The cuts from previous matches burned as his grip tightened, but he kept his face carefully blank, refusing to give Trescan the satisfaction of seeing his pain.
Five exchanges. Ten. Fifteen. Soren found himself constantly on the defensive, retreating across the sand as Trescan pressed his advantage. The crowd's murmur grew, nobles leaning forward with satisfaction as order reasserted itself in the ring.
"He's being contained," someone observed loudly from the Karvath gallery. "The novelty wears thin when faced with true discipline."
Sweat trickled down Soren's spine as he parried another perfect combination. Trescan was toying with him, demonstrating the gulf between street-learned survival and generations of formalized training. Each exchange revealed more of the pattern, Trescan wasn't fighting to win quickly, but to win decisively, to make an example that would resonate throughout Northaven.
