Mordred’s voice rang out, booming across the silence: “Victory in the Duel Trial is earned through incapacitation, surrender, or by my judgment. Death is forbidden. But remember—hesitation may cost you your place among Arthur’s chosen.”
Balan smirked as we began to circle. The sand shifted under our boots. Sweat prickled at my brow despite the morning chill. He watched me like a predator sizing up unfamiliar prey—already savoring his win over the unknown and small knight.
“Begin!” Mordred commanded.
Balan drew his longsword with a slow, deliberate flourish. The blade sang free of its scabbard, catching the sun in a flash of polished steel. Then, with a whisper and flick of his fingers, two ghostly duplicates shimmered into existence beside it—identical down to the leather grip and the chip in the crossguard. All three blades spun in unison, a deadly dance of steel and sorcery.
A wave of awe rolled through the crowd.
Sothat’swhy they called him the Knight of Two Swords. Hmm.
It wasn’t just skill—it was conjuration. I had a feeling that each of those spectral blades could cut as deep as steel.
Balan wasn’t just strong.
He was terrifying.
As if on cue, Balan made a show of slicing his impressive blades through the air, and the crowd gasped.
Panic started to surge inside me until I forcefully pushed it back. Now was not the time to lose control of my emotions and thus my disguise. Yes, I was surrounded, boxed in by bladesconverging from all angles. Yes, Balan's steel and sorcery spun together in a deadly rhythm, a blur of killing intent. But that didn't mean he would beat me. It didn't automatically guarantee that he would be the victor.
The first phantom blade sliced toward my ribs. I twisted, narrowly evading the arc of silver light. Another came high—fast. I blocked it just in time. The impact jolted down my arms, rattling my grip. Another blade came in my direction, and I ducked just in time. In this case, my small stature was proving to be a benefit—it meant I could more easily dodge Balan's blows.
Murmurs rippled through the stands.
"This is an impossible pairing."
"Lioran has no hope of winning."
"Balan will kill him."
They doubted me. Not surprising.
I forced a breath and centered myself.
Each phantom sword mirrored Balan's movements, the spectral blades following the arc of his physical weapon like obedient shadows. This wasn't merely brute force on display—it was an intricate choreography, each motion calculated and refined through countless hours of practice. The precision was terrifying; three identical killing edges moved as one unified threat.
I stepped back, feeling the grains of sand shifting beneath my boots as I recalibrated my approach. My pulse thundered in my ears, but I forced my breathing to steady. Panic wouldn't serve me here—only patience would. I needed to survive this initial onslaught, to weather Balan's storm long enough to catch the underlying pattern of his attack sequence. Every warrior, no matter how skilled, eventually reveals their rhythms, their preferences, their habits. If I could just endure and observe, I could begin to predict what Balan would do next, transforming his greatest strength into a vulnerability I could exploit.
Balan pressed forward, confident and relentless. When our blades clashed, the shock of it rang up my arm once more, making my teeth gnash together. He was a wall of strength, hammering away without pause.
“You fight like a child,” he sneered.
I didn’t respond. I didn’t have to.
Instead, I called to the water within me—let it flow through muscle, bone, blood, and breath.
Now I become the water magic I possess.
The magic answered, subtle and electric, threading through my limbs, surging forward like a wave. My movements sharpened. My breath slowed. I bent like a reed beneath his blows, slipping through gaps, redirecting force rather than meeting it.
I didn’t match his power. Idodgedit. Deflected it. I let it pass.
Like water around stone.
Balan burned through too much energy with each massive swing he took. I, meanwhile, conserved mine, my every motion efficient, every dodge just enough. I could simply defend myself while he wore himself out. And all the while, I could study him.
As I watched, Balan’s strikes painted the air with faint mist—trails of vapor that vanished almost instantly. But they revealed something: a rhythm, a habit,a flaw.
