The morning sun rose over the Nightraven estate, its light struggling to pierce the ever-present mist that clung to the cliffs. The air was crisp, carrying a faint chill that hinted at the coming winter. The crowd gathered once again in the arena, eager to witness the next bout in the trials of the prodigies.
Damien entered the arena, his steps measured, his expression calm yet focused. He could still feel the lingering fatigue from his battle with Roland, but his resolve was unwavering. Across from him stood Lyra Silverthorn, her lithe frame encased in light armor that allowed for maximum mobility. Twin rapiers rested lightly in her hands, their blades thin and deadly sharp.
Lyra offered a polite nod. “You fought well against Roland,” she said, her voice calm and even. “But this will be a different kind of battle.”
Damien returned the nod. “I’m ready.”
The referee raised a hand, signaling the start of the match. Lyra moved first, her rapiers a blur as she closed the distance between them. Damien raised Ebonfang to block, the clash of steel ringing out across the arena. But Lyra was already shifting, her movements fluid and precise. She struck again, this time from the side, forcing Damien to pivot quickly to parry.
“You’re fast,” Damien remarked, his eyes narrowing as he adjusted his stance.
Lyra smiled faintly. “Speed is only part of the equation.”
She pressed the attack, her rapiers weaving an intricate pattern of strikes and feints. Damien found himself on the defensive, forced to react to her relentless assault. Every time he thought he saw an opening, Lyra would feint, drawing him into a false move before countering with a swift strike.
The crowd watched in hushed awe as the two combatants danced across the arena. Lyra’s attacks were like the wind—constant, unpredictable, and devastating if left unchecked. But Damien was no stranger to adapting under pressure. He began to focus not just on her movements but on the rhythm of her strikes, searching for patterns, for the split-second tells that preceded her attacks.
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SHIFTING MOMENTUM
After several minutes of intense combat, Damien began to see it—the slight shift in Lyra’s stance before she lunged, the almost imperceptible twitch of her wrist before a feint. Armed with this knowledge, he started to counter more effectively, deflecting her strikes and forcing her to adjust.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Lyra’s expression shifted, her calm demeanor giving way to a spark of respect. “You’re learning quickly,” she said, her voice tinged with approval.
Damien didn’t respond, instead pressing his own attack. He feinted a high strike, then quickly redirected his blade toward her midsection. Lyra parried, but the force of the blow caused her to take a step back. It was a small victory, but it signaled a shift in the battle’s momentum.
The crowd murmured, sensing the change as Damien began to push Lyra harder. His strikes were deliberate, his movements calculated. He was no longer reacting to her attacks; he was setting the pace, forcing her to adapt.
But Lyra was far from defeated. She adjusted her strategy, using her agility to keep Damien at a distance. She darted around him, her rapiers striking from unexpected angles. Damien’s defense held, but he could feel the strain in his arms as the battle wore on.
“You’re relentless,” he said, his voice edged with both admiration and determination.
Lyra’s smile widened slightly. “It’s what’s kept me alive.”
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THE TURNING POINT
The battle reached its peak as both combatants pushed themselves to their limits. Lyra unleashed a flurry of strikes, her rapiers moving faster than the eye could follow. Damien parried each one, the clash of steel growing louder with every exchange. He could feel the weight of her precision pressing down on him, but he refused to yield.
Finally, he saw his opening. Lyra overextended slightly on a lunge, and Damien capitalized. He sidestepped, bringing Ebonfang down in a sweeping arc. Lyra twisted away, narrowly avoiding the strike, but the maneuver left her off-balance.
Damien pressed the attack, driving her back toward the edge of the arena. Lyra’s eyes narrowed, and she adjusted her footing, readying herself for a counterstrike. But Damien anticipated the move. He feinted a low slash, then shifted his grip and delivered a powerful thrust aimed at her chest.
Lyra parried at the last moment, the force of the blow sending her skidding backward. She stopped just short of the arena’s boundary, her breathing heavy, her expression unreadable.
The referee raised a hand. “Enough!”
The crowd erupted into applause, their cheers echoing across the arena. Both combatants lowered their weapons, their gazes meeting across the battlefield.
Lyra approached Damien, offering her hand. “Well fought,” she said, her voice carrying a note of genuine respect.
Damien clasped her hand firmly. “You too. You’re an incredible fighter.”
Lyra nodded, her faint smile returning. “You’ve earned my respect, Damien. Few can match the precision of Silverthorn.”