The salute was a formality, and Coren made it one. He raised the blunt blade and dropped it in one clean line, then the master called the first exchange.
The whole room held its breath at once.
Coren came forward.
He did not lunge, did not feint, nor test the air the way the other men had. He simply closed the distance with two even steps, blade held level, so ordinary that Alistair nearly missed how much ground it ate.
By the time Tobian's careful Class C guard was set, Coren was already inside it. His point had begun to drift toward the inside line, slow and patient.
Alistair gave him the Halversen parry, late and honest, and turned the point aside by a hand's width.
Coren let it be turned. He drew back to the line without pressing.
"Even," the master called, since no touch had been made.
Hearing this, the salon let out the breath it had been holding.
