Milo stood with his arms crossed, his posture as languid and unbothered as ever, his dark cloak fluttering lightly in the cool breeze that swept through the training courtyard.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cobblestone ground, painting jagged lines over the racks of weapons and the weathered wooden benches that lined the area.
His sharp green eyes flicked lazily toward Gon, who stood a few paces away, his knuckles whitening around the hilt of his unsheathed sword.
The air between them crackled with tension, a volatile mix of mistrust and barely restrained frustration.
"Stop acting like a child," Milo said, rolling his eyes in that slow, languid manner that was so characteristic of him.
The words dripped with a casual disdain that made Gon’s blood boil almost completely.
"What did you just call ?" Gon yelled, his voice echoing off the stone walls of the courtyard.
He took a step forward, the tip of his sword gleaming with a faint nace as it caught the fading sunlight.
His broad shoulders were tense, his dark hair falling ssily over his forehead as he glared at Milo with barely contained fury.
Gon wasn’t one for patience, and Milo’s smug attitude had a way of igniting his temper like a spark to dry tinder.
Milo raised a hand, palm outward, his expression unchanged.
"Relax," he replied, clearly not interested in fighting.
He leaned back against a nearby pillar, the very picture of nonchalance.
"I only ca to observe your skills.
After all, we’re both representing the duchy, you know?
We need to understand each other better." His tone was as smooth as ever, but there was a calculating edge to it that made Gon’s stomach twist.
Gon’s grip on his sword didn’t loosen, though his stance shifted slightly as he processed Milo’s words.
"Why does it matter that we’re both representing the duchy?" he asked, his face contorting into a slight frown of confusion.
His voice carried a bitter edge as he continued, "After all, there’s only going to be one winner at the end.
We can’t be a team."
Milo sighed, running a hand through his neatly combed auburn hair as if Gon’s question was the most obvious thing in the world.
"Just because only one of us can win the tournant doesn’t an we can’t stick together and team up for the first few rounds, dummy," he replied.
His tone was patronizing, but there was a flicker of genuine logic in his words that Gon couldn’t ignore.
"We’re going to be facing a lot of strange faces and strange skills.
Wouldn’t it be better for us to have each other’s backs?"
Gon lowered his sword slightly, the tip now hovering just above the ground as he mulled over Milo’s suggestion.
The tournant was no small affair.
It drew competitors from across the realm, knights, rcenaries, and rogue warriors, each with their own techniques and tricks.
The early rounds were often chaotic, a brutal free-for-all where alliances could an the difference between survival and an early defeat.
He hated to admit it, but Milo had a point.
Having soone to watch his back, even temporarily, could give him an edge.
But trust?
That was another matter entirely.
Gon’s jaw tightened as he studied Milo’s relaxed posture, the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
The other boy had a reputation for cunning that preceded him.
For all Gon knew, Milo had cooked up this sche just to gain his trust and then use it against him when he least expected it.
The thought sent a shiver of unease down his spine.
He couldn’t afford to be blindsided, not in a tournant where a single mistake could an his end.
He decided then and there that he wouldn’t team up with Milo for long.
He’d play along for now, use the alliance to get through the early rounds, but he’d keep his eyes open.
The mont he could, he’d find new allies, people he could trust more than this silver-tongued scher.
Then he wouldn’t need Milo’s help any longer.
"Fine," Gon muttered, his voice low and reluctant.
He sheathed his sword with a sharp clink, the sound cutting through the quiet courtyard.
"I guess you’re right... you can stay."
"Of course I was right," Milo replied in a superior tone, his smirk widening into sothing almost insufferable.
He pushed off the pillar and took a step closer, his boots scuffing lightly against the cobblestones.
"I usually am."
Gon concealed his groan, forcing his expression into sothing neutral as he turned away from Milo.
His gaze landed on the swordmaster, who had been standing silently off to the side, observing their exchange with a bemused expression.
The old man’s weathered face was frad by a long, scruffy white goatee, and his faded gray tunic bore the insignia of the duchy, a silver hawk in flight.
His presence was a grounding one, a reminder of why they were here in the first place.
Gon bowed briefly to the swordmaster, a gesture of respect that the older man returned with a slight incline of his head.
The swordmaster rubbed his goatee thoughtfully, his fingers lingering on the coarse strands as he spoke.
"Thought you boys wouldn’t stop bickering," he said, his voice both cheerful and squeaky, like the creak of an old hinge.
"But it seems you’ve sorted it out.
Good.
You’ll need that fire in the tournant, but you’ll need each other more."
"Huh," Gon and Milo both muttered at the sa ti, their voices overlapping in a rare mont of shared sentint.
They exchanged a quick glance, each surprised by the other’s reaction, before turning their attention back to the swordmaster.
The old man stood in the center of the training courtyard, his weathered face lit with a cheerful glow despite the fading sunlight that cast long shadows across the cobblestone ground.
The air was cool now, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and tal from the racks of weapons lining the courtyard’s edge.
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