The clash of steel echoed sharp and lonely off the grey limestone cliffs, swallowed almost instantly by the biting mountain gale. Ronan’s lungs burned like raw charcoal, and every breath plumed into the freezing air as a thick, ghostly cloud. He parried another swift, sliding arc of Mordren's curved saber, the impact jarring up his forearms and vibrating straight down to his heels in the frozen mud.
He stepped back, wiping a streak of sweat and grit from his forehead with the back of his forearm. His body was a map of bruises, the relentless training stripping away his bad habits one punishing strike at a time. Yet, amidst the pain, a nagging curiosity had been festering in his chest ever since the day Fergus had effortlessly slapped away his counter-attack with terrifying, unannounced mastery.
"Mordren," Ronan panted, his grip tightening on the leather-wrapped hilt of his side-sword as he caught his breath. "If you and Fergus... if you two ever had to cross blades, who would win?"
The dark elf’s blade stopped cold, pressing fractionally against Ronan’s crossguard. Mordren did not move for a long, heavy heartbeat. The pale white hair shadowing his bruised-slate face seemed to bristle with a sudden, latent chill, and the air around him dropped another degree.
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"Him," Mordren said softly. His voice was a flat, absolute decree that brooked no argument, entirely devoid of ego or hesitation.
Ronan blinked, his brow furrowing in deep confusion as he pictured the old Ranger’s weathered, sluggish slouch and complaining joints. "Fergus?"
Mordren’s obsidian eyes narrowed into razor-thin slits, cold and fathomless as a deep-woods cavern in winter. "He is a better swordsman."
The admission hung heavily in the air, heavier than the snow-laden pines above them. Before Ronan could process the weight of the dark elf's words, before he could wonder what kind of blood-soaked history old Fergus had buried beneath his quiet frontier life, Mordren's posture shifted.
"Too many questions, human."
The nature of the world changed in the span of a single heartbeat. The casual, instructional pacing of the drill vanished utterly. Mordren did not wait for Ronan to reset his stance or bring his guard up. The dark elf surged forward with a burst of motion so blindingly fast it blurred against the white snow, his saber whistling with genuine, unadulterated lethal intent.
There were no more soft corrections, no more geometric explanations whispered in stark syllables. Every strike aimed for a vital seam in Ronan's defense. The curved blade hissed past his ear, shaving off a lock of hair, and forced the boy to dive, parry, and scramble backward through the slush just to keep his head attached to his shoulders.
The lesson was over. Mordren was teaching him what it truly felt like to bleed for a loose tongue in a world that rewarded silence with survival.