The blade sliced through air where Soren's knee had been a heartbeat before. Sand shifted beneath his boots as he pivoted, the movement guided by instinct honed through countless brutal training sessions.
Aric's momentum carried him forward, his balance compromised by the force of his failed strike.
'Now,' Valenna whispered, her voice no longer advice but command. 'Strike the opening.'
Soren's counter-cut opened a thin line across Aric's forearm where the armor plates met. Blood welled, staining the black mourning ribbon wrapped around the heir's wrist. The crowd's murmur rose like distant thunder.
Aric's eyes widened, shock briefly overtaking rage. Then his face contorted, grief transforming into something primal. He abandoned all pretense of tournament form, charging forward with a barrage of heavy overhead strikes that sent tremors up Soren's arms with each desperate parry.
"Die," Aric hissed, voice cracking with emotion. "Just die like you should have."
