The arena floor became a blur of motion. Harlon was a master of the Shadow Meld, appearing and disappearing with a fluidity that made it seem like Grey was fighting a ghost.
Clang! Swish! Thud!
Grey stayed centered, his eyes darting to catch the slight distortions in the air. A dagger grazed his shoulder, drawing a thin line of red; a kick caught his ribs, sending a dull ache through his torso.
Every time Grey swung back, Harlon was already gone, melting back into the shade cast by the arena walls.
It was a battle of attrition. For several minutes, Grey was on the defensive, his breathing becoming heavy as he parried strike after strike.
From the stands, the silence was palpable. Legolas looked vindicated, while Thorgar's knuckles were white from gripping the railing.
"Tch. This is getting annoying," Grey thought, his patience finally snapping. He was tired of being the punching bag for an elven shadow play.
