The moment those blades touched, Cyrus realized his error. Holy light flared across the steel. He had a better chance of stopping a charging bear with a twig. The swing continued, pushing Cyrus’s sword along with it, trapping the flat edge against his side. The impact jolted pain throughout his waist, and no doubt it would leave a mighty bruise. His right leg went limp, allowing his body to pitch sideways to remove a bit of sting from the hit. Momentum continued him into a tumble, and he came out of it swinging.

No blocking, he thought. Got it.

Rayan blocked the first swing, then sidestepped to parry the second. He seemed surprised, but pleased, that Cyrus still fought. Cyrus gritted his teeth and tried the same trick as before, using the curve of his sword to slide the sword in and then jam aside the shield. He would not cower before Rayan’s divinely gifted strength. His ultimate enemies were paragons of the empire, inhuman soldiers with power unmatched. If he could battle them, then he could battle a paladin of Lycaena. Thorda had given him the training. Time to use it.

The trick failed the second time, with Rayan ramming his shield against the sword so strength countered strength. His glowing sword thrust, and this time Cyrus committed to dodging. The paladin took the offensive, chasing with steady swing after swing. Cyrus used both weapons each time in his parries, needing the combined strength to force the attacks aside. Never blocking. Never testing their strength directly against each other if he could help it. He needed to be faster than Rayan, more nimble, and quicker to react.

Cyrus shoved aside a downward chop, then stepped closer so he could slash with his off-hand. Up came the shield, already anticipating the attack. Steel hit steel, feet shifted, and in came another thrust. This became the new dance. Parry, dodge, then counter. They read it in each other, a mutual understanding that Cyrus had only started to grasp over the recent few months. No longer did he focus solely on re-creating the moves taught to him. Reading his opponent, and understanding decisions they would make, was what separated the common brawlers from true masters. Every fundamental had to be perfect, for a single missed parry meant a lost limb, or worse.