Chapter 33: Poetry In Stance
"Don't let your guard down when you're in front of me, human." he roared. The sound wasn't just a voice—it was a pressure. A pulse through the air. A warning carved in thunder.
Seraphina didn't flinch.
Her gaze rose to meet his—not in fear, but in recognition.
Then she spoke, cold and composed.
"A talking monster. How unexpected." Her voice was even, as if discussing weather.
"That... is a rather curious surprise. I've read of no such creature. You speak with reason, which suggests purpose. And yet—your form is bestial."
Her tone sharpened. "Tell me—what kind of monster are you, exactly? Or are you merely pretending to be something more?"
A flick of her wrist.
Her sword, gripped in her right hand, moved like light.
Clang!
The edge of her blade met his incoming strike with a violent spark—her sword still hanging loosely, but now perfectly aligned to intercept. The movement was minimal. Efficient. Clean. Her arm was slightly raised, the blade angled just above her shoulder. A flawless reverse grip.
Then she tilted her chin ever so slightly upward—her gaze unbroken.
"You're fast. But not nearly enough."
Her voice, low and deliberate, slipped through the tension like ice across water.
"Your technique is crude. Your aim—sloppy. You telegraph your strikes. Do better." A pause. A whisper of amusement brushed her lips. "Ah... forgive me. It's a bad habit of mine. I tend to critique when I get bored."
Zandagar snarled and twisted his stance. His left hand shot forward—claws cleaving the air—while his right arm struck again from a different angle, aimed at her ribs.
Clang!
She shifted effortlessly. This time, her left hand rose—mirroring the movement. Another block. Another perfect intercept.
Clang!
Again—he struck.
Right, then left. Then right again.
Each blow faster than the last. Each one met. Deflected. Shut down.
The chamber filled with sparks and the sound of steel against obsidian. But Seraphina didn't falter. Not once.
She stood like water given form—bending without breaking, flowing without effort.
Zandagar finally stumbled back, panting—not from exhaustion, but disbelief.
"What are you?" he hissed. "How can you switch hands like that—how can you wield with such precision? That shouldn't be possible!"
Seraphina didn't chase him. She didn't even lift her blade.
Instead, she brushed her bangs aside calmly with the back of her hand.
"Who said it isn't possible?" she asked softly, her voice still cold, still distant. "Anything is possible. With discipline. With repetition. With will. Train hard enough, and anything becomes achievable."
She took a slow step forward. One. And then another.
"Unlike someone I know," she added, voice thinning into something almost amused. "Whenever I asked him to practice with the sword, he always refused. Said it was unnecessary."
Her eyes dropped for just a second—just long enough to register the shape lying behind her.
But she didn't turn.
Not yet.
Zandagar hissed again, his stance coiled.
"You dare lecture me, human? You insects crawl and die in the dirt—you think you can teach me anything?"
She tilted her head. Just slightly.
"Not teach," she said, voice low, crystalline—cutting through tension like a blade through silk. Her eyes—ice blue—glinted with precise focus, sharp as her sword's edge. "Correct."
Zandagar sneered. "You—an insect—have the audacity to call my stance lacking? My aim flawed? You arrogant fool."
"I speak only what is true." Her voice remained even, indifferent. As if he hadn't raised his voice at all.
"Arrogant," Zandagar echoed with scorn. "There was another who thought like you. Believed he could stand before me—confident, proud. You should see what became of that fool. Look behind you. Witness the price of arrogance."
She didn't flinch. Only turned her head. Calmly. Slowly. And saw—
Crimson. A pool of blood it painted the cracked stone black.
But nothing else.
Her eyes narrowed. Thought sharpened.
"Too much blood for nothing to remain... That man—the one whose shout I heard. Was this his battle?"
She turned back toward Zandagar. "You said you killed him. And yet… there is no corpse."
Zandagar's eyes narrowed now. He glanced back. His expression shifted, jaw tightening.
"There was a body," he muttered. "There was. I crushed him. Saw him bleed out. He screamed, and then—silence. I remember the silence... But—" His gaze swept the empty floor. "Where is he?"
Seraphina's expression did not change. "So, you don't know either."
Her eyes drifted again to the blood. "That man was strong enough to leave this much behind. But to vanish? Or perhaps..."
She lifted her head. Eyes met obsidian. "...you consumed him."
Zandagar bared his jagged teeth, voice thunderous. "Do not insult me. I am no beast to gnaw on carcasses."
"Yet your ignorance of his disappearance speaks otherwise."
"Do you mock me?"
"I dissect you."
"You—" Zandagar's growl rumbled through the chamber. "You still don't understand what stands before you. But no matter. If you wish to know my name… earn it. Show me you are worthy."
Seraphina shifted.
No words. Just movement.
She stepped slightly to the side—elegant, measured. The tip of her sword dipped, then lifted again. Both hands now gripped the hilt, the blade held horizontally at chest level. Its point angled downward like a poised viper.
Her knees bent just enough—like the spring before a leap. Feet narrow, perfectly aligned. As if she walked a bridge thinner than breath.
Her armor curved with her—layered tassets guarding her hips without stiffening her stride. Thigh guards sleek, polished, form-fitted to every motion. Her greaves—steel and silence—glinted under dimlight, strong enough to deflect steel, light enough to dance in.
Her entire form was poetry in stance—each breath deliberate, each muscle disciplined.
Still. Waiting. Calculating.
Only her eyes moved.
They burned. Focused.
"Come."
Zandagar took a single step forward—
Then vanished.
No sound. No warning. Only a flicker of black smoke in his wake. And then—he was behind her.
His dull-orange eyes gleamed like molten cracks through obsidian. His right arm extended back, his obsidian blades poised low—aimed for her waist.
Seraphina stood motionless.
Eyes half-lidded. Calm. Silent. As if unaware of the danger. No muscle tensed. No breath rushed. Her sword remained by her side.
Zandagar's blades sliced through the air—closer—closer—
Then—
A flicker.
A shimmer of silver.
A blur of shadow.
She was gone.
His blades struck only empty air. His eyes widened. He halted mid-step. His mind spun. "What—? Where is she—? Where—?"
A breeze brushed the back of his head.
He froze.
And then—
Above. Behind.
There she was.
Seraphina hovered just behind him—suspended mid-air at head level.
Her body leaned slightly forward, drifting like smoke. Her right leg bent at the knee, left leg extended gracefully behind for balance. Both hands gripped the hilt of her sword, now drawn—positioned behind her, angled perfectly over her shoulder, its silver edge gleaming in dimlight. It was a stance made not to threaten—but to execute.
Elegant. Brutal. Certain.
Her face—expressionless.
Then—
Clang!
The steel rang out as her blade struck his neck. A spark burst on impact, scattering golden embers across the dark hall.
But—
No cut.
The blade had met resistance—something dense. Something unnatural.
Zandagar didn't grunt. He didn't stagger. But his head jolted forward, as if struck by a hammer.
"That should have severed him…"
He moved. His body twisted instantly, right arm lashing out—A blur of black steel—his clawed fingers cleaving the air.
But Seraphina was gone again.
Whoosh—
Another blur. A silent shift in the air.
When he turned, she was already behind him again—on the ground now, standing tall. Still.
Her posture immaculate.
Sword held in her right hand, blade tilted across her body—tip angled downward.
Her left arm hung loosely, relaxed at her side. One foot behind the other, her weight balanced like a dancer poised mid-turn.
She stared up at him.
Unshaken. Observing.
"Your body," she said quietly. "What is it made of? Even a higher-class beast would've lost its head."
Zandagar turned—slowly this time, measuring her. "Your speed…" His voice was low, almost reverent. "It's unnatural. Are you even human?"
"I am," she replied. "But that doesn't concern you." Her gaze sharpened. "I'm more interested in you. What are you?"
He bared his jagged teeth again. "I told you," he said. "Earn the right to hear my name."
Then it began.
Again.
They moved.
At once—
A breath. A blur.
Two forces sprinted toward one another.
Clang!
Obsidian claws met silver steel in a brutal clash. Sparks sprayed like fireworks, lighting the throne hall in pulses of white and orange.
They pushed.
Muscle against muscle. Technique against instinct.
Then—
They vanished.
Only their echoes remained.
Clang!
Now they were to the left.
Clang!
Now the right.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Above. Below. Back to back.
Each strike felt like thunder in the air. Each movement—too fast to follow, yet too perfect to miss. And then—
Stillness.
Seraphina stood once more.
Her sword low at her side. Her shoulders relaxed. A single strand of silver hair drifted down, carried by the aftershock of motion.
She exhaled softly.
Unmarked.
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(Chapter Ended)