My heart pounded, but my breathing stayed even.
Seizing the opening, I called on my water magic once more—not to attack, but as a subtle influence on the air between us. This was the moment I'd been waiting for, the precise instant when all my careful observation would pay dividends.
I exhaled slowly and deliberately, drawing moisture from the air as I pulled in a large breath. The magic flowed through me like a gentle current, responding to my will as naturally as breathing. A thin mist began to form, barely visible at first—sodelicate that even the most observant spectator would dismiss it. It drifted across the sand in gossamer tendrils, ephemeral as morning fog, curling around our boots in lazy spirals.
The vapor rose with each of our movements like breath made visible, following the rhythm of our dance. I guided it with minute gestures, fingers barely flexing as I shaped the air itself into my weapon. The mist thickened incrementally, building layer upon translucent layer.
Each droplet answered to me. Every particle bent to my will.
The mist thickened, subtle but deliberate, cloaking the ground in a veil of swirling vapor. Balan lunged again, confident, his blades slicing through the fog—but I was already gone. With a flick of my fingers, I pushed the mist toward him, aiming for his face—his eyes, just enough to obscure his vision, to cause his next steps to be unbalanced.
Balan surged forward, swinging his swords hard as the mist invaded his line of sight, and he took a side step, ending up swinging all the way around to face forward again. The crowd laughed because it was true—he looked ridiculous.
Perfect.
While he attempted to regain his bearings, I moved my fingers in a precise, practiced pattern. I breathed out and instructed the water in the air to drop substantially. The mist around us shimmered—then froze.
In an instant, the air glittered with ice. Millions of microscopic crystals bloomed, catching the sunlight like a storm of falling stars.
Balan held his arm back and let loose his spectral blades. The frozen mist struck them mid-swing. The energy wavered. The weapons vibrated, shimmered—then cracked.
Balan's eyes widened.
His phantom swords shattered, exploding into a halo of diamond shards that hung in the air for a breath before fading from sight altogether.
Balan staggered backward, his face contorted in bewilderment and growing panic. The destruction of his spectral weapons had clearly rattled him more than any physical blow could have—those phantom blades weren't just conjured tools; they were extensions of his magical essence, and their violent shattering had sent shockwaves through him—I could see proof in his expression.
His real sword sagged toward the sand as tremors ran through his sword arm. One palm pressed desperately against his temple, fingers splayed wide as if trying to hold his scattered thoughts together. The confident sneer that had dominated his features throughout our duel was now gone, replaced by the wild-eyed look of a man whose world had just been turned upside down.
His focus—that razor-sharp concentration every knight cultivated through years of training—lay in ruins around him like the glittering remnants of his shattered magic.
Now was my chance. I didn’t hesitate.
The crowd blurred. The noise dimmed.
All I knew was that I was now fully water—fluid, precise, unstoppable.
I pulled moisture from the air again, my movements becoming a fluid dance of concentration and power as I shaped the gathered water into three gleaming tendrils, each one as thick as my forearm and rippling with condensed energy. They curled and undulated beside me like summoned spirits made manifest.
The water whips moved with grace, responding to my will as naturally as my own limbs. I could feel their weight, their potential for destruction, the way they hungered to strike. Thecrowd's roar became a distant thunder as my focus narrowed to this single moment.
They struck in perfect unison—a choreographed assault that spoke of years of rigorous training under Merlin's watchful eye. The first tendril snapped forward like a striking serpent, its tip hardening to ice just before impact. It connected with Balan's sword hilt with a resounding metallic clang that echoed across the arena, the force reverberating up through his arm and sending violent tremors through his already weakened grip. His fingers spasmed involuntarily, and his blade went spinning from his grasp like a discarded toy.
The second whip swept low in a wide arc, catching both his legs just behind the knees as I slammed as much power as I could into the blow. His feet flew out from under him as the icy water wrapped around his calves for the briefest instant before dissolving back to its liquid state.
The third tendril, meanwhile, coiled back like a loaded spring before launching forward with all the force I could muster. It slammed into his chest with the impact of a battering ram, driving the air from his lungs in a sharp, pained gasp. The blow sent him sprawling backward onto the sand, his arms windmilling desperately as he tried and failed to break his fall.
He hit the arena floor hard, sending up a small explosion of grit that clung to his sweat-dampened skin. His sword skittered across the sand in a wild arc, tumbling far out of reach before finally coming to rest against the wooden barrier that separated us from the cheering crowd.
Before he could recover, I drove my palm downward. Moisture surged from the earth, wrapping around his boots and flash-freezing into ice. Shackles formed up to his ankles, locking him in place.
"Release me!" he roared, his face darkening with rage. But I held firm. The duel wasn’t over until Mordred said it was.
Balan's fingers moved in desperate gestures, his lips forming the spell of whatever spectral conjuration he was attempting. In response, I sent a breath of icy chill that froze his words as soon as he said them, halting his magic before it could act.
He tried again. And again. Each attempt weaker than the last, but strangely, Mordred did not call me victor. I wasn't certain what he was waiting for because it was fairly obvious that I'd subdued the giant. But apparently, the trial still wasn't over.
Balan tried once more to conjure a blade, clearly not realizing that my mist had been more than cover—it had siphoned the arena’s moisture, starving his magic at the source.
