Chapter 51: Testing the Old Dog

The evening chill was beginning to settle over the slate rooftops of Port Vandermir by the time Zevryn returned to his safehouse. The iron gate clicked shut behind him, sealing out the damp street fog.

Inside the courtyard, the atmosphere was dead quiet. Zevryn strode toward the stone bench, unbuckling his outer cloak and tossing it onto a rack.

"Xel," Zevryn called out, his voice cutting through the dusk. "Bring tea to the courtyard."

A moment later, the butler emerged from the hallway, carrying a polished silver tray bearing a steaming porcelain pot and a single cup. His footsteps were light, his posture impeccably deferential.

Xel approached the stone table, stepping forward to place the tray down. But the exact micro-second his hand left the handle, the air tore open with a sharp, metallic screech.

Zevryn moved with terrifying speed.

His hand slammed onto the hilt of his primary black mithril saber. The blade cleared leather in a hyper-compressed blur, slicing downward toward Xel’s neck with lethal, unvarnished intent.

Xel didn't flinch. Decades of guild muscle memory instantly overrode domestic servant habits. With a blur of motion, a concealed short blade snapped into his grip, meeting Zevryn’s strike with a sharp, sparking clack of steel before he smoothly vaulted backward, evading the follow-through.

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Zevryn didn't pause. He surged forward, blending physical velocity with the kinetic resonance of the dark iron ring. A blinding series of thrusts, pierces, parries, and close-quarters combination strikes rained down on the butler. The courtyard walls echoed with the rapid-fire symphony of clashing metal as Xel scrambled to parry, his breath catching in his throat under the ferocious, overwhelming assault.

With one final, fluid pivot, Zevryn closed the distance.

Swish.

The razor-sharp tip of the black mithril blade came to an absolute, dead halt, hovering precisely half an inch away from Xel’s left pupil. The wind pressure from the strike fluttered the butler's eyelashes, but Xel did not blink. He stood frozen, chest heaving, sweat beading on his brow as he stared down the length of the flawless edge.

Zevryn slowly lowered his weapon, his pale eyes cold and analytical.

"You're rusty," Zevryn said flatly. "The guild taught you survival, but it didn't teach you true precision."

Xel lowered his blade, offering a breathless, respectful bow even as his hands trembled slightly from the exertion. "You move like a ghost, Master."

"I may have to teach you some new skills," Zevryn continued, his tone unwavering. "When I am away on missions, you will teach the afternoon class. This will be the third movement lesson."

Before Xel could even catch his breath, Zevryn stepped back into stance, raising his blade once more. "Again. Let's see if the old dog can keep up."