The air in the arena seemed to solidify, a thick tension that tasted of ozone and wet earth. Kaelen lay in the churned grey mud, his chest heaving as he fought for the breath Vesper had stolen with that brutal shield bash. Above him, Vesper recovered from the blinding mana flash with the practiced speed of a veteran. She blinked away the blue spots dancing in her vision, her rapier already dipping low for a finishing thrust.
"Don't get back up, Islander," Vesper warned, her voice tight with the strain of the fight. "The mud is a fine place for a dancer to retire."
Kaelen didn't answer with words. His eyes, usually bright with the rhythm of the song, were now dark with a cold, desperate focus. He felt the cold sludge of the flats seeping through his gambeson, the weight of the moment pressing him into the earth. But the Tidemark didn't just dance; it surged.
As Vesper stepped forward to pin him, Kaelen moved. He didn't try to scramble away or climb back to his feet. Instead, he channeled every remaining spark of his mana into his legs. The blue light flared along his shins, turning the water in the mud beneath him into a violent, churning spray.
He launched a low-sweeping kick, his body spinning like a top against the ground. It was the "Ebb and Flow" in its rawest, most aggressive form. The kick wasn't just bone and muscle; it was a physical extension of the tide, reinforced by the mana he had been hoarding.
Vesper's eyes widened. She tried to skip back, to preserve the distance she had worked so hard to close, but the mud betrayed her. Her lead boot found a soft patch of slush, and Kaelen's leg connected with her shins with the force of a falling log.
The sound of the impact was wet and heavy. Vesper's legs were swept out from under her, and she hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud. Her buckler clattered away, sliding through the grey muck, and her rapier arm flew wide as she fought to regain her balance.
Now, both finalists were in the dirt. The crowd's roar reached a fever pitch, a deafening wall of sound that seemed to shake the very palisade. On the platform, Alaric stood perfectly still, his eyes locked on the two figures struggling in the mud. He could feel the ring on his finger thrumming, responding to the raw output of mana and will below.
Kaelen used the momentum of his spin to roll over, his hands finding the ground and pushing him upward. He rose like a man climbing out of a shipwreck, his silks ruined and his face masked in grey grit. He didn't look like a dancer anymore. He looked like a survivor.
Vesper was just as fast. She rolled onto her shoulder, her fingers clawing through the mud to find the grip of her rapier. She didn't have her shield anymore—it lay five feet away, half-buried in the slush—but her eyes remained fixed on Kaelen with an intensity that would have made a seasoned knight flinch.
They both stood at the same time, crouching low, breathing in ragged, synchronized gasps. The rain began to fall then—not a storm, but a cold, needle-like drizzle that washed some of the mud from their faces and turned the arena into a slick, treacherous mirror.
"Still singing?" Vesper spat, wiping a smear of blood from her lip. Her hand was steady on her blade, though her legs were clearly aching from the sweep.
Kaelen spat a mouthful of silt to the side, his curved blades held in a low, defensive cross. "The song has a second verse, Vesper. It's the part where the sea takes everything back."
"I've outrun the sea before," she countered. She began to circle him, her movements more cautious now, her center of gravity lower. Without her buckler, she was faster, but one mistake would be her last.
Kaelen didn't wait for her to find her rhythm. He stepped forward, his boots squelching in the mire, and his blades began to move in a tight, shimmering blur. He wasn't aiming for the wide, graceful arcs of the previous rounds. He was fighting like a man in a confined space, his strikes short, choppy, and filled with a frantic energy.
Vesper met him stroke for stroke. Her rapier was a needle of silver light, parrying the heavier curved blades with a series of sharp, staccato rings. She was looking for the moment he overextended, the moment the "tide" left him dry.
"You're burning through it, Kaelen!" she shouted over the clang of steel. "How much mana do you have left? Enough for one more trick? Two?"
Kaelen didn't answer. He lunged, his right blade catching Vesper's rapier in a bind, forcing her arm upward. His left blade came around in a horizontal slash aimed at her ribs. Vesper twisted her torso, the edge of the blade whispering past her tunic, close enough to sever the threads.
She answered with a vicious elbow to his jaw. Kaelen's head snapped back, the taste of copper filling his mouth, but he didn't retreat. He slammed his forehead into hers—a move that was anything but elegant—and the two of them broke apart, staggering back a few paces.
The silence that followed was brief and heavy. They were both bleeding now, their breath coming in visible clouds of steam in the morning chill. The Knight-Commander's armor sat on its stand just beyond the rope line, the runes on its surface catching the dim light as if mocking their struggle.
Alaric watched them, his throat tight. He realized then that he wasn't just looking for a commander. He was looking at the cost of his ambition. These two were willing to break themselves to fit into the mold he had created.
Kaelen straightened his back, his blades beginning to glow with a final, desperate brilliance. Vesper tightened her grip on her rapier, her feet finding purchase in the slick earth.
"The next exchange finishes it," Kaelen murmured, his voice sounding distant, as if the song were finally taking him over.
Vesper nodded once, her gaze hardening. "Then let's see who's still standing when the music stops."