Rooftop duels and Duets

Prologue

I close my journal and look out my window, fearing my writing being interrupted, and await his silhouette dancing on the rooftops. Moonlight is caught in the twilight fog, hiding the rooftops, lanterns, and roadsigns that appear endless in all directions.

Time passes for what could have been minutes or hours, but soon enough I see him skipping along the rooftops like a playful cat, his tail a sword held behind his back. I prepare my precious blade for action, but when I expect him to draw his sword, I only see a smile. Faint, but true.

Perplexed yet intrigued, I make the first move myself, sprinting at him with my hands steady. He blocks my sword with his arm, and instead of retaliating, he says, "Come on Melissa," "we don't have to do this". My abnormally relaxed rival climbs off of my windowsill, and the next thing I hear is his sword falling from his sheath and clattering on the floor.

"What about our prestige, our fame, our honour?" I ask him, "Does that mean nothing to you, Damian?" surely he hasn't forgotten what is expected of us. How could he forget our rivalry, born from the flames of our family's generations of great battles?

I glance down at his sword lying on the floor, the sword first held by his great-great-grandmother, who killed my grandfather so long ago. The sword that has been stained by the blood of many powerful souls, and destined to be stained by the blood of mine. The sword that has his family name delicately carved on the handle and painted in crimson red: 'Merquires'. How could he discard his family legacy so carelessly?

"The real honour is not to act a story written by those who only want best for us, but to create our destiny in the midst of all that is unknown"

When I look at my sword, I realise that my hands are shaking, and the scar across my palm stings against the rough wooden handle of my sword. My legs feel weaker than usual, and my stomach turns sick at the thought of ever having to put my sword through his chest. My body does not want to fight anymore, and neither do I.

"I know what you want, baby girl" he looks into my eyes as if he can see right into my soul. A smirk forms on his face. He takes one small step forward and I calmly yet swiftly move my sword against the side of his face, almost close enough to cut the stubble on his chin. I let out a sly chuckle and then grin right back at him, "Oh do you now?". His eyebrows raise for a second, but he does not flinch. He doesn't dare try to move closer or pull any tricks on me. He knows what I'm capable of, and surely he knows not to underestimate a lady. He's not stupid, after all, and I'm certainly not weak.