Cassian stood at the center of the hall, the polished floor cool beneath his boots, his sword hanging loosely at his side. Across from him waited the man he was meant to face: a broad-shouldered figure with a clean-shaven scalp that gleamed under torchlight. His presence wasn’t loud or overbearing, but it carried the quiet weight of someone long accustomed to violence.

"You must be the boy Lady Brigid brought with her yesterday," the man said at last, his voice deep, unhurried. His gaze was sharp, appraising Cassian as though measuring his worth with every detail. "Her... slave, wasn’t it?"

Cassian didn’t let the word stir him. He gave only a faint nod, lips tugging into the smallest hint of a smile.

The man inclined his head in return, formal in his own way. "Oliver Widel. Third Circle warrior, sworn to Lady Analisa. I’ve been at her side for ten years, long enough to watch more than a few promising young men break themselves on arrogance." His tone wasn’t cruel, only matter-of-fact.

"Cassian," he answered simply.

Oliver’s eyes narrowed slightly. "The lady speaks highly of you. Claims you can defeat warriors above your level."

Cassian met his gaze without flinching. "Up to Second Circle, yes. Not all of them. There are always exceptions." He smirked faintly. "Same as me."

A quiet breath left Oliver’s nose, almost a chuckle. "So you place yourself among the exceptions. Bold words from one still wet behind the ears."

"Not bold—honest," Cassian replied, his smirk holding. He thought about adding that he had already faced a Third Circle warrior and won, but decided against it. Better to keep that card close for now.

Oliver shifted his stance, hand resting on the hilt of his longsword. For a man his size, his posture was light, balanced—no wasted strength, no lumbering weight. He wasn’t one of those musclebound veterans who relied on raw power; his blade was an extension of his body, wielded with patient precision.

"I’ve seen confidence before," Oliver said evenly. "Most of it cracks the first time steel meets bone. The few who endure... they temper it with humility." His eyes fixed on Cassian’s with a quiet challenge. "Which are you, boy?"

Cassian tilted his head, grinning. "Guess you’ll find out."

For a heartbeat, the corners of Oliver’s mouth tugged upward. Not mockery, not amusement—something closer to approval, though he didn’t say it aloud. Instead he drew his blade in a smooth, steady motion, the steel catching firelight.

"Then come at me. I won’t strike first. My task is only to measure your edge."

Cassian nodded once, but before settling into his stance, his eyes flicked toward the side of the hall where Analisa sat with Brigid. The elder’s expression was unreadable, while Brigid watched with sharp intensity.

Cassian slid his sword back into its sheath, the faint green gleam of the metal catching Oliver’s eye.

"That’s no common steel," Oliver remarked.

"A gift," Cassian said simply.

Then the air changed. A pulse of crimson light rolled off Cassian’s body, spreading like heat from a furnace. His domain surged outward, oppressive and sharp, drowning the hall in killing intent so heavy it seemed to press the breath from every chest. His hair bled into a deeper shade of red, eyes glowing like polished rubies set in pale stone.

Brigid stiffened, remembering the last time she had seen this. Analisa’s violet eyes widened, and even she shifted in her seat at the weight of that murderous aura.

But Oliver did not move. He studied Cassian with calm curiosity, as though he were watching a rare beast stalk into view.

"So that’s your strength," he said at last. "Not bad. But domain is only the beginning. Show me whether you can wield it, or if it wields you."

Cassian’s grin widened, his blood thrumming. Normally, unleashing this side of himself meant desperation. Here, it felt like freedom.

"Then brace yourself," he muttered.

He blurred forward in a rush of air, steel flashing down in a killing stroke. Oliver met the strike with the ease of a veteran, their swords crashing together in a shower of sparks. The man’s guard was solid, yet his eyes narrowed ever so slightly—the boy’s swing had shifted mid-motion, curving into a feint that would’ve slipped past a lesser blade.

For the first time, Oliver’s lips curved into a true smile.

Cassian didn’t hesitate. He sprang back, then lunged forward again, leaving a gust of wind in his wake. Mid-strike, he shifted direction, his movement smooth and fluid, his blade angling like a sideways breeze toward the bald man’s arm.

Oliver’s sword shot up effortlessly, snapping into place to intercept the attack.

Cassian pressed on. Sliding his blade against Oliver’s, he pinned it just long enough to glide it upward, teasing toward the man’s head. Oliver’s smirk remained unshaken. Though Cassian had restricted his opponent’s options, a slight tilt of Oliver’s head was all it took to evade.

A flicker of frustration crossed Cassian’s face, but it was gone almost immediately, replaced by a wide, wild grin as he drew back, already calculating his next move.

"You’re tricky, boy..." Oliver said with a smirk. "But tricks alone won’t win you every fight—unless you’ve got a hundred of them."

Cassian’s smirk widened. This was the first time he’d sparred against someone with real experience—aside from Julius, who he’d never even managed to scratch. Yet with Oliver, he had almost made contact, and he’d barely used more than the raw physical boost from his domain—not a single move from his Gale Whisper Sword Style, just the flow of his movements.

"I’ve got plenty of tricks," Cassian said, his tone teasing but measured, "but they won’t help if I don’t know what will win this fight. Not like this is a match to the death." He hadn’t yet revealed his war armor, a hidden trump card meant for truly desperate situations, not a spar.

Oliver paused, considering him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Alright... how about this: if you can make me use my domain, it’s your win."