The sun slowly descended upon the stone rooftops of Arven's Academy, tinging the training courtyard with orange hues. The metallic sound of swords echoed in the distance, accompanying the shouts of the instructors and the heavy rhythm of boots against the ground.

Damon sat on the stone bleachers, his body relaxed, observing the young knights in their training exercises. It had been a few weeks since the duel with Morgana—weeks he had made the most of.

The advanced training with the Academy instructors had become more intense, and even among the veteran knights, the name "Damon of Mirath" was beginning to circulate. Some said he had a unique technique, others that his sword seemed alive. Harven, the head instructor, constantly put him to the test, trying to extract something from him that no one could quite define.

And yet, Damon maintained the same carefree air. He trained, rested, observed. He didn't seek attention—but it found him anyway.

That late afternoon, he was alone. No instructor, no student nearby. Just him and the sound of swords echoing in the distance.

His golden eyes scanned the training field, but it wasn't the training itself that interested him. He was waiting for someone.

Morgana Arven.

Since the duel, she had frequently appeared in his mind. Not because of the fight itself, but because of her look at the end—that mixture of pride, curiosity, and… something more. Since then, she had avoided direct contact. She always observed him from afar, but never approached.

Until today.

"Still watching the others train?" said a nearby voice.

Damon turned his face, slightly surprised. She was there—sitting beside him, without him even noticing her approach.

Morgana wore her training uniform, her hair tied in a high ponytail, a few loose strands falling over her face. Even sweaty and covered in dust, she still possessed a natural elegance.

Damon raised an eyebrow. "I swear I didn't hear you coming."

"That's the point," she replied, looking ahead without looking directly at him. "You should notice someone coming. Especially someone who challenged you once."

He chuckled softly. "Are you telling me you're still challenging me?"

"Maybe." She crossed her legs, resting her elbows on her knees. Her golden eyes reflected the twilight light. "Or maybe I just can't get you out of my head."

Damon turned to look at her, his smile widening. "That sounds dangerously like flirting, Morgana."

She glanced at him sideways, serious, but there was something in her tone that betrayed her inner turmoil. "Don't joke with me. I'm serious."

"Me too." He rested his chin on his hand, still with that half-smile. "It's common for people to think about me after a duel. Especially when they lose."

Morgana scoffed. "Arrogant."

"Realistic." He shrugged. "Or are you going to say you didn't keep replaying the movements in your head, trying to figure out where you went wrong?"

She was silent for a moment. Damon had hit the nail on the head.

Morgana sighed, glancing at the field. "…Maybe a little. But that doesn't explain why, when I close my eyes, I remember that moment. That final blow. What you said."

He tilted his head, curious. "'You fight trying to prove something'?"

"That's it." She frowned. "It's annoying how much that echoes."

The wind blew between them, raising dust and dry leaves. Damon observed her profile—firm, determined, but with an expression that betrayed doubt.

"Perhaps," he said after a while, "you're thinking this because you know it's true."

She looked back at him, a defiant glint in her eyes. "Or perhaps because you used some mind control magic on me."

Damon blinked, surprised. "Mind control magic? That's new."

"I'm serious," Morgana insisted, keeping her tone firm. "Since that day, I can't… stop thinking about you. It's like something has infiltrated my head."

Damon leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "So you mean that, lacking a logical explanation, you concluded that I adorned you with magic?"

She crossed her arms, visibly uncomfortable. "I'm not saying it's impossible. There are many occult techniques that manipulate the mind."

He smiled slightly. "Ah, so that's it…"

"That's what?" She looked at him suspiciously.

"You're trying to convince me you're under a spell just to have an excuse to keep thinking about me."

Morgana's eyes widened in indignation. "What?!"

"It's a good excuse, to be fair," he continued, relaxed. "That way you don't have to admit you find me interesting."

She turned her face away, huffing. "You're impossible."

"I prefer 'uncontrollable,' but I'll take the compliment."

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable—just dense. Morgana remained staring at the field, clearly trying not to let any reaction slip. Damon, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying the game.

After a while, she broke the silence. "You're different."

"Different how?"

"More…strong." She narrowed her eyes. "Your aura. It's firmer, more focused. The instructors comment on it."

Damon gave a small smile. "I've been training a lot. Maybe too much."

"Harven said you learned the technique of three different styles in just two weeks."

"Harven talks too much." He leaned back, looking at the sky. "I only learn what's useful."

Morgana watched him for a moment, and something changed in her gaze—a mixture of respect and genuine curiosity.

"You're not like the others."

"I hope that's a compliment."

"It is." She took a deep breath, then added, "But it's also the reason why you bother me."

"Ah, so you admitted it," he said, smiling again. "You think about me because I bother you."

"Don't put words in my mouth, Damon."

"Alright." He stood slowly, straightening his uniform. "Then I'll leave you to think about what really bothers you."

Morgana frowned. "Are you going to run away?"

"No." He took a step forward, stopping right in front of her. "I just don't want to take away the pleasure of discovering it for yourself."

Her eyes followed him, tense, but unwavering. He leaned slightly, his voice almost a whisper:

"And, for now… don't worry. I didn't use any magic on you."

Morgana tried to reply, but he was already walking away, calmly strolling through the shadows of the courtyard.

She stood for a while, staring at the empty space where he had been. Her heart was beating faster than she cared to admit.

"Damn arrogant bastard…" she murmured, but the slight blush on her face betrayed something else.

The wind blew again, and the arena seemed quieter than before.

High in the stands, Harven watched from afar, with a half-smile.

"Hmph… looks like her game is turning."

The sound of metal against metal echoed through the training courtyard. The sun was high, reflecting off the golden sand and the armor of the assembled knights. It was another day of training at the Academy—but the air carried a different tension.

Damon breathed deeply, his body relaxed, but his eyes alert. Before him, Morgana adjusted her posture, sword in hand.

They were face to face again.

After that conversation in the stands, several days had passed in silence. Damon limited himself to his usual training, avoiding any interaction beyond what was necessary. But Morgana… seemed unable to let the matter rest.

She sought him out in the cafeteria, in the hallways, on the training field. Always with the same challenge in her eyes and the same phrase on her lips:

"I want to fight you again."

Damon refused the first few times. He said there was no need, that he didn't have time, that she should concentrate on her own studies. But Morgana was persistent. When she wanted something, she didn't give up. And now, finally, he had yielded.

Harven, upon learning of the duel, did not object—in fact, he seemed overly pleased with the idea. He organized the training space, called some instructors and students to observe.

Now, the field was ready.

"Are you sure about this?" Damon asked, twirling his sword between his fingers. "I don't want to hear any complaints later."

Morgana raised her chin, determined. "I don't need you to go easy on me."

He laughed. "I already figured that."

Harven raised his hand. "Whenever you want."

Silence fell.

Dust rose as Morgana advanced. Her movement was firm, precise—faster than last time. Damon blocked the blow with a wrist twist, deflecting the attack effortlessly.

"She's faster," he commented.

"And you're talking too much." She spun her body and attacked again, a horizontal blow that he parried with a simple retreat.

The swords clashed, sparks flew. The rhythmic sound of footsteps on the ground filled the air. Damon remained calm, his movements fluid and economical. Morgana, on the other hand, put every ounce of her strength into each attack. She shifted her angle, attempting a sequence of three consecutive cuts. Damon dodged the first, blocked the second, and trapped the third with a spiraling motion that pushed her blade aside.

Morgana recoiled, her gaze flashing.

"You're still holding me."

"I'm just watching." He spun his sword, keeping the blade low. "I want to see how far you can go without losing control."

She bit her lip, annoyed, and lunged forward again.

The duel picked up pace. Morgana attacked fiercely—precise, well-trained, but impulsive blows. Damon dodged by millimeters, evaded, counter-attacked with light touches, never truly landing a hit.

The sound of steel echoed through the courtyard, growing faster and faster. The other knights began to approach, drawn by the spectacle.

Damon took a step back, and Morgana's blade grazed his shoulder. He leaned forward, taking advantage of her movement, and gently pushed her with the base of his sword. She staggered for a moment, but regained her balance.

"If you keep going like this, you'll tire before you hit me," he said, still calm.

"And if I hit you before that?" she retorted.

Damon gave a slight smile. "Then I'll buy you dinner."

She attacked forcefully, clearly provoked.

The blow came from above, and Damon blocked it firmly. The impact reverberated through both their arms. They froze for a second—their eyes met, close enough to feel each other's breath.

"You really like to provoke, don't you?" she said, her voice tense.

"Only with those who don't know how to lose."

Morgana pushed hard, freeing her sword, and spun her body in a low blow. Damon leaped back, dodging, and seized the opening to counterattack with a precise movement.

His blade stopped inches from her neck.

Silence.

The audience held their breath.

Morgana stood motionless, staring at the tip of the sword before her. Sweat trickled down her temple, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

Damon kept his gaze steady, but there was something different—a lightness in his smile, an implicit respect.

"Are we finished?" he asked, lowering his sword.

She took a deep breath. "…Not yet."

Before he could answer, she stepped forward and attacked again.

The blow was swift—faster than any other so far. Damon blocked reflexively, but her force made him recoil.

"She's learning during the fight…"

Morgana insisted, each attack more precise than the last. Her body seemed to move on instinct, her gaze firm, determined. Damon smiled.

"That's it. Now she's fighting the right way."

She didn't answer, just continued.

The blows intensified, and Damon had to use more of his own technique to keep up. The Sword of Lust vibrated in his hands, reacting to the flow of combat.

When he attacked, Morgana narrowly dodged—and the blade cut a strand of the ribbon that held her hair. The golden locks came loose, dancing in the wind.

For a moment, time seemed to slow down.

Her eyes met his again. Determination and anger—and something more.

Damon spun his sword, preparing the final blow. "Sword of Lust, first move."

The sound changed. The blade vibrated, emitting a faint hum. Morgana felt the air around her tremble. She raised her sword to block—and the impact pushed her back, her feet marking the ground.

When she stopped, the tip of Damon's blade was already pointed at the center of her chest.

Silence returned.

She gasped, her eyes still fixed on him. Damon breathed calmly, showing no sign of effort.

Harven raised his voice: "That's enough for today!"

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