Faster now, he’d dance in, swing for an arm or leg knowing full well the paladin would block, and then dance out. Rayan was a turtle. That was how Cyrus viewed him now, a turtle that needed to be forced out of his shell if he was to be beaten. If he could only get one counterthrust or swing made in error. One mistake, that was it, one mistake and he would prove Thorda’s training worth it. Instead of being frustrated by the shield, he tried to take amusement in the constant hammering of his swords against its surface, as if he were a drummer and the shield his instrument.

“Are you ready?” he asked, needing the false bravado to keep his spirits up against this maddeningly difficult foe.

“For what?” Rayan asked.

“To lose.”

He feinted an attack, baiting out a counterthrust. Finally, an opening! He twisted his body to avoid the thrust, then kicked off with his left leg to send the two into a collision. His shoulder hit the shield. His shorter off-hand blade kept the sword wide and out of position. Cyrus was younger, stronger. He pushed, hoping to topple the older man, or at the least knock him off balance so he could strike with the Endarius blade. His legs tensed, teeth clenched, muscles screaming.

Every bit of his momentum broke. Rayan was the boulder. Cyrus was the harmless wave. Panic hit him fully upon realizing this, and he tried to redouble his efforts while the paladin’s sword was still locked out of position… except Rayan sensed the attempt and reacted accordingly.

He stepped aside, angling his shield so Cyrus, shoving forward without anything to resist him, slid across its shining surface. Cyrus tried to bring a blade up to block while he staggered unevenly on his feet. Rayan batted it aside with ease, punched the hilt of his blunted training sword into Cyrus’s gut, and then battered his head with his shield hard enough that Cyrus’s vision flooded with lights. His footing failed, the world flipped, and he landed on his ass.

The silence of the training circle was worse than any condemnation.

“Another round,” Cyrus said. Despite his swimming vision, he clambered back to an unsteady stand.

“It will change nothing.”

“Please, one more, I feel like I’m already improving.”

“My mind is set,” Rayan insisted. “I am sorry, Cyrus, but the outcome speaks for itself. You are not ready. You are not prepared. Should I have been an imperial paragon, there would be no second or third rounds. You would be dead, and our hopes extinguished.”