her lap as she set about scrubbing them in the cool shallows, the rhythmic splash of fabric against water joining the hiss of Wyll’s blade cutting through air.
“Come to watch the show?” His voice carried easily, with an annoyingly confident tone. She didn’t spare him a glance, but his smirk was audible.
Magdalena scoffed as she dipped a tunic into the water and wrung it out with sharp twists of her wrists. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she shot back, still not bothering to look over her shoulder. “I’m just here to wash my clothes.”
Wyll didn’t pause his movements after her retort. If anything, her presence seemed to fuel them. His rapier gleamed as he spun it in another tight flourish. He lunged, withdrew, pivoted on the ball of his foot, turning the fight against the dummy into even more of a performance. His strikes were undeniably precise, but every little arc carried a touch of theatrics, as if he couldn’t resist the idea of being watched. Magdalena dipped another shirt into the lake and gave it a vigorous twist, but this time she couldn’t stop herself from looking over her shoulder as her mouth formed a smirk.
“You’re so flashy with it,” she called over to him, her voice dry with amusement. “Are you sure you’re not the bard here?”
That comment made him glance over at her. His lips curved into a half-smug smile. “Oh, feeling threatened?”
“Hardly.” She said with an exaggerated eyeroll as she tossed her wet shirt onto a rock beside her to dry. “I just don’t know how you plan to actually kill someone like that. It looks to me like you’re fishing for someone to write a ballad about you rather than win a fight.”
“Maggie Chiara, are you offering?”
She didn’t indulge him with a reply and just rolled her eyes again.
He chuckled, knowing he got under her skin a little bit. He steadied the rapier’s point against the dummy’s chest before flicking it away in another graceful sweep. “I thought a College of Swords bard would appreciate a little flair, don’t you think?”
Magdalena shrugged as she dunked a pair of loose trousers into the lake. “Loose title, I really only fight with daggers—small, fast, close range. And I do a damn good job of it, in case you haven’t noticed.”
That earned her a sideways smirk from Wyll as he lowered his rapier, resting the hilt against his hip in a more casual stance. “Believe me,” Wyll said, his voice laced in a sudden tone of sincerity that caught her entirely off guard, “I’ve noticed.”
For a moment, the air between them tightened. Magdalena busied herself by wringing out the trousers, refusing to let his comment hold any weight—or at least trying to.
Wyll, perhaps sensing the shift, tipped his chin toward her with a new grin. “How would you like to learn to fight like the Blade of Frontiers?”
Magdalena laughed so hard she snorted, shaking her head as though batting his question away. “If that’s a pickup attempt, you failed. Miserably.”
He let out a smooth and easy laugh, the sound ringing across the quiet lakeshore. “It wasn't, but fine—suit yourself. Be a one-trick pony.”
Her head snapped up, her brows arching. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He twirled the rapier again with a flourish that was entirely unnecessary. “You said you fight with daggers only. Don’t you want to expand your skill set?”
Magdalena gave him a long look of half amusement and half challenge. Finally, she set the damp clothes aside and rose to her feet, brushing her palms against her thighs. Her smirk returned, sharp as ever. “Fine then,” she said in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “Teach me your ways, oh noble Blade of Frontiers.” The way she said it made it sound like the most ridiculous title in the world, but there was no denying the spark of curiosity in her eyes. The rapier gleamed in Wyll’s hand as he spun it once more, then lowered the point toward the ground.
“A rapier may look like a dagger,” he began, his tone now adopting that of a teacher, “but it’s longer, thinner—built for thrust and control.”
Magdalena barked out a laugh before she could stop herself, a sharp sound that echoed off the water. Her shoulders shook as she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, failing to hide her smirk.
Wyll gave her a flat and unamused look. “You have the sense of humor of a twelve year old boy.”
“I mean—thrust?” she managed between little snorts as she grinned at him with shameless delight.
He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head like a man suffering through a great trial. “The rapier’s reach,” he continued, clearly determined not to indulge her, “is what gives me my classic flourish. The blade’s length means you control the fight before your opponent can ever close the distance.”
Magdalena arched a brow, one corner of her mouth still tilted upward. “You really are full of yourself, aren’t you?”
“I think I’m quite humble,” he replied without as much as a shred of irony. “Now, enough insults. Grab the rapier.”
She stepped forward, taking the weapon from his hand with an exaggerated show of reluctance. The blade felt awkward in her grasp, it was far too long and delicate compared to the weight and familiarity of her daggers. Without thinking, she closed her fist around the hilt the way she always did—with a dagger’s grip, tight and compact, her wrist locked but firm.
Wyll winced like she’d just committed sacrilege. “No, not like that. Use a fencing grip, but looser. Precision comes from the wrist, not the arm.”
Magdalena scoffed and rolled her eyes as she angled her blade toward the dummy. “I didn’t exactly grow up with a Grand Duke for a father, remember? I don’t know what a ‘fencing grip’ is.”
He sighed, stepping closer. “Here—like this.”
His hand slid around hers, gently prying her fingers into place on the hilt. The heat of his palm against her knuckles startled her more than it should have, and for a brief moment she stilled. The air seemed to pull tighter between them, like an invisible thread strung taut.
“This isn’t even my dominant hand,” she muttered, almost as if to distract from the closeness.
“Ohh,” he drawled with a grin tugging at his mouth as he adjusted his stance behind her. “We have a lefty?”
She gave him another roll of her storm-gray eyes, though her smirk betrayed her. He shifted the rapier into her left hand, guiding her grip again with careful precision. His fingers brushed along her wrist as he nudged her thumb higher. Another flicker of tension sparked at the contact, still unacknowledged but just as impossible to ignore.
“Now thrust,” Wyll said with his voice deliberately even.
She broke into another laugh immediately, clutching the rapier awkwardly as she tried to follow the instruction.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “If you laugh every time I say the word thrust—”
“Fine, fine,” she cut him off, a mischievous grin still plastered on her face. “I’ll behave.”
The rapier wobbled in her hand, but her eyes shone with the same mixture of challenge and amusement she’d looked at him with before. Despite himself, Wyll looked entirely too entertained by the whole ordeal. Magdalena eyed the practice dummy like it had personally offended her. With a quick breath, she lunged forward, stabbing the rapier the same way she would a dagger. Using a tight grip, shoulder driving the motion. She was all brute force and none of the finesse Wyll had just shown her. The blade jabbed awkwardly against the straw torso with a dull thunk.
“All wrong,” Wyll said as he dragged a hand down his face with a groan of mock despair.
She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut a diamond. “What? It hit, didn’t it?”
“It hit,” he conceded as he stepped closer to reclaim the rapier, “but if you want to fight with this weapon, you’ll have to unlearn some of those dagger habits.” He took a stance, his posture loose yet precise, and he thrust the blade forward in a smooth, straight line. His wrist rolled delicately, guiding the point like an extension of his hand. It was controlled and practiced. It looked deceptively effortless.
Magdalena huffed under her breath and copied him. Her first attempt was clumsy at best. The rapier wobbled as it slid past the target. She grit her teeth and tried again, adjusting her grip as she remembered the way his hand had shifted her thumb.
Still wrong.
“Loosen up here,” Wyll murmured as he tapped lightly at her wrist.
She sighed and tried again, this time the blade pierced forward cleanly, sliding into the dummy with an audible thwack. She blinked, almost surprised at herself, before breaking into a grin.
“There,” Wyll said with a satisfied nod as he clapped his hands together. “Well, you’re almost halfway as good as the Blade of Frontiers.”
Magdalena’s grin shifted into a deadpan stare. “You know, referring to yourself in the third person is painfully cringy?”
He replied with a shrug, his lips twitching like he was fighting back a smile. “My point still stands. You’re not bad, Chiara.”
She let out a sharp laugh and spun the rapier lazily in her hand with her newfound confidence flashing in her storm-gray eyes. “Since you’re so cocky,” she said with a smirk curling back into place, “let’s spar.”
Wyll lifted a brow, clearly amused. “You’re nowhere near ready for that.”
“Oh?” Magdalena tilted her head, voice dripping with mockery. “What, is the big bad Blade of Frontiers scared a little bard might beat him?”
That earned her a quick laugh, but there was a spark in his eyes. “You’ll regret this.”
Magdalena lifted the rapier into position with a flourish that was almost mocking his own. “Add it to my long list of regrets,” she said with a smirk. “Now let’s go.”
The rapier still felt somewhat foreign in her hand, but she refused to let that show. She raised it into position with an exaggerated little flourish, mocking him even further as her mischievous grin widened. Wyll mirrored her stance, though his expression was calmer. He looked more like a teacher humoring a troubled student than a warrior preparing for a duel. They circled each other for a moment, their eye contact just a little too intense for a practice duel.
Wyll lunged first, a slow and obvious strike that she knocked aside with ease. He recovered with an almost theatrical patience, giving her every opening in the world. She pressed forward, clumsy but aggressive, until she landed a jab to his side. He let it happen. He even grunted for effect, before stepping back with his hands raised.
“Well done,” he said lightly, as though congratulating a child who had just tied their own shoes for the first time.
“I’m not stupid, Wyll. You just totally let me win,” she said as her eyes narrowed. “Actually put up a fight, I’m not fragile.”
That earned her the faintest curl of his lips. “Fine,” Wyll said with a low and steady voice. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The second round began with an entirely different energy. He struck faster this time, the rapier flashing in a silver blur as it caught the sinking sun. Magdalena blocked the first thrust by sheer instinct, metal ringing against metal. She hissed under her breath, shifting her grip tighter. He was testing her now. She answered in kind, darting forward with surprising speed. Her dagger-trained aggression translated into sharp and reckless lunges. Wyll parried each with ease at first, his body moving with the grace of someone who had been born holding a rapier instead of a rattle. But as the exchange quickened, a new light sparked in his eyes. She wasn’t winning, but she wasn’t folding, either. Every time he thought he had her cornered, she twisted away, her breath ragged but determined. Always answering with another strike despite her obvious exhaustion.
The dummy and the shoreline faded into background noise. It was just the two of them, their blades flashing, their boots grinding against the sand. The distance between them was collapsing and expanding in heartbeats. Every near miss, every clash of steel carried a subtle charge that neither of them acknowledged. Their movements grew tighter and closer. His hand brushed her arm as he shoved her off balance, her shoulder colliding with his chest as she twisted back into place. Magdalena’s breath came hard and uneven, sweat prickling at her temple. But her smirk stayed plastered on. Wyll’s chest rose and fell with equal effort, though his eyes burned with a focus she hadn’t seen before. He had underestimated Magdalena Chiara, and now he knew it.
Still, his experience won over her determination. With one deft movement, he hooked his blade against hers and twisted. The rapier flew from her hand, clattering against the dirt as he stepped in and leveled his own point just inches from her collarbone. His breath mingled with hers, close enough for her to feel the heat of it. For a long, suspended moment, neither of them moved. The weight of the fight hung between them, mingling with something unspoken, sharp as the edge of his blade.
Wyll finally eased back, lowering the rapier with a victorious smile. “And that,” he said, voice still breathless, “is how you lose to the Blade of Frontiers.”
Magdalena bent forward, one hand braced on her knee and the other dragging through her hair as she gulped down air. Her chest heaved with the effort, sweat glistening at her temple and collarbone, but her grin was still sharp and alive. “Gods damn,” she breathed, voice ragged between exhales.
Wyll lowered his rapier, his brows knitting slightly as he stepped closer to her. Despite the satisfied tilt of his smile, there was a note of concern in his tone. “You okay there?”
She straightened slowly, wiping the back of her wrist across her forehead before tossing him a lopsided grin. “Yeah. You put up a damn good fight.” Her words carried the grudging respect of someone who didn’t hand it out lightly.
His grin widened with that familiar spark of cocky charm flashing in his eyes as he drew a breath. “They don’t call me the Blade—”
“Shh.” She pressed a finger firmly against his lips before he could finish, her smirk curling as she leaned in just close enough to make it sting. “Take the win and gloat privately.”
For a moment, he held still, his deep brown eyes locked on hers. Then his lips curved against her fingertip, the smirk returning with a glint of mischief. “I will.”
She let her hand fall away, placing the rapier back in his palm with a flourish that mirrored his own. “Goodnight, Ravengard.” His last name coming from her mouth hit its mark, as she probably intended. A faint flush crept over his cheeks, subtle but unmistakable in the dying light of the evening.
His cockiness softened, voice dipping lower, almost intimate. “Goodnight, Chiara.”
For a long moment, they lingered there, neither breaking the gaze that bound them. Finally, Magdalena turned toward the path back to camp, grabbing her laundry bag with a huff. Wyll fell into step beside her. The lake faded behind them, their boots crunching in rhythm over the dirt. Neither of them spoke. The silence between them wasn’t empty, though. It thrummed with the tension of blades clashing and breath mingling, with the sharp edge of something neither dared to name. Both of them felt it, both knew it, and yet neither would acknowledge it. They walked on into the twilight, side by side, their silence louder than any words.