Fortress of Secrets, Trials, and Enemy Rivals. - KOTLC

Chapter One.

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Word Count: 1499 words.
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I draw my arm back as the blade glints in the fading light of the day, narrowing my eyes as my gaze follows the blade from the pommel to the tip, then down towards the target in front of me: a young boy who joined the Black Swan a few months ago.

     He keeps himself closed, holding himself in a position that will be difficult to deal dangerous blows. It's a good idea, but over these past few months I've grown a talent for spotting weaknesses.

     I lunge, and he deflects the blow with a flick of his wrist. Hissing through the quick and sharp flare of pain in my wrist, I spin before he can land a dull blow to my ribs. 

     Our blades are made from a soft metal, obviously. The Black Swan wouldn't want any really bad injuries to any of their members, but they still want some sort of reaction. So even if his swing had hit true, it would have only been a really bad, really painful bruise.

    The glint of metal gleams in the corner of my eye as he pulls his arm back with incredible speed, and then thrusts it towards my shoulder.

     In a real fight, this would have been a weak move; one that would have been blocked by armour and not very likely to harm your opponent as badly as you'd want, but I'm not complaining.

     The spin I perform is quick and simple, a speedy twist of my shoulders, followed by my feet, and I aim the blade at his side, towards his kidneys. It cracks against his armour, and he stumbles backwards from the force.

     I take the advantage, and try a disarming trick that Wraith had taught me last week, and I'd been dying to use in a mock-duel. 

     The impact pushes his hand open, and the blade somersaults through the air, landing with a clank just outside the small area of land that we are allowed to fight in. He rolls his body to grab it, but I see the tensing in his shoulders before he can move.

     Kicking the blade further out of the rectangle we train in, I press the tip of my own blade, still in hand, to his throat. The glare he levels on me is icy cold, especially with the startling blue of his eyes.

     Elves have blue eyes - unless you're me. Then, you have brown. (Super fun, I know.) But no matter how many years I spend in the Lost Cities, I don't think I'll ever get used to only seeing shades of blue.

     "Surrender, Lark," I order, using the name he has been given by the Collective. When he refuses, I press harder. "Surrender now! Your blade is out of the area, and I have you pinned by default. You will surrender."

     "Yikes, Feather, you're ruthless," someone calls from nearby, but I don't risk the possibility of being overthrown by the brown-haired boy on the ground by looking to see who it was.

     "Yeah, yeah. You win. I surrender." He all but rolls his eyes, and I step back, offering him my free hand as my other slides the weapon into its scabbard. He takes it, and I haul him to his feet.

     Covered in dust from the ground and sweat from the session, he walks over to gather his dented fighting material. "Come on, man. I'll have to take it to Tinker now."

     "Sorry," I muse, finally turning to see who had called for me.

     Feather. That's my new name, one that, like everyone else in the organisation, was given to me by the Collective.

     I'd argued with them that it was too close to the Moonlark, and that people might find it easy to track me if my name was given out, but Mr. Forkle assured me that it was fine. People wouldn't expect them to give me such an obvious name, and they also needed something to remind them that I was their project.