First minute:

The battle reignited with a fierce crackle. The first exchange of blows exploded in the air like thunder. Aemon's sword cut through the space, sliding for a horizontal strike, but Dravenmoor, with a quick movement of his immense arm, blocked it with his blade, the impact reverberating even in the prince's joints. The metallic sound echoed, an explosion that could have cracked the ground. Aemon felt his bones crack, sharp pain invading his already exhausted muscles.

The heat rose up his spine like a fire, each heartbeat vibrating against the broken bones. He was burning inside, his blood boiling with the power that Cerys had given him. His heaving chest expanded, muscles tensing under the pressure of the incessant attacks. His sword seemed lighter now, but his flesh was slowly disintegrating. Each breath was a scream of pain that he muffled.

Dravenmoor advanced, his movements now heavier, more calculated. He used his size to his advantage, a low blow from the blade coming from bottom to top. Aemon barely had time to raise his sword to block. The impact was devastating. He felt Dravenmoor's blade cut with a primitive force, almost crushing his defense. Aemon's sword trembled in his hands, and the sensation of helplessness tried to take over. But he stood firm.

(1 minute passed.)

Second minute:

Aemon, now sweating, hands trembling from the intensity of the fight, advanced with more fury. He spun with his body, the blade sliding unpredictably. The spin was fast, the sword cutting through the air, but Dravenmoor, with his sharp eyes and experience, blocked the blow with a clash of steel against steel, and with a fluid movement, pushed Aemon to the side, using his weight to crush the prince to the ground. The impact was brutal. Aemon's muscles gave way under the pressure.

The heat inside him intensified. The blood burned under the skin. His arms trembled, sweat dripping down his forehead, mixed with the blood that began to run down his face. But he got up, not just by the strength of his body, but by the will to continue. His sword, sharp and thirsty, returned to attack position, the air around him sliced by the speed of his movements. Dravenmoor was increasingly in his sights.

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The giant warrior attacked with a growl, the sword aiming for Aemon's chest. He leapt to the side, his body now a reflection of untaught training. Aemon slid past Dravenmoor, his blade slicing the enemy's armor. The sound of metal being torn seemed to make the air vibrate. A cut. A small cut. But it was enough to make Dravenmoor waver, for a brief moment, surprised.

(2 minutes passed.)

Third minute:

Aemon's muscles were now in full combustion. He felt as if the boiling blood was being pressed through every pore. The leather of his skin was disintegrating from the heat he felt, sweat dripping as if it had been melted. Each heartbeat seemed to resound like a war drum. The heat became unbearable, but he did not stop. He couldn't stop.

He advanced again. Dravenmoor anticipated the movement, but Aemon was faster now. He stepped to the side and leaped forward, using the angle of his sword to strike Dravenmoor's armor in an improvised but calculated move. The steel was hit with the precision of a lightning bolt. The sound of tearing metal made Aemon smile for a moment. Dravenmoor's armor was giving way.

But the warrior was not finished. He responded with fury, swinging his sword with full force, a blow that made the ground shake. Aemon barely had time to block with his blade. The shock was crushing, his bones creaking from the impact, but he managed to deflect the blow. Dravenmoor's sword cut through the air, but did not hit Aemon. The prince was getting closer, faster, more precise.

(3 minutes passed.)

Fourth minute:

Time seemed to drag. Every movement of Aemon was being sustained by something beyond flesh and blood. His mind was fiery, his muscles, though burning, reacted with a primal power. Sweat dripped into his eyes, but he didn't care. His senses were on full alert, his body now a fighting machine.

He lunged forward with a scream, the sword slicing the air in a series of quick, consecutive blows. Dravenmoor defended himself with his own fury, blocking and attacking with the strength of a wild animal. Each blow of Dravenmoor's blade seemed to be the end for Aemon, but he continued. The prince's strength was growing.

They were now at a dangerous balance point, their blades meeting, their muscles stretching to the limit, sweat and blood splattering across the battlefield. Aemon felt his limits were near, but he did not stop. He couldn't.

The battle was at its limits. The emotion, the strength, the sweat and the pain, all merging into a single point.

(4 minutes passed.)