Israfil raised his sword, dipped his head and then he was attacking her, his weapon arcing down from above. Riv lifted her shield, knocking Israfil’s wooden blade to one side, then countered instinctively with a chop to his neck. He pivoted away, as a man, not using the advantage of his wings, and set about striking at her with combinations of the forms she had been taught, which she knew more intimately than any friend.

In no time at all she was sweating, wrists, elbows and shoulders aching deep as her bones, the power in Israfil’s blows shocking her, even as he maintained perfect balance and poise.

He hits harder than Vald, and faster than anyone I’ve ever come across.

Then Israfil was stepping back, giving her space and a moment’s respite. His white wings, held furled behind his back, were twitching as he marched back and forth before her, his bright eyes appraising her, head cocked to one side like a predatory bird. With a flick of his wrist he indicated for her to drop her shield. Even before it hit the ground he was coming at her again, his blade slicing from all directions as she retreated before him. Even her speed, which she was well known for amongst those that used the weapons-field, only just saved her from a dented skull and cracked ribs. And then, without word or warning, his wings gave a great beat and he was lifting into the air, above her, behind her, Riv twisting desperately to fend off his blows, grunting as his sword grazed her shoulder.

What better way to test if we are ready to hunt Kadoshim? The Ben-Elim are the closest thing to our enemy.

Riv ducked a blow that would have taken her head and rolled away, jumping back to her feet and leaping at Israfil as he followed, which, judging by the brief twist of his lips, caught him by surprise – Riv’s sword snaking through his defence and stabbing into his thigh.

If it was cold steel you’d be bleeding like a speared boar now, she thought, then grinned.

‘You try too hard,’ Israfil said as he swept in closer, his sword chopping at her head, deflected, sweeping into a slice for her throat, knocked away, coming back to stab at her face, Riv swaying, stepping back, thrown off balance by his words, not his blade.

I have tried hard all my life to be the best I can be, to be worthy to wear the white wings, to fight for the Ben-Elim. How is that wrong?