The courtyard of Eryndoriel was a haven of serene beauty and quiet industry. Intricately carved stone benches and flourishing flowerbeds bordered a wide-open space paved with smooth, polished stones.

Lydia and Ruthie had already been shown to their lodgings, a small but comfortable dwelling nestled among the towering trees. Benjamin, however, had stubbornly insisted on staying in the courtyard, resolutely standing beside Hovan and Raelyn as they waited for Raelyn's shaman to summon her.

Raelyn stood with her arms crossed, the weight of expectation pressing heavily on her shoulders. She recounted the king's words to the others, her voice quiet but steady. "He's granted me access to the library and assigned a shaman to teach me... but only if we can prove ourselves useful in driving back the demons."

Benjamin's eyes widened, his youthful awe shining through. "The library of Eryndoriel? That's... incredible. You're really going to learn their magic?"

Raelyn nodded, though her stomach churned with doubt. "That's the hope," she murmured, her fingers brushing against the locket beneath her cloak. The magnitude of her task felt overwhelming—an ancient weapon to find, demons to face, and now, mastering a form of magic entirely foreign to her.

Hovan, standing a few paces away with his arms crossed, watched her with a calculating expression. He gestured toward an area just beyond the courtyard where the sounds of sparring rang clear. The clang of practice swords reverberated in the air, punctuated by sharp exhalations and the rhythmic thud of footsteps on sand. Elven warriors moved with almost supernatural grace, their sparring so fluid and precise that it seemed like a carefully choreographed dance. A few elves, likely younger trainees, stood nearby observing with rapt attention, occasionally whispering to one another.

"Let's get a few rounds in while we wait," Hovan said gruffly. His gaze didn't leave the sparring elves as he spoke. "We can keep an eye on the courtyard from there."

Raelyn hesitated, her fingers curling tightly around the edge of her cloak. "We were told to wait here—"

Hovan turned to face her, his expression firm. "Raelyn," he interrupted, his voice carrying a note of urgency, "until you can control your magic, your sword is all you have. And with you starting to learn elven magic, who knows when we'll have time to train again? You need this."

Raelyn's mind churned with resistance. A part of her preferred to rely on her magic, albeit shaky at times. Soon she would be able to add elven magic to her arsenal. And yet, Hovan's words rang true. She couldn't risk letting her skill with a blade falter, not when her life depended on it.

She sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly in reluctant agreement. "Fine," she said quietly, nodding. "But we're staying close."

"That's the spirit," Hovan said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he gestured for her to follow. He strode confidently toward the training ground, Benjamin trailing behind with an eager spring in his step.

As they approached, the air seemed to thrum with disciplined energy. The elves moved with precision, their swords weaving arcs of controlled power as their sparring partners matched them stroke for stroke. Hovan watched the warriors with a critical eye, clearly impressed despite himself. Benjamin, meanwhile, looked on with wide-eyed admiration.

Raelyn's gaze lingered on the sparring pairs, her unease growing. She tightened her grip on the training sword Hovan handed her, its weight grounding her. Doubts swirled in her mind, but she forced them aside. Whether with magic or steel, she couldn't afford to falter now.

Hovan stepped into the sparring ring, raising his sword and fixing her with a determined stare. "Ready?" he asked.

Raelyn inhaled deeply, adjusting her stance as she moved to face him. "As ready as I'll ever be," she replied, though the uncertainty flickering in her eyes betrayed her inner conflict.

"Your footing is still sloppy," he said, positioning himself opposite her with the ease of a seasoned warrior. "We'll start there."

Raelyn hesitated for a brief moment, the murmurs of nearby elves reminding her of how out of place she felt in this city of grace and precision. But Hovan's unyielding expression gave her no room for protest. Taking a steadying breath, she stepped into the sparring circle.

They began sparring, Hovan's strikes slow but deliberate as he scrutinized her every move. "Raise your guard higher," he barked, the training sword in his hands moving in controlled arcs. "You're leaving your left side open. And stop locking your knees—flex, always flex."

Raelyn gritted her teeth, adjusting her stance and forcing herself to stay light on her feet despite the burn in her arms. Each time their blades clashed, she felt the weight of his experience pressing against her own shaky confidence. Nearby, Benjamin leaned against the rail, his face a mix of admiration and sympathy as he winced at Hovan's relentless critiques.

The sparring match had begun to draw attention. Elven warriors paused mid-practice, their sharp eyes turning toward the two humans in the ring. Whispers rippled through the onlookers, curiosity and faint amusement flickering in their gazes. A few of the more experienced elves exchanged knowing glances, as if silently judging Hovan's teaching methods.

As Raelyn struggled to meet another of Hovan's calculated strikes, a voice cut through the rhythmic clash of blades. "You're doing it wrong."

Raelyn and Hovan froze, both turning toward the speaker. A female elf with striking red hair stood nearby, her arms crossed over her chest and a smirk playing on her lips. Her sharp green eyes sparkled with a mix of mischief and challenge. She was tall and lithe, apart from her fairly muscular arms, and her stance exuded effortless confidence.

Hovan scowled, his jaw tightening. "What do you mean, wrong?"

The elf stepped forward, her movements as fluid as the sparring warriors she had just left behind. She gestured toward Raelyn's sword. "You're teaching her to fight like a man. Strength over precision. Harsh stances. But she's not a man."

Hovan straightened, his shoulders stiffening as his expression darkened. "And what do you suggest?"

The elf's smirk widened, a spark of challenge flashing in her eyes. "Women don't counter strength with force. We use our speed and agility. Fluidity over rigidity." She tilted her head toward Raelyn, her tone softening slightly. "May I?"

Raelyn glanced at Hovan, who looked thoroughly unimpressed, his lips pressed into a thin line. After a moment's hesitation, she handed the training sword to the elf, stepping back to watch.

The red-haired elf turned back to Hovan, spinning the sword in her hand with a practiced ease. "If you don't believe me," she said, her voice light but carrying an edge of defiance, "let's settle it. A friendly fight."

Around them, the elves who had paused to watch now moved closer, their interest piqued. A quiet murmur passed through the group, and a few of them exchanged amused glances. It was clear they were eager to see how this unexpected challenge would unfold.

Hovan glanced at the gathering elves, his pride pricking under their watchful eyes. He raised his sword with a sharp nod. "Fine," he growled. "Let's see what you've got..."

"Sylvera." the red-haired elf said with a smirk. "That's the name of the elf that's about to beat you." 

The sparring match between Hovan and Sylvera, began with a buzz of anticipation from the gathered elves. Both wielded dull training swords, the weapons glinting faintly in the dappled sunlight. Sylvera made the first move, her speed astonishing as she darted forward, her strikes fluid and precise. Hovan met her attack with solid blocks, his heavier movements creating sharp contrasts to her agility.

Sylvera was relentless. She circled him like a predator, her strikes coming from unexpected angles, forcing Hovan to pivot quickly to keep up. She ducked low, sweeping her blade toward his legs, only to change direction at the last second and aim for his shoulder instead. Hovan barely parried the blow, his brow furrowing as he recalculated her unpredictable rhythm.

"Come on, big man," Sylvera teased, dodging behind one of the wooden posts lining the sparring ring. "Surely you're not tired already?"

Hovan growled under his breath, his jaw tightening as he adjusted his stance. "Not a chance," he said, swinging his blade in a heavy arc that Sylvera deftly sidestepped.

Raelyn and Benjamin watched from the sidelines, their attention riveted. "She's so fast," Raelyn murmured, her fingers curling tightly around the railing.

Benjamin flinched as Sylvera's blade nearly grazed Hovan's side. "She's more than fast—she's... everywhere at once!" he whispered, his eyes wide with a mix of awe and worry.

Sylvera continued her graceful assault, using the loose sand underfoot to her advantage. She kicked up small clouds to obscure Hovan's view, darting in and out of the haze like a wraith. "Don't rely on your eyes so much," she quipped, her blade glancing off his shoulder with a playful tap. "That'll get you killed."

Hovan's expression darkened, his frustration evident. He shifted his grip on the sword, his movements becoming more calculated. He feinted left, drawing Sylvera into a block, then quickly twisted to the right, aiming for her exposed side. She barely dodged, her feet sliding in the sand.

"Well, well," she said with a grin, brushing a strand of red hair from her face. "The big man has some tricks after all."

Their swords clashed again, the sound ringing through the training ground. Hovan's sheer strength began to push back against Sylvera's agility, forcing her to leap onto a low training post for leverage. From her elevated position, she twirled gracefully, landing behind Hovan with a swift strike to his back. The crowd of elves let out a collective hum of appreciation, a few nodding approvingly.

Hovan spun quickly, his blade slashing in a wide arc that Sylvera ducked under with ease. Her feet danced lightly over the sand as she delivered a series of rapid blows, each one barely deflected by Hovan's increasingly strained defense.

"Watch your balance!" Sylvera called, her tone half-mocking. She swept a handful of sand toward Hovan's feet, forcing him to stumble slightly as his boots slid.

Hovan growled, his grip tightening on the hilt of his training sword as he adjusted his stance. With a swift, powerful lunge, he closed the gap between them, forcing Sylvera to pivot sharply to the side. Their blades clashed with a resonating clang, and for a fleeting moment, she faltered—but only just. A grin tugged at the corner of her lips as she twisted her body with serpentine grace, slipping free of his assault.

"Close," she taunted breathlessly, her voice carrying a teasing edge. "But not close enough."

Undeterred, Hovan pressed forward, his movements fueled by a determination that matched her agility. Their swords became a blur of motion, striking and countering in a rhythm that seemed to build upon itself, the metallic clangs echoing through the training ground. The sparring wasn't just a battle of skill—it was a battle of wills, a silent challenge carried in every step, every swing, every narrowing of their eyes.

Sweat trickled down Hovan's temple, glistening under the filtered sunlight as he adjusted his stance again, forcing Sylvera into a defensive rhythm. But she was relentless, darting back with the speed and precision of a striking hawk, only to return with a feint that nearly sent him reeling. Their movements became a push and pull, a constant testing of each other's limits, and the growing tension between them became palpable.

Sylvera's breath came in quick, shallow gasps, and a fine sheen of sweat dampened her forehead. Still, her grin never wavered. "You've got strength," she said between heavy breaths, her tone teasing yet laced with genuine admiration. "But strength alone won't save you."

"Is that so?" Hovan growled, his voice low and rough. His next strike came harder, faster, his powerful swing forcing her to duck and roll to the side. She landed lightly on her feet, her chest heaving as she met his gaze.

For a moment, they paused, their eyes locking amidst the clamor of the training ground. The world around them seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them, locked in a battle that was as much about understanding as it was about proving themselves. Hovan's chest rose and fell, his breathing labored, but his dark eyes burned with intensity. Sylvera's own green gaze was just as fierce, her lips slightly parted as she steadied herself.

Without a word, they launched at each other again, their movements almost synchronized, a raw energy thrumming between them. Every swing carried weight; every dodge brought them closer. The clang of their swords was punctuated by sharp exhalations and low, guttural groans of effort. The sand beneath their feet shifted with each precise step, their boots leaving deep impressions in the ground as they danced their duel.

Hovan aimed a sweeping strike at her midsection, but Sylvera leapt back with the grace of a feline, her fiery red hair sticking to her damp forehead. She retaliated with a flurry of blows that forced him to retreat a step, his defenses solid but strained.

The air between them grew heavier, charged with an unspoken tension that went beyond their weapons. It was in the way their gazes lingered a fraction too long, the way their breathing intermingled in the small space between them. Neither would yield, but neither could deny the pull that underpinned their clash.

Finally, with a deft, almost playful maneuver, Sylvera sidestepped his latest swing, her foot hooking behind his ankle to sweep his legs out from under him. He landed with a thud, and before he could recover, she pressed the dull edge of her blade against his chest, her smirk triumphant and her breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Yield," she demanded, her voice softer now, almost teasing.

Hovan stared up at her, his chest heaving, his pride battered but not broken. For a moment, he said nothing, the weight of the battle lingering in the air. Then, with a short, breathless laugh, he muttered, "What a woman..."

The elves watching erupted into murmurs of approval, a few clapping lightly at the display.

Sylvera extended her hand to Hovan, her grip firm and steady as she helped him to his feet. For a moment, as he straightened and brushed the sand from his tunic, their eyes met. The teasing glint in her green gaze softened slightly, giving way to something deeper—a flicker of respect, recognition of a kindred spirit in battle.

Hovan paused, his usual gruffness faltering under her direct gaze. He cleared his throat, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in a faint, lopsided smile. "Not bad," he muttered, brushing a hand through his mohawk.

Sylvera raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a smirk. "Not bad? Coming from you, I'll take that as high praise." She stepped back, her posture relaxed but her eyes lingering on him for a beat longer than necessary.

Hovan chuckled low, a rare sound that seemed to surprise even himself. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it," she replied, her voice playful but carrying an undercurrent of sincerity. She turned toward the group, her confidence unshaken, though a faint flush warmed her cheeks.

Benjamin, oblivious to the brief exchange, cheered again, his excitement breaking the moment. "That was amazing! Seriously, I've never seen anything like it!"

Hovan glanced back at Sylvera as she smiled at Benjamin's outburst, and for the first time in a long while, Hovan felt something stir—a mixture of admiration and intrigue. It wasn't just her skill with a blade; it was the fire in her spirit, the way she stood her ground without arrogance.

Sylvera turned to Raelyn, her expression bright. "If you ever want to learn how to fight properly," she said, her voice lilting with amusement, "come find me. I'd be happy to train you."

Raelyn nodded, a small smile forming on her lips. "I'd like that. Thank you."

Before the conversation could continue, an elven attendant approached, his demeanor formal. "Raelyn of Kaiswen," he announced. "The shaman awaits you."

Raelyn's nerves returned in a rush, but a glance at Hovan's encouraging nod helped steady her. "I'll be back soon," she said, gripping her sword tightly before following the attendant.

As Raelyn disappeared toward the Celestial Spire, Benjamin turned to Hovan, his eyes bright with anticipation. "Do you think you could teach me to fight like that? I mean, not just strength, but speed too?" He held out his fathers sword to the seasoned warrior.

Hovan took Benjamin's old sword, the worn leather of the hilt fraying under his calloused fingers. He held it up to the light, examining the blade's chipped edge and faint layer of rust. His lips twisted into a slight grimace. "This sword's seen better days," he said gruffly, running his thumb along the dulled metal. "You've been keeping this like a keepsake, not a weapon."

Benjamin flushed slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, it was my father's... I didn't think I'd actually have to use it."

Hovan's expression softened, though his voice remained firm. "A sword like this isn't just a relic. It carries a piece of your father's legacy, lad. If you're going to wield it, you need to honor that memory by taking care of it."

Benjamin straightened at the words, his gaze dropping to the blade in Hovan's hands. "How do I do that?"

"First, we'll get this back into fighting shape," Hovan said, inspecting the blade with a practiced eye. "Needs sharpening, oiling, maybe even reforging the edge. A good sword isn't just steel—it's care, attention, and respect. Neglect it, and it'll fail you when you need it most."

He paused, his thumb lingering over a particularly deep nick in the blade. "There was a smith I knew back in Umiren. Old fellow. He'd say a sword is like a companion—you put in the effort to keep it sharp and steady, and it'll see you through the worst of times. But if you let it rust..." Hovan shook his head. "Might as well be carrying a stick."

Benjamin listened intently, his youthful eagerness tempered by a newfound respect for the weapon he carried. "I'll do better," he promised. "I want to be worthy of it."

Hovan glanced at him, his dark eyes softening. "You're already worthy, lad. Your father would be proud you're trying. But you've got a ways to go. Fighting isn't just swinging a sword—it's understanding the weight of every strike and what it means."

Benjamin's face lit up with gratitude. "Really? You'll help me?"

Hovan smirked, ruffling the younger man's hair with one hand. "Don't go thanking me yet. Let's see what the smith can do with this relic first. As for lessons..." He let the sentence hang, his tone teasing. "We'll see."

Benjamin grinned from ear to ear, hope and determination glimmering in his eyes. Together, they turned toward the heart of Eryndoriel, the hum of the magical city surrounding them as they headed in search of a smith.