Chapter 37 Lyria
LYRIA
The first thing I notice is how clean it is.
Not the fight—that’s anything but—but the way Maltos moves inside it, like nothing he does is wasted, like every shift of weight and turn of his wrist has already been decided before Verr even commits to the motion.
It’s not speed that makes him dangerous.
It’s certainty. The kind that doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t question, doesn’t leave space for doubt to creep in and slow anything down.
And Verr—
Verr is still thinking.
I can see it in the way his shoulders carry just a fraction too much tension, the way his feet adjust half a beat after they should instead of before. He’s better than he was. Sharper.
But he’s still reacting.
“Come on,” I mutter under my breath, barely moving my lips as I track them across the floor, my fingers curling slightly at my sides like I can grab the rhythm and force it into place from here. “Don’t follow him.”
Steel rings out again, sharp and bright, the sound cutting through the chamber as Verr catches a strike that comes in faster than the last, the force of it driving him back a step he doesn’t quite choose.
There.
That’s the problem.
Maltos presses immediately, not giving him space to reset, the next movement already unfolding before the first one finishes. It’s not a flurry. It’s pressure. Constant, deliberate, like he’s tightening something invisible around Verr’s movement and waiting for it to snap.
“You’re late,” Maltos says, his voice calm, almost conversational, even as his blade turns and drives forward again. “Every adjustment comes after the mistake.”
Verr doesn’t answer.
Good.
He doesn’t have the breath for it anyway.
He shifts left this time, earlier than before, catching the edge of the strike instead of taking it fully, but it’s still defensive, still responding instead of shaping.
My jaw tightens.
“No,” I whisper. “Stop letting him set it.”
Another clash—louder this time, the vibration of it running through the stone beneath my feet. Verr’s footing slips half an inch as he absorbs the force, and Maltos sees it. Of course he does.
He pivots.
Drives in.
Not for the blade—
For the body.
The impact lands solid, a sharp, brutal strike to Verr’s ribs that folds him just enough to break his posture, the air leaving him in a rough exhale that he tries to mask and doesn’t quite manage.
A murmur ripples through the chamber.
I don’t look at them.
I don’t care what they see.
“Breathe,” I mutter, my voice low, focused, like he can hear me even though he can’t. “Don’t lock up now.”
Maltos steps back just enough to reset the distance, not out of necessity, but control, letting Verr come back up on his terms instead of forcing him down further.
“Still reacting,” Maltos says.
Verr straightens slowly, one hand tightening on his weapon, his shoulders rolling once like he’s resetting the structure from the inside out.
“I’m learning,” Verr replies, his voice steadier than his body was a second ago.
“Too slowly.”
Maltos moves again.
Faster this time.
Not testing anymore.
Pressing.
The next sequence comes in tight, precise arcs, each strike feeding into the next, forcing Verr to keep up or fall behind completely. Steel meets steel again and again, the rhythm accelerating, the sound turning harsher, more violent, less measured.
Verr holds.
Barely.
He catches one, redirects another, but the third—
The third breaks through.
The blade doesn’t land clean, but it scrapes along his side, tearing fabric, drawing blood in a sharp, bright line that darkens almost immediately.
I inhale sharply before I can stop myself.
“Damn it,” I breathe.
Maltos sees that too.
Of course he does.
He doesn’t look at me, but the shift in him says enough.
He knows exactly where the pressure is.
“Emotion,” he says, almost idly, as he circles, forcing Verr to turn with him. “Predictable. Useful.”
Verr’s grip tightens.
I see it.
The shift.
Subtle.
Dangerous.
His shoulders tense again, his stance narrowing just slightly, like he’s preparing to push instead of redirect.
“No,” I whisper, sharper now. “Don’t you dare.”
Maltos steps in again, testing that exact edge, his strike angled just enough to provoke instead of end.
“Let’s see it,” he says. “Show me what happens when you stop thinking.”
For half a second—
Verr almost does.
I see it in the way his weight shifts forward, the way his blade comes up not to redirect, but to meet, to overpower, to force the exchange into something brutal and immediate.
And if he does that—
He loses.
“Verr,” I say, louder now, not shouting, but cutting through the space just enough to reach him.
His eyes flick—
Just for a second.
Toward me.
“Don’t chase him,” I say, holding his gaze. “Make him commit.”
It’s a risk.
Breaking that focus.
But it lands.
I see it.
The tension doesn’t disappear.
It redirects.
His next movement changes.
Maltos strikes—
Verr doesn’t meet it.
He steps off-line instead, letting the force pass through empty space, his blade catching only the edge, not to stop it, but to guide it just enough that Maltos has to adjust.
It’s small.
But it’s the first time—
Maltos corrects.
“Better,” I murmur, my pulse kicking harder now, not from fear, but from the shift.
Maltos notices.
Of course he does.
His gaze flicks briefly toward me this time, just a fraction, just enough to acknowledge the variable.
“External influence,” he says.
Verr doesn’t respond.
Good.
He moves again.
And this time—
He’s first.
Not fast.
Not reckless.
But intentional.
The strike comes in low, not aimed to land, but to draw response, to force Maltos to react instead of dictate.
Maltos does.
Barely.
But he does.
And that—
That’s new.
The rhythm changes.
Not dramatically.
Not yet.
But enough.
Steel meets again, but now the exchanges aren’t one-sided. Verr isn’t just holding ground—he’s shaping it, pulling Maltos into angles he didn’t choose, forcing adjustments instead of making them.
“Good,” I whisper. “Stay there. Stay there.”
Maltos presses harder in response, the next sequence faster, tighter, trying to reassert control before it slips further, but Verr doesn’t fall back into it this time.
He gives ground—
Deliberately.
Not losing it.
Using it.
The chamber feels different now.
The air shifts.
The watchers feel it.
I feel it.
“Now,” I murmur, my voice barely there, my eyes locked on every movement, every shift in weight, every fraction of imbalance. “Make him overreach.”
Maltos drives forward again, committing more force this time, more certainty, expecting the same resistance.
Verr doesn’t give it to him.
He pivots.
Sharp.
Clean.
And for the first time—
Maltos is a fraction too far forward.
It’s small.
Barely visible.
But I see it.
“Take it,” I breathe.
Verr does.
His blade turns tight, controlled, striking not where Maltos is strong—
But where he isn’t ready.
The impact lands.
Not clean.
Not decisive.
But real.
And Maltos—
Steps back.
The chamber inhales.
I don’t smile.
Not yet.
Because this isn’t over.
But for the first time since this started—
It’s not his fight anymore.