The sharp clank of two blades clashing at high speed echoed through the training hall, drawing uneasy stares from the knights watching at the edges.
Gasps filled the air, followed by a heavy silence, as one of the swords slipped and clattered against the stone floor. The outcome was far from expected.
Reynand's chest rose and fell, struggling to steady his breath as he stared at his open palm and his sword lying at his feet, having slipped from his grip.
"Your Grace—"
Reynand raised his hand, wordlessly silencing Anthony. He bent down to pick up his sword.
"Well done, Sir Anthony! You could be a commander soon." Reynand chuckled, straightening his back and twirling his wrist with a swing of the blade.
"Forgive me, Your Grace."
The smile vanished from Reynand's lips. In a blink, he raised the tip of his sword right under Anthony's nose.
"Where's your pride? You're not about to say I should've won, are you not?"
Sir Anthony gasped. So did everyone else in the hall.
