Metal kisses flesh; blood anoints the dying. 

She is the Knight Commander. Her sword cuts down one Barbarian after another. He is the War Chief, howling to the sky, leaping from one encounter to the next, heart pumping and fueling his frenzy. He stops when he sees the Knight Commander, gracefully stepping over one of his fallen men, her helmet missing, armor glinting like diamonds under the sun, and ruby red adorning her face; her own war paint.

Her bright eyes light on him and she stalks forward, her mouth curving with a white smile among the crimson. Grinning in return, he grips both knives tightly, balancing to the balls of his bare feet. 

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

They clash. Brutally. Passionately.

Weapons sweep in elegant arches, moving with rhythmic metallic strikes and the cries of the dying around them. They hear nothing. They are absorbed in their own movements while the world around them is flame and blood.

He leads her back with a slash of one blade and the Knight Commander blocks his advance. She smiles so beautifully; the War Chief almost regrets their dance. Almost.

She slices him, forcing him to drop one of his blades. Her eyes sparkle with a false sense of victory. He growls in determination and, with a kick of his leg, he makes her stumble, catching her before she falls. The War Chief holds her close. He feels the rhythm of her heart thrumming like beats on a drum. Her eyes stretch wide with surprise by the speed of his embrace. He plunges his remaining blade into her chest. 

Her breathing stutters as he lowers her gently to the forest floor. She smiles one last time, wearing her death like a wedding dress.