House Elarin Courtyard.
A pair of shirtless men stood in the gravel-paved center, locked in a brutal dance of fists and footwork.
Dull thuds of knuckles against flesh echoed in steady rhythm.
Ian's breath came in short bursts.
His bare torso, lean and scarred, was slick with sweat. His muscles tensed and coiled with each motion, like a hunting animal. Across from him, Eli moved with feline grace, his frame heavier, thicker with muscle, but no less precise.
Gold rings in his dreadlocks shimmered as he dodged a jab and countered with a short, punishing hook to Ian's ribs.
"Too stiff," Eli said, his voice calm even mid-spar.
"You move like a swordsman, not a brawler. Loosen your shoulders."
Ian grit his teeth and circled, fists up. "This isn't my style."
"Which is why we're here," Eli replied. "You ever see a spellblade charge into a pit fight? No. They fight like dancers. You need to fight like someone who grew up on cobbled streets with nothing to lose."
