"Splaaash—!"
The sharp, wet sound cut through the air as blood arced outward in a vivid spray, catching the light of the afternoon for a fleeting instant before scattering across the stone courtyard, marking the ground with violent strokes of red.
What had begun as a controlled exchange had long since lost its restraint, the measured discipline of a spar dissolving into something far more raw, far more primal.
Damon and the guard stood facing each other, both stripped of their weapons, both breathing heavily as their bodies bore the unmistakable signs of a drawn-out fight. Bruises had already begun to bloom across exposed skin, cuts split open along knuckles and forearms, and streaks of blood traced down from where blows had landed cleanly.
Around them, a few guards already lay on the ground, not unconscious but clearly unable to continue, their chests rising and falling as they tried to recover from the relentless exchange that had preceded this moment.
And yet—
