The blades met again.
The sound rang across the camp, sharper than the clash of the knights fighting around them. Ulrich's crimson-covered sword struck Valdris's black blade, and the red runes burst apart at once. Flecks of mana scattered through the air before vanishing above the stream.
Ulrich did not waste time watching them disappear.
He stepped inside Valdris's reach.
Most swordsmen would have moved away after losing a spell at the point of contact. Valdris's sword was made to break magic, and every mage who had fought him before likely learned that lesson quickly. They would retreat, create space, and try to cast a larger spell from a safer distance.
Ulrich did the opposite.
He drove his shoulder toward Valdris's chest, forcing him to shift backward, and brought his sword upward from below. The strike aimed beneath Valdris's guard, toward the space between the black blade and his ribs.
Valdris turned his wrist.
