At last Rayan attempted to punish Cyrus’s aggression. He blocked a hit, stepped close, and thrust his longsword. Cyrus twisted his body so it missed wide, then slashed with the Endarius blade, aiming for the edge of the shield. His sword slid across it, then caught in the sharp hook midway down the blade, granting him increased leverage. A shove, and the entire shield flung out of the way, leaving Rayan completely exposed. Cyrus dashed to close the distance, his off-hand elbow catching Rayan’s arm so his sword could not come back for a block. Up came the other blade, its edge resting a hair’s width away from the black skin of the paladin’s exposed neck. There they froze, the duel ended lest either come to actual harm.

Cyrus refused to pull the sword away. He gasped in breaths as sweat dripped down his face. He met the older man’s gaze. What thoughts swirled behind those amber eyes? Meanwhile Stasia and Mari cheered and clapped from their seats beside their father.

“So am I capable?” Cyrus asked, unable to keep the bite out of his words. That overheard conversation between Thorda and Rayan had driven him the past twelve months, pushing him to reach new heights of skill and speed for this inevitable rematch.

“Most capable,” Rayan said. His tone was even, giving away nothing. He retreated so there would be adequate distance between them and then lifted his sword. His head bowed, and he closed his eyes. “Let us see how capable.”

The paladin whispered a prayer to his goddess. Light shimmered across his blade like a divine fog latched upon the steel. He swung the sword twice, each swing leaving an afterimage that burned into Cyrus’s eyes, and then Rayan settled into a stance with his shield at the ready.

“I do not suggest you try a similar tactic,” he warned.

“No holding back, Cyrus,” Stasia called out. “I’ve trained you as much as my father has. Show him how well an Ahlai can fight.”

“That’s right,” Mari added. “This is family pride. Beat him senseless.”

Despite the seriousness, despite the stakes, Cyrus laughed, and Rayan shared with him a playful smile. Their amusement faded back to determination as Thorda’s hand raised.

“Begin.”

Cyrus took the offensive despite the paladin’s warning. Given his weapons, the fighting style he had been taught, and the temperaments of his teachers, it was too deeply ingrained in him to do anything otherwise. He would set the pace. Countless hours dueling Stasia had shown him how dangerous it was to let an opponent dictate the terms of a fight. His swords beat against the shield, three quick hits, but this time Rayan’s feet were set. He weathered the storm, then slashed with his sword toward Cyrus’s waist. His off-hand shot low to block.