Lillibet stepped forward without a word. Vinh followed, unhurried, as if they’d done this a hundred times.

  “Circle up,” Mr. Okafor said.

  The group shifted outward, boots and sneakers scuffing the grass as everyone spread into a wide ring. Lillibet and Vinh moved to the center, facing each other.

  Without being asked, Lillibet unhooked her sword from her belt and tossed it to Theo. He caught it easily, the sheathed green blade slapping into his palm. Vinh’s knife stayed at his hip, the red hilt just visible under the hem of his shirt.

  Mr. Okafor crouched by the duffel at his feet and pulled out two wooden practice swords, the kind you saw in old kendo movies—slightly curved, wrapped handles, dulled tips. He tossed one to each of them with quick, economical flicks.

  “Ms. Lily. Mr. Ang,” he said. “Same rules. No legacy use. Control first.”

  They nodded as one.

  They started to move.

  At first it looked like a choreographed dance. Lillibet’s steps were smooth and balletic, weight shifting from the balls of her feet to her heels like she was marking out music only she could hear. Vinh was all straight lines and clean angles, every motion precise, economical.

  Wood cracked against wood—light at first, then sharper as they picked up speed. Lillibet’s blade flicked up to parry, down to tap Vinh’s arm, across to deflect a cut to her side. Vinh met her strikes with calm, quick blocks and answered with his own, a little faster each time.

  They were good. Polished. Clearly they’d done this more times than I’d taken the shuttle.

  But nothing…weird happened. No super-speed, no ghostly auras, no slow-motion bullet time. Just very talented people hitting each other with sticks.

  Even so, it was obvious who had the edge.

  Vinh’s practice sword landed more taps than Lillibet’s—shoulder, ribs, thigh. Not hard enough to bruise, but enough to count. She got in shots too, but fewer, and he didn’t seem rattled when they landed. If this had been a point match, he’d have been racking them up.

  “Enough,” Mr. Okafor called.

  They froze, wooden blades crossed in the air between them.

  Vinh stepped back a pace. At a small nod from the teacher, he let the practice sword fall from his hand. It thumped into the grass and rolled away.

  Then, very calmly, he reached for his knife.

  The red blade slid free with a soft, skin?crawling hiss. In the daylight it looked even stranger than it had on the lawn—no shine, no reflection, just matte depth, like something that drank light instead of bouncing it.

  My throat went dry.

  “Legacy permitted,” Mr. Okafor said. “Both of you.”

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  Vinh didn’t answer. He just moved.

  One heartbeat he was standing, relaxed, knife low. The next, he wasn’t there anymore—he was in motion, a blur that resolved into a strike so fast my eyes almost skipped it. The knife cut through the space where Lillibet’s shoulder had just been.

  I gasped, certain he’d sliced her open.

  He hadn’t.

  She had slipped aside at the last instant, body angling with this eerie, liquid inevitability, like she’d known exactly where that blade was going to be and simply chosen not to be there.

  He pressed the attack—harder now, faster. Red arcs cut the air in quick, precise lines: a thrust toward her ribs, a slash at her thigh, a backhand toward her arm.

  Each one should have landed.

  Each one didn’t.

  Lillibet didn’t look frantic. She didn’t even look particularly winded. She flowed and twisted, spine bending just enough, foot sliding just there, always moving to the space the knife wasn’t about to occupy. Once, the edge passed so close to her throat I thought I saw a hair lift, and still she was already gone, hips turned, blade whipping out to rap Vinh’s knuckles.

  Her hits were fewer than before—Vinh’s bursts of impossible speed were throwing off her timing—but every now and then her wooden sword cracked against his side, his arm, his shoulder. He took the impacts, adjusted, came in again.

  The sound of it filled the field: Vinh’s breath sharpening, the faint whuff of displaced air, the staccato thock when her practice blade connected. Around us, the circle stayed dead still.

  It felt like watching a car accident that kept almost happening and then…didn’t. Over and over.

  “Enough,” Mr. Okafor said again, louder.

  Vinh stopped mid?strike, knife hovering half an inch from where Lillibet’s forearm had been a moment before. She’d already shifted her weight to slip clear if he’d continued.

  They both stepped back. Lillibet’s chest rose and fell a little faster than before, but her face was the same focused blank. Vinh’s jaw was tight, a small muscle jumping near his temple, but his grip on the knife was steady.

  They bowed to each other—short, neat dips from the waist—then turned back toward the ring. Theo tossed Lillibet’s real sword back; she caught it one?handed, clipped it to her belt in one smooth motion, and melted back into the circle. Vinh slid his knife into its sheath and took his place beside Luis.

  Mr. Okafor turned to me.

  “Observations, Ms. Sinclair?” he asked. “What do you think happened?”

  My mouth worked before my brain caught up. “That was just—crazy. It didn’t make any sense. It was like…the stronger he got, the better she got.”

  “In a sense,” Mr. Okafor said. “More accurately, her ability didn’t engage until she was in danger.”

  He turned so everyone could hear him, but his eyes stayed mostly on me.

  “Put crudely, Banshee?kin sense death,” he said. “They can feel the death coming for them—the line of a lethal blow—so they move out of the way before it touches them. The more serious the threat, the sharper that sense becomes.”

  Lillibet’s face didn’t flicker.

  “Banshee?kin are among our strongest warriors for that reason,” he went on. “Ms. Lily is particularly gifted. And she has studied ballet since she could walk. Her parents thought it best to maximize her potential. It is easier to move away from a point of contact when you can control every inch of your own movement.”

  I looked at Lillibet again. The way she’d seemed to fold around Vinh’s strikes made more sense now. Slightly.

  “Ms. Sinclair,” he said. “Leave your blazer on the duffel once it’s emptied; no reason to get it dirty. Next week, dress for gym.”

  Heat crept up my neck. Right. I was the only idiot in full uniform.

  Mr. Okafor clapped his hands once, sharp. “Now,” he snapped, volume jumping, “grab a practice sword and pair up!”