Draven and Alex stood facing each other in the castle’s training room.
The atmosphere was tense, but neither looked particularly serious—yet.
“I heard you can’t use mana,” Alex said, rolling her shoulders.
“So I won’t either.”
Draven smirked.
“You’re gonna need it.”
“For someone with no mana, you sure are arrogant.”
“For an old lady, you sure talk a lot,” Draven shot back without missing a beat.
Alex’s grin turned sharp.
“For a brat, you sure have a big mouth.”
“Grandma, why don’t you stop yapping and come at me already?”
Her expression darkened.
“I think it’s about time I shut that mouth of yours.”
She vanished, moving faster than the eye could track—then reappeared right in front of Draven, her dagger flashing in a horizontal slash.
Draven shifted into a boxer’s stance and swung.
His gloved fist collided with the flat of her blade, sparks flying from the impact.
They exploded into a flurry of motion—feet sliding, fists flying, dagger slicing.
The training room echoed with the sound of impact after impact.
After several furious exchanges, Alex flipped back, landing lightly.
A smirk curled her lips.
“For someone so cocky,” she said, “you’re not that strong.”
Draven’s hands were mangled—bones visible through torn flesh—but he kept walking toward her.
Slowly, the wounds stitched themselves together, muscles reweaving and skin sealing over as if nothing had happened.
“That was just a warm-up.”
Alex tilted her head.
“For a hybrid, your regeneration is insane.”
Draven’s eyes glowed red.
“Cut the small talk.”
He vanished.
Alex’s eyes widened.
What the—?
I thought he couldn’t use mana!
How’s he moving like that?
Before she could react, Draven reappeared beside her.
His fist shot toward her ribs like a bullet.
She barely dodged, disappearing in a wisp of shadow magic and reappearing several feet away.
Draven straightened, mockery in his voice.
“Hey, grandma, I thought you weren’t going to use mana.”
“I was caught off guard,” Alex muttered, clearly annoyed.
“Are you so old?
Is your body failing you already?” Draven asked, grinning.
Alex’s cheeks flushed red.
“Okay, brat, now I’m going to get serious!”
She launched into the air, her dagger arcing down in a vicious strike.
Draven caught it between his gloved hands.
The air filled with the sound of steel-on-flesh and the crack of bones—then the door creaked open.
A maid entered, bowing slightly despite the carnage.
“Young Master,” she said calmly, “the Lord requests your presence.”
Both fighters froze.
The floor was slick with blood.
Draven’s shirt was torn and stained red.
Alex’s hair was a tangled mess, her dagger dripping crimson.
“Just when I was about to win,” Alex muttered, lowering her weapon.
“You wish, granny,” Draven replied, rolling his shoulders.
“Stop calling me that!
I’m still young!”
“Since when does forty count as young?” Draven teased.
“I’m not forty, I’m thirty-nine!”
“Same thing.”
“As a dark elf, that’s basically a teenager!” she insisted.
Draven turned to the maid, ignoring her completely.
“Go bring me a change of clothes.”
The maid blinked.
“Right away, Young Master.”
Alex sputtered.
“Did you—did you just ignore me?!”
Draven didn’t even glance her way.
thanks for reading my story and I hope you like it thanks again