By the time the first few flickers of light were flooding in through the window, Sadia was only half-asleep. Even with her eyes closed, she remained aware of everything around her. These last few days, every squeak, every step, every shift, every little sound or movement was a cause for concern. It irritated her. The sound of feet on wood. The birds chirping outside. The wind brushing gently against the wood of the inn. Her patience was getting worn down.
Even as the sun rose higher and higher, Sadia refused to get out of bed, poised to recover the sleep she lost. And it seemed to be working, the light brought a certain sense of comfort. No Shadows loom during the day, right? Yes, that was it. She could finally rest. Then, trumpets started singing. And then, the drums. And then, the endless hum of hooves on cobbles began. It sounded as if an entire retinue of musicians were marching across the streets of Alderan, intending to make her as miserable as possible. Looking up at the ceiling with red eyes, Sadia was fully convinced that this level of despair could only be achieved through "his" machinations.
Rolling out of bed with the same vitality that those two white dots had, Sadia shambles her way to the window. Below lies only what can be described as a great serpent formed out of horses and men. Some were atop strong steeds, wearing fine layered armor, carrying spears with a broad tip. Others had bows around their shoulders, quivers on their back, carrying banners she didn't recognize. The ones armed rode in the front, behind them rode people in finer yet colorful clothing. Performers, no doubt, carrying trumpets and drums. In the middle of the great collum lay what looked like nobility, fine garbs made out of velvet and silk, clothes sewn with silver and gold twine. Great pieces of silver and gold hung from their wrists, necks, and ears, some bearing large, expensive-looking gems hemmed into the jewelry.
One shape loomed over all the other rich folk, a head taller than the ones riding beside him and much more stout. An old man, bald and clean shaven, eyebrows white and face wrinkled like hell, a thin crown sitting atop his head and eyes that seemed to take great bites out of anything he sees. A man like that is unmistakable. Dangerous. Capable. A man of great character. Or so it would seem, to most people at least.
Sadia found herself unimpressed, shambling back to her bed, praying for the circus to move faster so she may sleep.
The tavern was a riot, lively with the sound of hurried feet. Sadia could hear lots of voices from below, almost none she recognized, the sound of the front door creaking as it swung open and shut was slowly becoming maddening. It was a busy day, for it would be a short one. No one worked during the tourney, that much she still remembered, and the tavern was sure to close by the time the sun hung high above that damned black keep.
It wasn't long until someone stepped into her room, quiet as a mouse. Tired as she was, Sadia could only scratch the surface of a restful slumber with feeble hands. She turned around in bed and sat up. Crimson Dawn was standing in her doorway, a relaxed smile across his face, a gaze that screamed of pity.
He spoke with more vigour than Sadia could muster after such poor sleep, "Slept well?".
Sadia scanned him before shaking her head and rubbing her eyes. Dawn had ditched the robes for something more comfortable. A plain white shirt with leather cuffs, too big to fit him properly, tucked in brown pants and a pair of cumbersome leather boots. "You look...different.", she spoke as she stood up and stretched slowly, arching her back inwards just like a cat.
He cast a glance down toward his hands and feet, before looking back at her, "Oh, these? Duras lent them to me. He said they should help me blend in better with the crowd. I don't much understand what he meant by that but he wouldn't let me turn him down.".
Duras? Of course it had to be his clothes. As much of a coward as he is, he surely has the body of a warrior. Dawn looked like a child in those garbs. Sadia smirked while looking at him.
"You don't suppose he has something meant for a woman?", coming to think of it, the clothes he lent to Dawn would have fit her much better.
Dawn shook his head slowly, his eyes locking with hers. He didn't look like a man ready to face peril. He didn't look like he was ready to walk the path. Akin to a boy, eyes full of wonder and hope, frail limbs and little bulk. No conviction. No resolve. Not at all ready. Just unwanted meat meant to be lost or killed on his pilgrimage, just another victim to religious fanatics grasping at the straws of a prophecy that will never come true.
Sadia's smirk dwindled as she spoke, "Say, you still plan on leaving for the path?".
His eyes narrowed in response to the sudden question, "Yes...".
"How about you don't?".
"Why would I do that?", he asked, leaning against the doorframe, "What do you know of the path, Sadia?".
"A lot. I have something important to tell you.".
"Is that so? How about you tell me on the way to the keep then?".
People. People all around. The roads lay busy with feet, and the air lay stagnant with voices and cheers, the sound of slow drums and trumpets can be heard in the distance. This was the festival alright, the same one she remembered. A display meant to remind the populace of Alderan's courage in the face of the halfdrake horde. For Sadia, it was never more than a vainglorious look into the past, a past that amounts to little more than specks of ash and dust in the wind.
Fools. Fools all around. Dancing. Laughing. Singing. Stalls every which way one looks along the great streets. The aroma of freshly roasted meat hung in the air, hooking itself tightly into every person's clothes and hair, not to leave their side but only after a few days had passed and the clothes were thoroughly washed. It made Sadia's stomach rumble. But still, no use buying anything at this time, the feast was still on after all.
Crimson Dawn and Sadia walked side by side, shoulder to shoulder, part of the same current of people heading to the keep, brushing occasionally against the few rebels trying to make their way against the flow of the meaty and sweaty tide. Their march was slow. Too slow. And every person not moving with them made her nervous. It was easy, too easy, to kill someone in this hustle and bustle and she knew it.
All it would take would be a person moving up the streets, bumping shoulders with people as they move against the tide. A knife clutched in their hands. All they would have to do is stumble and bump into her, and the blade would bite deeply into her flesh, blood seeping out as her assassin makes themselves unseen amongst the crowd. She could feel sweat trickle down her back, pittering the fabric of the shirt she borrowed from the innkeeper. The only thing keeping her somewhat calm was Dawn, clearly unaware of the dangers of being caught lacking in such a large crowd.
The courtyard of the keep was as she remembered it, just stone and stone and stone and nothing else except the accommodations that were made for the tourney. In the front yard lay a ring made of dirt and fenced in by wood pillars, on both sides benches of weathered wood were carved and sat lifelessly before the stone of the keep. Seating was limited, only important people could sit on those dusty benches, the rest had to stand. Her old friend used to say that Alderan is an old city built on old bones, that the ring and the benches had been erected around the same time the city had been built. He used to say that very little has changed since the beginning and that even less will change until the end. That was to say, seating was limited because Alderan doesn't change. A stupid attribute belonging to a stupid city.
Further up ahead, and past the side of the keep, lay a stage for performers and a gallery for jousting. There, seating was more available but still not enough to seat the hundreds of people swarming about. Coming to the front of the yard, it didn't take long for the pair to run into Duras. The shell of a man Sadia saw before looked slightly more presentable today. His hair slicked back and short beard obviously groomed, he wore black leather on both his jacket and trousers, lined with silver twine and embroidered with blue gems, it was something a minor noble would wear. A deep-blue piece of silk flew down from below one of his pauldrons, clearly hiding his embarrassment. His shoes were a thing of beauty, however, that much Sadia had to admit. Made of thick leather, with thick soles and a tip reinforced with what seemed to be a gleaming black metal, they were perfect for stomping out someone had he the need to.
"So, where did we leave off?", Dawn spoke once they reached a spot where the ruckus of the festival died down. The whole trip they couldn't talk, the songs, the voices and the music were too loud. But now, in a somewhat forgotten corner, but for one knight sitting idly with a puppy in his lap, Sadia could finally tell him about what was sure to happen if he left for the path.
Sadia gazed about, not speaking until she got a good look at her surroundings. A knight wearing a dirty greathelm about 10 paces away, he must be taking part in the tourney, judging by the mace and shield nestled beside him. Further up ahead, a young lord, hard to tell if it was a boy or a girl, talking to a strange pair. A tall, horned woman with scaly skin, and a shorter, meek man who was wearing an outfit closely resembling Duras'. Duras could be seen, chatting up what seemed to be a few noblemen just before the ring.
She spoke fast, "The thing is, we aren't alone...".
"Of course we are not, Sadia. Look around! There are plenty of people about, and that is to be expected.", he shook his head as he cut her words off.
"What? What are you talking about?", she scowled at him, "No, no. That is not what I mean, you idiot. We both are being pursued!".
His smile dissolved in confusion, "By whom?".
That was a question she dreaded, one she could muster no answer to but Sadia pushed on regardless, "You think that matters? There are people out there who are looking to gut us, do you understand that? They will come for me and then for you!.", she shook her head, trying to warn him the best she could.
He didn't get to respond, and Sadia trudged on, rambling with vigour she thought lost long ago, "Remember back at the grove? You were right. Someone was there, I saw the tracks myself. They tracked us, they must have, I am sure of it. And now they must be here, still looking for us. They'll follow you, Dawn, no matter where you go, and they'll-...".
"Why didn't you warn me earlier?", now it was Dawn's turn to scowl as he cut her off, "If you knew, why didn't you speak a word of it?".
And just like that, the tide of vigour that barreled outwards smashed hopelessly against the shore of a logical question. Sadia couldn't help but to shrink a little, "Warning you would have been no use. You would have gotten scared, scared people scarcely stick to the plan. I needed you to follow my lead, and you did. Had I told you about it, gods know what might have happened on the road. We got here alive, right?".
"Sure.", their conversation turned lamentable with haste, and neither of them wanted to speak any further. Sadia watched as the man dressed in black turned his attention away from the girl-boy lord and the horned woman, walking across the yard with grace one can seldom see. He strutted about before reaching the ring, slapping Duras brotherly on the shoulder as he first motioned to his attire and then Duras'. They were matching. They must be friends. By this time, the ruckus and the noise of the yard had turned into a monotonous murmur for Sadia.
The sound of drums slapped Sadia across the face, pulling her out of the pondering stew she was slowly boiling in. Drums. Then trumpets. Their sounds meaning to come out heroic, but actually sounding moronic to the young woman. This was to be the opening ceremony of the tourney, what a loathesome ordeal they were in for.
Duras' voice slapped her even harder as he spoke to the crowd, "Ladies and gentlemen! All those who come from high-blood or from the lowest of gutters, hear me. I am glad to announce yet another rendition of our beloved tourney!", he paced back and forth slowly as he spoke, eyes scanning the crowd with each word. "As you may know, the city of Alderan is proud, and its people are even prouder! Given our great place in the world, it is only normal that there are others who yet seek to make us bow down to their barbaric and insolent ways. Be it the Ibarrans in the north or the scales from the south, Alderan has seldom known peace.".
Looking around, Sadia could tell that more and more people were slowly gathering. Big and small, stout or lanky, from beautiful and horribly ugly, every kind of man could be seen. Be they from the far north or from the volcanoes of the south, all were gathered here for the tourney, all equipped in their own way, all waiting for a shot at glory and renown. A foolish event for fools who enjoy foolishly pursuing foolish endeavors.
" No matter what way the wind is blowing, the will of Alderan never bends! And because of that, we are here today to celebrate the strength and skill of the men who keep this great city free and safe!", a boring speech delivered by a man far past his prime. Even still, cheers came over the top, the cries of hearty men ready to test their mettle. As the hollers slowly died, a laugh cracked over the noises of the crowd. Wry and hearty it rang out, Sadia would have laughed too, had she cared enough to. An older man was laughing loudly, his hair black with the exception of a few wild streaks of white that dashed to and fro. Everyone turned to look at him, each bearing a scowl or grimace or cold indifference while glaring at him.
A shield on his back, a spear in his hand and a mocking grin on his face, "Oh, who invited this old fool? Any of you lot?", he spoke as he stepped forward, using the tip of his spear to point at all the onlookers, "How far must have Alderan fallen to allow a commoner to officiate? And the worst part is, ladies and gentlemen, is that he isn't even from Alderan!", each word mocking and spiteful, it brought a smile to Sadia's lips to finally hear what everyone must be thinking.
"A man like yourself shouldn't talk.", the man twinning with Duras butted in, "Duras here has long been in the service of House Trias, as you all may be aware. He's been called Lady Servante's blade plenty of times, winning countless tournies in her honour and acting as her guard for a very long time. He is one of the eight, after all. Had it not been for them and their efforts, the whole continent might have fallen to the clans. I say no one else here is as worthy to be called an alderanian as the man before you.".
"Don't talk as if you belong to our lot. You are not from here either.", the man's grin grew even wider.
"And neither are you, rouge.", hushed words started springing up among the crowd, only for the man dressed in black to continue, "You think we know not your ilk, robber baron? Or, should we call you the Red Lord?". At the utterance of those last few words, all forms of hushed ramblings began around the crowd. The hushed whispers became a slowly increasing storm that turned into audible outrage in the form of shouts and howls and hollers. The crowd was not pleased with the so-called Red Lord. No, not at all. They were quickly turning into a pack ready to pounce upon a common enemy, one who dared trample upon one of their heroes.
"Now, now. Let's not spoil the mood!", Duras' voice cut through the buzz with a cold edge, his eyes dark and his hand behind his back, still as a rock. "We would all like to trounce the once-feared scourge of the north, and you will all get the opportunity! I doubt that the renowned Red Lord will shy away from the challenge of Alderan's tourney.".
Duras kept talking, his speech delving into the rules of the contest, or lack thereof, actually. Nothing changed about the tourney since Sadia last attended it. Each prospect was allowed to bring in their own gear, weapons must be blunted. The tourney always encouraged the spirit of creativity, it was, after all, the grounds on which mercenaries could become guards or entertainers for the high houses of Alderan. The more unique a fighter was, the more sought after they would be. The rules of the tourney weren't tricky either. Two people enter, one wins after their opponent is unable to continue fighting. Winner remains in the ring, loser is tossed out. Whoever wins the most matches wins the prize pitched by the noble houses.
First to step up to the challenge was the man called the Red Lord. He walked in great strides, his feet light on the ground, shield and light spear in hand. His walk to the ring was accompanied by jeering and hollering, a wide grin plastered across his face. Getting into the ring, his expression was something Sadia was familiar with. The lines on his face drew themselves in a spiteful smile, the crooked grin of a man who is used to being hated, who revels in the cold sneers and hollow hopes of the crowd.
He bowed deeply towards the crowd as a man rose and advanced from the mass of people that littered the courtyard, heading for the ring. A hard man. Big. Stout. Thin armour and a curved saber at his hip. A face full of beard and yet a hairless egg of a head, his skin a warm tone of brown. A southerner. Big in stature and yet, very lightly equipped. A loser, Sadia had no doubt about it. A saber can't beat a spear, no matter how good the swordsman is.
Both men lay in the ring, Duras off to the side, waiting to give the signal. As the men readied themselves, weapons in hand, the crowd slowly returned to hushed whispering, an uneasy tension filling the air. As the trumpet blew and the duel started, neither man rushed forward. The brown one slowly stepped forward on the outside, saber spinning idly in his hand, the blade gleaming under the hot sun. The spearman advanced not, picking up his shield and bringing his spear close, sticking close to the ground and bracing for whatever might yet come. The big man kept away still until he stepped in suddenly. A quick step. He raised his blade above his head and struck down with haste as soon as his front foot touched the ground, stepping away before the Red Lord could strike back.
He kept at it while slowly circling away from the spear. A fast step followed by a thunderous slash. Hard to see and even harder to parry. Harrying strikes meant to lock down his opponent. No way to counter without risking getting caught in the process. But even as the minutes passed and the blows kept raining down, the man behind the shield did not wither. As the blows crashed down, metal striking metal relentlessly, a slow trickle of cheering started amongst spectator and contestant alike. The southener's serious expression lifted too, a grin slowly cracking with each blow he delivered, and then, he started chaining slashes together. First, a downwards chop. Then, an upwards slash from the hip to the shoulder, and then another from the right to the left. An endless flurry of blows and little to no response from the man they all hated. He had no answer to what the swordsman was doing.
And then, the Red Lord finally made his move. He pulled back, throwing his shield and spear to the side as he leaned back, timing his dodge with the last slash of his opponent's combo. The bigger man lurched over, overextended in his excitement to keep up his momentum and press his advantage. The cold rim of the small shield met him halfway, hitting him square in the jaw and making his body go limp. He dropped like a sack of potatoes. Dawn winced as he dropped to the floor. The crowds cheering died in an instant. The big man had to be carried out like a sack, too. A pitiful sight.
"Now.", the Red Lord bowed again towards the crowd, "Who else is ready to face Servosh, the bloody lord of the pits? Winner of seventy-six duels and only survivor of the battle of Crooked Bridge? Wait, did I say seventy-six duels? I meant to say seventy-seven and counting! Now, who dares step up and face me?".
The crowd did not respond. Nor did it shift. No one stepped forward. No one wanted to. No one had the courage to. They all feared Servosh, and Sadia could smell their fear in the air. A hunched figure slowly emerged from the crowd. Ragged yet wearing heavy armour, a dirty greathelm and a small dog by his feet. The poor knight Sadia saw just before, mace and shield in hand, walking a dead man's march.
"You think this one stands a better chance?", Dawn asked, putting his arm around Sadia's shoulder.
"He looks half dead already.".
The knight waddled forward with the posture of a camel and the swiftness of a snail. By the time he entered the ring, his movements looked even more sluggish than before. This time, when the match started, Servosh wasted no time in finding a counter. He stepped in deep, aiming to run his opponent through, only for his spear tip to be driven away by a shield. The knight stepped in and swung his weapon down, Servosh barely managing to raise his shield in time to block. The Red Lord stumbled back and close to the fence, shaking his arm. A blow like that can crack bone, it must have hurt like hell. Servosh didn't show it, however. Nor did he allow it to slow him down. This time, he moved on the outside, thrusting his spear forward in jagged volleys, moving lightly on his feet as he probed with each blow. He was looking for an opening, but the knight offered none. He lay turtling behind his kite shield, mace by his shoulder and ready to strike, inching closer and closer with each thrust he parried.
The ring was getting smaller and smaller by the second, and Servosh was getting nowhere. He stepped in, locking shields with his adversary for a split second. The mace came swinging as Servosh leaned away, a wide grin on his face, slipping away as the knight turned to face him. By this time, some of the crowd's vigour had returned to them, and seldom could cheers be heard.
The Red Lord was getting nowhere, and he knew that. He stepped in, feinting a thrust, only to smash his shield into the knight's arm. The knight swung, coming up short but still stepping in behind his shield, forcing Servosh to lock shields once more. The mace came bearing down again, Servosh leaned back, but it was only a faint. The knight swung his kite in an arch, the corner cracking Servosh in the temple, body going stiff and landing on his ass with a loud thud. Blood seeped out of his head as he looked up with stunned eyes. For a second, both lay as motionless as a pair of boulders. The crowd lay stunned, only to erupt into cheers that drove the knight to action.
Servosh sprang up, tackling his opponent before he could swing his mace again, dragging him to the ground. He ended up on top and began raining down a torrent of punches. Servosh punched and punched, his metal gauntlets colliding with the murky greathelm, each shot ringing out akin to a shrill bell. Servosh pried the mace free from the knight's hand in their struggle. He raised it above his head, and he would have brought it down had he not been stopped by a hand. Duras jumped in the ring as soon as the two men hit the ground, he knew what to look out for. The cheering stopped. For good this time.
Glaring back at the man stopping him with eyes full of resentment, Servosh let go of the mace. Red in the face, mostly because half of his face was covered in his own blood, he slowly rises to his feet and meets his audience once more. He grins, "Now, who else dares to step up? All ye who seek glory and fame, I welcome you to come and try to beat me!". No one dared to step forward.
"What happened? Where is that passion from before? Where is the courage? No brave lad left to face an old man like myself? Oh, what disappointment. I knew it from the beginning, all of you are cowards and nothing more! You seek all I have and yet, none of you have the will to sacrifice as much as I did!", a rant born out of frustration and mutual hatred. The life of a man like Servosh is a lonely one, to be feared and nothing else reduces one to nothing more than what the people believe they are. She would have turned out like that, too, had she not gotten away when she did.
Servosh remained in the ring for a few more rounds. By the time he was finally eliminated, Crimson Dawn and Sadia had long left for the feast hall. The hall itself was large, larger than what seemed possible from the outside. It was just as Sadia had left it, a simple place meant for meager triumphs. Simple, humble, the same as Alderan's very spirit. The only dashes of colour in between the browns of the tables and chairs was the red carpeting that was ever-present in the keep, alongside the colourful murals of the stained-glass windows. People talked, toasts were made, food was served, and yet, Sadia was lost in thought.
"Tomorrow's the day, eh? How are you feeling, Dawn? Ready to follow after our good lord?", Danse spoke from one side, idly spinning his spoon in a bowl of soup, cheeks red with the alcohol served alongside the dishes from earlier.
"It's hard to say. Only the path will show who's worthy or not."
He brought the spoon to his lips before talking again, "You don't have to worry about that. You were picked. We will advance and we will best the trials and that's that!".
"If it only were that simple.", Duras spoke with a sigh, "Have you decided who is to accompany us?".
"We'll travel light, carrying the bare essentials. A caravan is heading up that way, too, avoiding the western route. I imagine there's trouble brewing near the ridge.", Danse continued talking, his speech barely audible in the ruckus that had overtaken the gray hall, "Crimson Dawn, another cleric and I, we'll head south and make good time on the first trial so that we may meet you at the entrance of the hinterlands. It shouldn't take us more than two weeks to reach the ruins. You think you'll be able to reach there in time?".
"You can count on it.".
"That sounds like a swell plan, but where does that leave Sadia?", Crimson Dawn was the first to bring up the big and ugly elephant in the room, that being the wild woman who led him to Alderan after almost snuffing his lights out. Danse and Duras looked at each other before casting their eyes on the young woman. Danse's gaze bore no hostility, he merely looked dumbfounded, seemingly unable to respond without giving it some thought first. Duras' expression was blank, cold radiated from the surface and yet, contempt could be felt underneath his gaze. His mind was already made up.
"Say, Dawn, can she be trusted?".
"Yes-".
"No.", Duras butted in.
Danse chuckled lightly as he raised the spoon up to his lips again, "Let the boy speak, will you?".
"She is, despite what Duras may say, to be trusted.", Dawn's hands were on the table, fingers intertwined and a thin smile on his face, "Truth be told, I would have perished along the way if not for her.".
"Is that so? At whose hands?", Duras asked, leaning back in his chair, his arms would have been folded had he had two of them.
"I passed a village, mad men all about. I ran, I had to. I ended up in the woods and I would have been done for had Sadia not found me.", an embellished tale that Duras will see right through, Sadia was sure of that.
Danse tilted his head, his eyes narrowing in contemplation, "I see how it is. Can you swing a blade?", a question to which Sadia nodded.
"Even if she can, she's not fit to join us.", Duras shook his head, waving off such a ludicrous idea with little contemplation. And he was right to do so. She's a nobody. Someone with a crooked past and little scruples. She was never good news to anyone, but she'll be damned if she's allowing "him" to do this all over again.
Sadia smirked, fists clenching under the table, "I'm pretty good at that, actually. I doubt this old man can match me on a bad day, much less on one as good as this.".
"Big words from someone in punching distance.", Danse chuckled, "You are going to let her talk to you like that?", he turned his gaze towards Duras.
"I don't care for what she has to say.".
Sadia bolted up, slamming her hands on the table and spooking everyone, "How about we have a little contest, then? We have a ring outside and I am more than willing to show you what I am made of.".
Duras locked eyes with her. There was nothing behind his gaze except darkness.
"Fine.".
And that is how Sadia found herself duelling one of the Eight saviours of Arka. Duras had no blade on him and he wouldn't be convinced to use the ones available at the keep, and thus, Dawn and Danse went back to the inn to procure a weapon for him. While the two were gone, no words were spent between the two of them.
The young woman would periodically steal a glance at her would-be opponent. He looked steady, stout and relaxed. All a front, she hoped. Meanwhile, her hands were busy sweating, a warmth akin to that of frostbite lingering just below her skin. It has been a long time since she fought properly and she was worried. She's never been a swordswoman, but she could handle her own with a blade, in the past, at least. But, what about now? She wasn't much good, no doubt about it. Duras' gaze radiated a deep chill, his eyes betraying the emotions that lay beneath his visage, his expression one of silent conviction at the task at hand. The gaze of a killer. A gaze like hers.
Dawn and Danse arrived, feet shambling in the dark, the moon hanging overhead and bathing everyone in soothing light.
"Well then, let's get to it.", Duras sighed as he stepped toward the ring, taking the sheathed blade from Danse, "This isn't a blunted blade so beware. I'll cut you. It will hurt.", he spoke as he undid the strap that held the blade fastened, letting the seath fall to the ground. A shortsword, fine yet simple, its glint in the moonlight cold akin to the freezing chill of a winter's storm.
Sadia's body prickled with sweat at the seams, goosebumps breaking out across her skin like bark on a tree. She stepped forward, mustering words while pushing down her nerves, "Don't worry. A cut here and there suits me just fine.". Trembling fingers reach underneath her furs, procuring her knife, the small trinket still tied to its handle. Looks like her old friend bears witness still to whatever shit she may get herself into.
The rules of their contest were simple. One cut decides the winner.
A shortsword against a knife. One of the greatest duelists in the history of Arka facing off against a young woman who has no business being in the same circle as him. A match made in Nevermore, or so it seemed. Before weapons were swung, before their feet even moved, Sadia weighed her options. Closing the distance is perilous, staying at range does no good and a knife is meant for killing, not duelling. But it wasn't all bad. Try as he might to convince everyone otherwise, Sadia knew the kind of man that stood before her. She could feel his unease, it lay there stirring beneath his collected gaze, waiting to burst forth.
A strong start. That was what she needed to shake him to the core. And she would have started strong, had she a proper weapon. She assumed her stance, knife pointing forward, knees barely bent, body ready to explode forward at any second. Duras stepped forward, posture upright and gaze steeled. They circled each other slowly, each breath seeming like an eternity, sweat rolling down her covered back. She couldn't rush in, too dangerous to do that right off the bat. No, she decided that she'll take her time poking and prodding at him until an opening shows itself. But try as she might, she couldn't bring her body to take a step forward.
Duras didn't have that problem. He stepped in deep, blade cocked to the side and ready to be swung in an arch. Sadia stepped back. Such was the panic that gripped her that she jumped back-first into the fence, almost flipping over it with her excess momentum. No slash came, it was merely a feint. And she bit on it. She was almost cornered. Jumping to the left or to the right would leave her open, and staying still would make her a stationary target. An unwinnable position courtesy of one simple mistake.