Khareem Graphin entered the arena next to his opponent. The third child of Baron Graphin was a Lathin Child, a spare that was never needed. Like most Lathins his education was minimal and his knightage guaranteed. Khareem in particular was a powerful force. He had gained his father's structure, his muscles bulging from the extra effort he always put into training. His mother's skin colored him, a unique honey-brown complexion, marking him distinctive within the kingdom, though less so in the cosmopolitan city of Fort Rayvin.
As he stepped into the light of the arena he wore the colors of his hard-earned victory. The regalia of the Einzfeder Order draped across his chest. Though most knights chose to wear a badge or the emblem on their collars, Khareem proudly showcased his to the world in the tapestry that draped his entire body.
Next to him was Delick Malthite, the fourth bastard son of Baron Malthite. The so-called useless child of the lecherous baron, Delick proved himself better with a blade than even the legitimate sons of House Malthite. Scorned only by those in his own home, Delick carved his way into the Nachtschatten Order, his skill accelerating him to the 13th spot. The only thing his family ever gave him was his cold blue eyes and lethal red hair. Everything else he won for himself, including his leather-torn skin. Still, he carried the flag of his family with pride on the shoulder cape, the Nachtschatten Order’s crest hammered into his armor, just above his heart.
Both men were led though by the nose by honor and status and most importantly recognition. A sharp desire to prove themselves and show the world itself they were worth more then they were given.
In both hands they held heavy iron training blades, they faced one another, the simmering tension tangible in the air. One wrapped in the regalia of the Einzfeder Order, the other bearing the crest of the Nachtschatten Order over his heart. Both men were ready for the same dance they did every year. The music started, a soft beat of silence as an unseen conductor readied his baton. It rose, matching the rising tension in the air.
The silence that hung in the air was deafening, tangible even, filling the arena for a solitary, protracted moment. Then, the baton dropped with the thunderous boom of the signal flare burning bright against the sky, the tempo shifted ever so slightly.
A simple song filled only their ears. Each knight took a deliberate step towards their opponent, as the soft melody played into a slow largo, and time itself had bowed to the duelists' will.
A soft, rhythmic cadence filled the air, matching the unhurried pace of each calculated move. The knights' steps were precise, purposeful, an orchestrated dance within the dusty circle. Their eyes moved quickly, soaking up every minute detail, observing the changing environment and the man opposite, the circle of their engagement tightening subtly with each pass.
The breaths they took were measured, a counterpoint to the rising tension, as they initiated their slow ballet of combat. Their movements weaved a dance of deceptive openings and stealthy feints, a subtle play that showcased their skills as they skirted each other's boundaries. Within the span of three heartbeat-like seconds, they completed their first circle.
They repeated their orbit twice more, the distance between them gradually diminishing.
On the final pass, their swords finally met, the soft 'clink' of steel on steel piercing the heavy silence. Both knights paused, testing the weight behind the steel. This was not just a duel; it was a conversation
The silent conductor, ever watchful, then gave a subtle nod and tightened the grip on his unseen baton, signaling a shift in the rhythm of their deadly dance. Within the rhythm of the first resounding slash, the tempo morphed into an andante. The pace of the duel heightened, still controlled, but now more brisk, more urgent.
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Khareem was the first to strike, drawn in by Delick eyes, a subtle change enough to lure the man into a strike. Delick countered sharply, parrying the blow and steering the steel aside before aiming his own blade towards Khareem. Their feet rooted to the ground, each knight delivered a volley of exploratory blows, still gauging the measure of their all to familiar enemy.
The exchange was a brazen challenge, a test to see who could coax the other into relinquishing their ground first. Delick aimed a swift blow towards Khareem's leg, but Khareem was quick to parry, retaliating with a swift counter to Delick's chest. Delick deflected the blow nimbly, and the sequence repeated. Khareem targeted Delick's core, while Delick aimed for a quick strike at an exposed limb. Six strikes passed within four seconds, each carefully considered, each resounding through the arena like notes in their ever-intensifying melody.
Then, as if seized by an unseen current, the tempo of their dance surged. Delick advanced, closing the gap, and their invisible conductor, catching the wild urgency in Khareem's eyes, quickened the beat to an Allegro. The rhythm of their exchanges intensified, each stroke of their blades more decisive, sharper, echoing through the arena like a symphony of steel.
Delick unleashed a sharp attack, his blade whipping through the air with deadly intent, aimed straight for Khareem's face. The latter's countenance tightened with concentration, his body shifting as he swung his own blade in a full arc, using its weight to swing completely around, dodging the attack and turning back to strike in the same movement.
Yet, the other man's quick reflexes allowed him to recover from his missed strike in time to block Khareem’s oncoming blow, bracing it with an arm against the flat of his blade.
Fending off Khareem's attack, Delick stepped forward, strategically preventing Khareem from reclaiming the space he had lost. His blade, once more, came to bear upon his opponent, earning him a hit on Khareem's arm. It could have been a lethal blow to the chest if Khareem hadn't succeeded in collecting a strike with his arm.
As Khareem deflected Delick's blade with one arm, his other rose, sword in grip, and swung downwards in a powerful arc, his strength pushing Delick’s sword away. Delick tried to retreat, but it was too late. Khareem’s blade found its mark on his armor, the crash of iron echoing heavily in the air, drowned out by the roars of the crowd. The two men, locked in their dance, were deaf to everything but the ringing of their swords.
Yet, they broke off the attack, the song of their minds turned slow as their distance grew. Each man breathed heavily as they took this mutual break. The lol collecting in the air, eyes still locked on one another. The brief silence was a stark contrast to the earlier sound of steel on steel. The crowd watched, their eyes wide with anticipation as the combatants caught their breath.
The crescendo was upon them, a precipice from which there was no return. The conductor beamed, lifting his baton high in the air. The cue for the Prestissimo was unleashed, and with it, the primal beast within each knight. Their dance became a whirlwind of fury, blades singing as they cut through the air, each strike a hastened note in their symphony, accelerating the dance into a blinding frenzy.
Steel clashed upon steel in an ever-increasing tempo, a cacophony of ringing notes echoing off the high stone walls of the arena. The blows became so swift, so relentless, they blurred into a continuous hum, the movement of the blades becoming nearly invisible to the onlookers.
There was no pause, no space for breath or thought. Only the instinct to strike, to survive, fueled their brutal rhythm. Armor was hit after hit, the solid thump of steel on steel echoing through the air. They accepted each blow against their bodies, the impact reverberating through their bones, only to give as good as they got.
Delick seemed to have the upper hand, his strikes landing with a ferocious intensity, the edge of his blade glinting with a lethal promise. But Khareem, his spirit unbroken, refused to yield. His own sword moved with a raw determination, his powerful swings slowly shifting the tide in his favor.
Every blow, every parry, kept the audience on edge, the intensity of the battle a tangible weight in the air. It was a dance of warriors, a display of brutal beauty, a testament to their skill and resolve. The question of who would emerge victorious hung heavy in the air, the tension mounting with every resounding clash of their blades.
The conductor rose, his breathing heavy as he prepared to send out the final note.