“Yeah, get ‘em!” Came a shrieking to join the overwhelming thundering crowd under the bright sun. “Give ‘em hell!”

Hell was exactly what Yerens liked throwing at his opponents, and this one was no exception. He pranced and prowled, danced and swaggered, nimble as a weasel, quick as a viper, and vicious as a bloodhound drowned in the stench of blood.

“Stab!” came a cry, so sharp it hurt Radiance’s ears, his headache only growing worse. “Stab ‘em through!”

And the poor fool lumbered helplessly after Yerens like a beggar grabbing for spilled crumbs. But every opening was a trap, every stagger a counter, and the next falter Yerens turned into a parry, a blinding flash of blunt steel whipped out and the flat of the blade thwacked the stumbling boy on his behind; had him sprawl face-first into the sand. The lambs fall resonated in Radiance’s head, too. Hurting, aching.

He was good, Radiance had to admit, but he was a right bastard as well as he spread his arms and drank in the audience’s sporadic cheers and peels of laughter at the one-sided beatdown.

“Come on.” Grunted Radiance under his hissing breath, hands bunched to fists to ignore the pain. “Get up and fight.”

“Do come on!” Mocked Yerens in his cocky voice, smirking disdainfully at his coughing opponent. “Get up and give me a proper fight!” All to the joy of the crowd, drunk on their own deafening volume.

The boy rose with a wobble to his knees, spit and sand clinging to his reddened face – breathing hard, and Yerens grinned that bastard of a grin he liked so much while he twirled his steels around.

“That’s more like it! Would be boring if you surrendered so soon.” The boy steadied himself, short steel in one hand, long steel in the other. “Now, lose graciously for the joy of the people!”

It had become popular to use two blades ever since Ferina the Peace-Keeper won the contest three years back. The shorter blade was used to parry and keep the opponent at bay with pokes and jabs. The longer blade coming into play for more definitive attacks – slashes, stabbing, hacking. They flow into each other to form a perfect balance.

The metal flashed over and the boy’s short steel was sent flying, spun and stabbed into the square’s soil. He stumbled back, hacking away with his remaining sword, pointless as Yerens dodged and weaved through the panicked swings with gracious ease, stalking forward and driving the other back.

Radiance reckoned it fine for sparring, but he doubted their effectiveness on the battlefield; light blades tend to fail when they meet heavy armor. There was another vigorous roar from the ecstatic crowd as Yerens barraged the boy’s defenses with well-timed jabs in perfect harmony with devastating lashes – had the steel ringing, hissing with metallic scrapes and sparking licks. Left, right, circling round one another as the blades kissed and the cross-guards met.

He was good, this Yerens, and well known and backed by the noble factions as he was of high blood himself. Feared in the square and loved at the banquet. Touched by iron and known to gold. But he was a right bastard, and it showed clearly now he bullied the unprepared lamb into a bruised submission.

There was a shrill cry as Yerens’ edge crushed into the child’s curled fingers, but the pained groans that followed were lost in the audiences thunderous rumbling cheers and applause. Yerens’ face was split into his most beautiful, ugly, self-indulging grin as he drank up the crowd’s praise while the boy clasped his darkening, swelling hand behind him, biting through the tears.

Yerens swaggered round the square, breezing through pompous conversation with bloated nobles, smirking past biting commentary from frowning merchants, blowing flirtatious kisses at blushing ladies. He was an excellent swordsman. An outstanding conversationalist. A skillful suitor. But most of all, a real bastard of a man.

“Is there anyone that can offer a proper challenge?” He called, arms outstretched. “Anyone?”

Radiance was hot, sundering and his clashing skull hammered by hard surging pain, wondering when this torture would end.

He turned to a soldier standing post at the tribune’s pole. “What about you, fair man of the city’s watch?” But the guard only shook his head, staying still and silent. Yerens smiled, shrugged, and the audience laughed.

“Perhaps you would like a try?” He posed, turning to the man who was sat next to Radiance. “I’m sure that Verkath blade of yours can dance in those nimble fingers?” He cracked, pointing at the sword with his own.

Radiance eyed the blade, hanging from the man’s hip. A slim sheath, hiding a slimmer blade, no doubt, and a fine crafted cross guard atop of it, iron wrapped around it and the grip looking like a blooming rose to protect the hand and wrist.

“Oh, no no.” The greying man protested, smiling awkwardly. “This is more fashion than anything else, really… And I’m old, too.” He laughed sheepishly and the wrinkles etching his face deepened, showing a mask of age. Yerens frowned.

“Now, though Verkath is unknown to the sea, is it not north of the silver teeth? Surely the mountains must’ve trained you well past vigor?” He mocked.

“Oh, no no.” The man said again, the robe made of many pieces of swaying cloth, blue and white and grey wacked as the wind woke to the glory of day. “The square belongs to the young, an old man like myself has his own place.” Yerens’ eyes narrowed in a sneer.

“Looking at your years that would be close to the grave, is it not?” And the crowd erupted into dumb laughter; had Radiance grit his teeth for the mocking of age was the mocking of God. He would know of no disrespect towards the Almighty.

“Oh, my.” Yerens grinned in surprise. “The very hero of the church has joined to watch my spar. Very honored.” But he looked nothing like it, eyes teeming with jealousy and spite. “Here’s an idea.” He beamed.

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“Why don’t you come into the square? You’re a victor of the competition, are you not? And at he young age of twelve, none the less, after which you joined the Battle of Right and led the country to victory, so I’ve heard!” Mocking, sneering, joking. he felt hot; boiling. A headache like the smith’s pounding on the anvil.

“I shouldn’t.” Radiance managed to hiss, though he wanted. Desired nothing more than to wipe that shit-eating grin off Yerens’ face. But he was the Hero, and the Hero does not fight out of spite. He is righteous, courteous, chivalrous.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t.” Yerens nodded understandably, crossing his arms. “The square is other than the field of battle.” And he flashed his blade with the speed of lightning, had it pas right in front of Radiance’s nose. “You might get hurt.”

There was no stopping the tide, nor was there a stopping to Radiance’s wrath and he rose from his seat to block the sun and cast a long shadow to warp Yerens’ frame. He was the Son of the Flame, and to mock him was to mock Solis. He was the Hero, and it was his duty to protect his Mother’s honor. He was righteous, courteous, chivalrous and would cast judgement down on the unbelieving.

Yerens’ grin grew wider as he got what he desired, but what man desires and what he wants are two very different things. A thing Yerens is yet to learn. But Radiance was ready to teach him such a lesson that he would never need another. After Radiance was done with him, he would have no want for God’s wrath.

Yerens stepped aside as Radiance trudged by, heavy boots stamping and sinking in the square’s sand.

“Are you going to fight me with your virtuous blade of legend?” He asked, pointing at the huge sword in Radiance’s hand.

“No.” He buried the sheath in the soft ground at the area’s edge. The crowd was quiet, now. Full of anticipation at the prospect of two masters from different styles to test their mettle. “The might of this blade is wasted upon the likes of you.”

Yerens scowled. “Oh really?” He fingered his blade. “Be careful, Cain, Your goddess’ power ends at the square’s edging.”

“Her Power knows no boundaries.” Radiance responded as he neared the fallen Boy, offering his hand. “Your blade, if you please.” They locked eyes for a moment, and through them Radiance saw all thousand emotions swimming behind them, for the eyes are the mirror to the soul; its voice. And its language was clear to he who was touched by Flame – they called for revenge. And the boy was in luck, for his desire aligned with that of Solis, and so it would happen, so it would happen.

God’s lamb raised his sword and handed it to Radiance – grip first, and was received in steady hands belonging to a trembling mind. The hurt was booming through his skull like the calling of Tijd - The Great Bell Tower.

He took his place opposite to Yerens at the inner circle’s edge, the judge eyeing them both with a nervous shiver. “Three touches or surrender decide the victor.” He called, and they nodded; Yerens eager for his petty fight, Radiance keen to pass God’s judgement.

The rules were simple, but all in Yerens’ favor as two blades were quicker to touch than one. But there was a stark difference between them. Yerens had only the best of sword masters to train him for years, but Radiance had more than that as there be no better mentor than the indifferent crush of war.

“It’s still not too late to forfeit and protect what’s left of your God’s honor.” Yerens called, readying himself in a Cross Stance. He who lacks fate is no more than an animal, less even. And like an animal he would be butchered. Radiance would see to it.

He set his helm atop his head, now peering through its visage. And the pain was gone. He now viewed the world through iron eyes, small windows into the mortal realm. Everything was clear-cut as a river-smooth stone and a strange calm that was no stranger to Radiance settled on him. He was ready to do gods work.

“Mind your own protection, child.” Radiance spoke as clapping thunder. “For it is in God’s design to guide the lost.”

“Bastard child.” Yerens spat and lurched forward as Radiance took the Window Stance.

The metal hissed as the blades met under the sun’s glint before parting, spinning and meeting again, singing the battles ballet. Yerens’ short steel darted forward, fast as anything, but Radiance was faster still, and he angled his wrists so his blade caught it.

He rolled his massive shoulders, torqued his elbows and had the metal shrieking as they scraped against one-another; spinning, turning, both looking for an opening to push but finding none.

Yerens had the upper hand in rate of attack, and knew it, had his short steel jab and Radiance twitched aside. They circled round each other, feet dragging along the earth.

Yerens had a greater radius of defense, and knew it, smugly grinning as his long steel blocked Radiance’s borrowed blade, strangely light in his hands. Light as a feather.

But Radiance held his sword in two hands and had the greater speed, and he knew of it as did God. As a feather it drifted and weaved between Yerens’ two blades, forced him to awkwardly retreat, the grin slowly leaving his face to be replaced by a hard frown.

But Radiance held his sword firm and had the greater strength, and he knew of it as did his God. Like a tumbling mountain it clashed down onto the two clumsy steels, and Radiance bulged the muscles lining his arms, and his sword tore the short steel right from Yerens’ hand as he tried to fumblingly parry the attack.

Radiance’s boots moved along the coarse sand - legs steady as Werk’s pillars, raining a storm of lashes onto Yerens’ hammered steel. He tried fending them off best he could but was little more than a stranger to the two-handed technique. His back-leg was wonky and uncertain as he searched for footing all the while maneuvering the long steel as sweat trailed down his face, strained with focus.

Radiance was not sweating even under all his armor, barely felt the weight of it. Yerens might be a decent swordsman, but Radiance was a blade of steel, sharpened by countless years of training, tempered by the blood of battle, honed by his devotion to the Almighty.

Yerens may have been favored by the nobles, but…

Radiance held the might of God, and he knew it as did Solis. He entered the Guard of the Bastard Cross mid-swing and swatted Yerens’ blade aside in a wide arch. But his blade didn’t stop there and kept flowing, passing the Left Guard of the Lady before cleaving through the air, roaring with the God’s rage in a downward arc as unstoppable and terrible as the Almighty’s ire.

There was only silence now as tranquility settled onto the square. No sound came from the audience, not a peep. Radiance’s blade was buried deep into the square’s sand after it had roared over Yerens’ head, hadn’t harmed the lamb. Hadn’t even grazed a hair.

But they both stood perfectly still. No motion other than the dark stain spreading round Yerens’ crotch. You could hear a pin drop. And everyone, from the nobles in front, to the peasants in the furthest row, could hear Yerens’ whisper of a voice.

“I submit.” It was a chipped line from a broken tone, befitting of a lamb lost as he. Radiance slid the blade from the soil and handed it back to the boy come running.

“Believe in God’s grace.” He said to Yerens in even tone, befitting of a Hero. “For you do not know what you are doing.” And he took his own blade to leave the mute square with wide strides. Heard Yerens’ sick retching behind him, dampened splattering on the sand.

Only when he entered the quiet shadows of stretching buildings did he remove the helmet. Only when he was the only soul around could he reflect on how close he had been.

Radiance. She had called for him, mid-swing. Radiance, believe in my grace. He had been just short of showering the Practice Square in blobs of brain and shards of skull.

The Hero is Righteous, courteous, chivalrous and would fell God’s judgement.

What was he doing?

It had not been God’s design.

So, what did that make him?

My son.