VALENTINE
The spar with Kerri was a ballet of clashing staffs and swift movements. Each step I took was measured, and every swing of my weapon was calculated. The familiar weight of the staff in my hands was like an old friend, an extension of my will. Kerri, too, was no novice. Her strikes were precise, and her footwork impeccable.
Still no match for the Monarch gifts though.
We circled each other, our sights locked in a fierce determination. The rhythm of our movements echoed in the clearing, a cadence of controlled power. With a sudden feint, I forced Kerri onto the defensive. She parried with skill, deflecting my blows.
We danced back and forth. No words were spoken. Just the clashing of our staffs. The forest around us seemed to blur into a backdrop of greens and browns, trivial
