Both of them were locked in a ferocious exchange. On one side, the sparks of light blazed golden and rapid. On the other, they flashed silver and dark.
Both moved with equal speed, dancing across the room, matching each other foot to foot, strike to strike. None of the onlookers dared to interfere.
Erikta wore a maniacal grin. Every time they clashed, he seemed to drink in the disaster and savor it.
Lucien, though, remained cold—his face obscured by the White Crown. But behind it lay a strained expression and cold white light blazing in his eyes.
Unlike Erikta, who was reveling in the battle, Lucien was spent. His stamina was drained, causing his movements to drag.
He owed the success of every attempt to move to his reinforced bones. Because of the kind of bones he had, whenever he paused for a moment and then surged forward, his movement was always blinding.
This gave him an element of surprise that Erikta found impossible to adapt to.
