Eleanor remained still above the training chamber, arms folded, her eyes tracking Astron's movements with unwavering precision. The gleam of his daggers caught the filtered lighting of the facility, tracing arcs of cold clarity through the air as golems crumbled around him. His footwork, his timing, his mana flow—so much of it whispered mastery.
There it is again, she thought. That innate clarity in combat.
He wasn't just a good dagger user. He was a good fighter. His understanding of spacing, prediction, and rhythm wasn't born of mere repetition—it was instinct reinforced by experience. Eleanor had seen thousands of cadets go through drills, sparring, real battles. Some could move well. Some could think well. Rarely both. Astron… he adjusted on the fly, seamlessly aligning his body and energy toward a singular goal.
It's not just skill, she thought. It's comprehension. The kind that only happens when fighting becomes a language.
