Damien
"I never see you at the club!"
Okay? I never see you at the creek
Okay? I never see you at the creek
The strike connected solidly this time, the staff biting against Deimos’s side with a dull thunk that Damien felt clear through his arms. The jolt ran bone-deep before it bounced back through the wood, and he almost didn’t believe it had landed until he saw the faint shift of the Warden’s weight. A small victory—earned, not given—but it barely had time to settle before Deimos came back twice as fast.
The counter hit square against his shoulder. The impact spun him half around, a grunt catching in his throat as the ache flared sharp and hot. He staggered back a few paces, boots slipping against the frost, before catching himself with the staff planted like a walking stick.
“That’s—” he started, breath coming in rough. Then he huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “—that’s about what I expected.”
He leaned on the staff for a breath, then passed it back to the waiting soldier with a nod. “Appreciate the run,” he said to Deimos then, rolling his sore shoulder once. “Learned more in a few hits than I have in a while.”
A beat passed, his lips twitched. “Next time, maybe I’ll last a little longer.”
It wasn’t bravado, just quiet promise—the kind a man makes to himself. Then he stepped back, breath fogging, already feeling the ache that would follow him into morning.
The counter hit square against his shoulder. The impact spun him half around, a grunt catching in his throat as the ache flared sharp and hot. He staggered back a few paces, boots slipping against the frost, before catching himself with the staff planted like a walking stick.
“That’s—” he started, breath coming in rough. Then he huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “—that’s about what I expected.”
He leaned on the staff for a breath, then passed it back to the waiting soldier with a nod. “Appreciate the run,” he said to Deimos then, rolling his sore shoulder once. “Learned more in a few hits than I have in a while.”
A beat passed, his lips twitched. “Next time, maybe I’ll last a little longer.”
It wasn’t bravado, just quiet promise—the kind a man makes to himself. Then he stepped back, breath fogging, already feeling the ache that would follow him into morning.
