The sun was just beginning to rise when the cadets lined up in the main courtyard, steam rising from the morning dew. Their breath fogged in the crisp air. Beatrice stood in her new uniform, blades gleaming at her sides, boots perfectly aligned—shoulders steady. She had waited so long for this.

"Pair up," the instructor called out. "Close combat drills. Real strikes, but controlled. No killing your friends."

Isabel threw an arm around Beatrice immediately. "Want to be my partner—?"

"I'll take Beatrice," Farlan cut in smoothly, stepping forward with a grin.

Isabel looked like she'd just been slapped with a fish. "Rude."

Beatrice blinked. "I don't mind."

Farlan gave her a wink. Isabel muttered something about betrayal and stomped off to spar with a bewildered Hange.

Levi stood at the edge of the training field, arms crossed, a clipboard in hand. He wasn't in charge today, technically. He was observing. Which is why, of course, he was glaring at Farlan like he was personally offended by his existence.

"All right," Farlan said, adjusting his stance. "Just like old times, right?"

Beatrice tilted her head.

"I'll try not to cry when I lose."

She smiled. "You might."

"Begin!" came the shout.

Farlan launched first—quick, fluid, well-practiced. Beatrice sidestepped with an eerie grace and blocked his second strike with the flat of her blade. Their movements flowed fast, circling, striking, dancing. She met him beat for beat. When he feinted left, she read him. When he twisted low, she was already mid-air. The crowd that had started to chatter slowly grew silent—eyes drawn to the quiet, almost elegant spar unfolding before them.

Farlan grinned even through his struggle. "You're good."

"I'm trying not to bruise you," Beatrice murmured as she flipped, landing in a crouch.

"Don't hold back on my account."

Levi's voice cut through the air like a whip. "Stop dropping your elbow, Farlan."

Farlan startled mid-step and nearly got disarmed. Levi didn't even glance up from his clipboard.

"Your stance is loose. Center of gravity's off. You're showing your shoulder before every strike."

Farlan blinked, catching his breath. "I—what? That's how I've always—"

"No wonder you lose."

Beatrice paused. "He's not losing."

Levi's eyes flicked up, sharp. "He would be."

Farlan gave Beatrice a helpless look. "You hearing this? He's gonna write me a report card."

"Switch," the instructor called.

Beatrice and Farlan stepped back to bow out, but Levi was already walking toward the center of the field. Clipboard gone. Expression unreadable.

"New partner," he said flatly.

"Huh?" the instructor asked, surprised.

"I'll spar her."

Beatrice blinked. "...You?"

A few cadets gasped.

Even Isabel leaned over to whisper to Hange, "He never volunteers. Oh no. Oh no. This is about Farlan."

Hange was taking notes with manic glee.

Levi faced Beatrice with the same expression he wore when sharpening his blades—serious, focused, just a little dangerous.

"You sure?" Beatrice asked quietly.

"You're here now," he replied. "Time to prove it."

Their blades crossed once.

Twice.

Then the match exploded.

Fast—faster than anyone else could follow. Steel clanged. Boots slid. Sparks danced off metal. Beatrice spun low and aimed high; Levi countered with the flat of his blade, twisting out of her reach only to land a palm against her shoulder, pushing her back.

She didn't fall.

She adjusted and struck again.

The crowd had gone breathless.

She was at par with him.

Not stronger. Not faster.

But equal.

And Levi… looked like he felt something for the first time in days. When they finally broke apart—neither having landed a final blow—Levi gave a curt nod and stepped back.

"Satisfactory," he muttered.

"Satisfactory?" Farlan echoed, baffled. "She nearly pinned you—"

"Should've pinned me."

Beatrice blinked. "I thought I did well."

Levi didn't look at her.

But he did brush his sleeve, adjusting the cravat.

"You did."