The Imperator hopped forward, his shield leading. In such close quarters, Cyrus could only retreat. He fell back again and again, tracing a circle around where the bell had once hung. Magus’s sword cut and weaved, always a shadow’s width behind. Cyrus dared not try to block it. Twice he countered, his superior agility allowing him to sidestep or duck underneath a swing. The first time, he tried using the curved end of his sword to beat the Imperator’s shield aside. Instead his sword scraped off, lacking the strength to make it budge. The second time, he flipped his off-hand and extended his entire body into a thrust for the gap in armor at his armpit.

Magus’s shield smashed into his chest before he could make contact. He fell back and tried to gather his footing, only for the shield to bash him a second time. It was so huge, so heavy, he doubted an angered bull matching the one on the Imperator’s shield could crash into him any harder. He swiped low, a hit meant to open up a gash along the shin, but yet again came the shield, only lower. His sword screeched metal on metal, and he only barely withdrew it in time to keep it from being pinned to the floorboards.

Not enough room! he thought as that shield bashed again. He felt mocked. He felt belittled. The Imperator was toying with him, amusement in his eyes and teeth exposed in a grin. Cyrus flipped his off-hand to a regular grip (there’d be little parrying and blocking with it anyway, given the paragon’s enormous size) and attempted to bury his sword right between those grinning teeth. Magus batted it aside with an upward swipe of his sword, then brought it right back down to block Cyrus’s attempted follow-up. His speed was incredible, his honed reflexes surpassing even Stasia’s. And always, always that damn shield! Cyrus pushed his shoulder against it and then rolled, hoping to come out of it with an open angle of attack.

Instead the paragon shifted with him, his footing careful and deliberate, given their tight conditions. Cyrus’s next few hits bounced off the shield. Magus shuffled forward, inch by inch, his sword darting left to right so Cyrus could not dance away. His goal was obvious. Trapped against the edge of the belfry, Cyrus had nowhere to go when the shield came, all of the paragon’s weight flung into the charge. Nowhere but out, and so he did.