CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO #2
We took our positions at the arena’s center, hundreds of eyes fixed on us.
Arthur’s gaze felt like iron across my shoulders.
My mind returned to the fact that I was fairly sure this had been designed as a way to weed me out.
Because I was the smallest of the men, I knew I was considered the weakest, not to mention my unimpressive lineage.
Perhaps Arthur's advisors had warned him against having such a small and unknown knight among his closest?
Well, I would prove them all wrong.
I looked at Balan.
Hopefully.
Mordred’s voice rang out, booming across the silence: “Victory in the Duel Trial is earned through incapacitation, surrender, or by my judgment. Death is forbidden. But remember—hesitation may cost you your place among Arthur’s chosen.”
Balan smirked as we began to circle. The sand shifted under our boots. Sweat prickled at my brow despite the morning chill. He watched me like a predator sizing up unfamiliar prey—already savoring his win over the unknown and small knight.
“Begin!” Mordred commanded.
Balan drew his longsword with a slow, deliberate flourish.
The blade sang free of its scabbard, catching the sun in a flash of polished steel.
Then, with a whisper and flick of his fingers, two ghostly duplicates shimmered into existence beside it—identical down to the leather grip and the chip in the crossguard.
All three blades spun in unison, a deadly dance of steel and sorcery.
A wave of awe rolled through the crowd.
So that’s why they called him the Knight of Two Swords. Hmm.
It wasn’t just skill—it was conjuration. I had a feeling that each of those spectral blades could cut as deep as steel.
Balan wasn’t just strong.
He was terrifying.
As if on cue, Balan made a show of slicing his impressive blades through the air, and the crowd gasped.
Panic started to surge inside me until I forcefully pushed it back.
Now was not the time to lose control of my emotions and thus my disguise.
Yes, I was surrounded, boxed in by blades converging from all angles.
Yes, Balan's steel and sorcery spun together in a deadly rhythm, a blur of killing intent.
But that didn't mean he would beat me. It didn't automatically guarantee that he would be the victor.
The first phantom blade sliced toward my ribs.
I twisted, narrowly evading the arc of silver light.
Another came high—fast. I blocked it just in time.
The impact jolted down my arms, rattling my grip.
Another blade came in my direction, and I ducked just in time.
In this case, my small stature was proving to be a benefit—it meant I could more easily dodge Balan's blows.
Murmurs rippled through the stands.
"This is an impossible pairing."
"Lioran has no hope of winning."
"Balan will kill him."
They doubted me. Not surprising.
I forced a breath and centered myself.
Each phantom sword mirrored Balan's movements, the spectral blades following the arc of his physical weapon like obedient shadows.
This wasn't merely brute force on display—it was an intricate choreography, each motion calculated and refined through countless hours of practice.
The precision was terrifying; three identical killing edges moved as one unified threat.
I stepped back, feeling the grains of sand shifting beneath my boots as I recalibrated my approach.
My pulse thundered in my ears, but I forced my breathing to steady.
Panic wouldn't serve me here—only patience would.
I needed to survive this initial onslaught, to weather Balan's storm long enough to catch the underlying pattern of his attack sequence.
Every warrior, no matter how skilled, eventually reveals their rhythms, their preferences, their habits.
If I could just endure and observe, I could begin to predict what Balan would do next, transforming his greatest strength into a vulnerability I could exploit.
Balan pressed forward, confident and relentless. When our blades clashed, the shock of it rang up my arm once more, making my teeth gnash together. He was a wall of strength, hammering away without pause.
“You fight like a child,” he sneered.
I didn’t respond. I didn’t have to.
Instead, I called to the water within me—let it flow through muscle, bone, blood, and breath.
Now I become the water magic I possess.
The magic answered, subtle and electric, threading through my limbs, surging forward like a wave. My movements sharpened. My breath slowed. I bent like a reed beneath his blows, slipping through gaps, redirecting force rather than meeting it.
I didn’t match his power. I dodged it. Deflected it. I let it pass.
Like water around stone.
Balan burned through too much energy with each massive swing he took. I, meanwhile, conserved mine, my every motion efficient, every dodge just enough. I could simply defend myself while he wore himself out. And all the while, I could study him.
As I watched, Balan’s strikes painted the air with faint mist—trails of vapor that vanished almost instantly. But they revealed something: a rhythm, a habit, a flaw.
My heart pounded, but my breathing stayed even.
Seizing the opening, I called on my water magic once more—not to attack, but as a subtle influence on the air between us. This was the moment I'd been waiting for, the precise instant when all my careful observation would pay dividends.
I exhaled slowly and deliberately, drawing moisture from the air as I pulled in a large breath.
The magic flowed through me like a gentle current, responding to my will as naturally as breathing.
A thin mist began to form, barely visible at first—so delicate that even the most observant spectator would dismiss it.
It drifted across the sand in gossamer tendrils, ephemeral as morning fog, curling around our boots in lazy spirals.
The vapor rose with each of our movements like breath made visible, following the rhythm of our dance. I guided it with minute gestures, fingers barely flexing as I shaped the air itself into my weapon. The mist thickened incrementally, building layer upon translucent layer.
Each droplet answered to me. Every particle bent to my will.
The mist thickened, subtle but deliberate, cloaking the ground in a veil of swirling vapor.
Balan lunged again, confident, his blades slicing through the fog—but I was already gone.
With a flick of my fingers, I pushed the mist toward him, aiming for his face—his eyes, just enough to obscure his vision, to cause his next steps to be unbalanced.
Balan surged forward, swinging his swords hard as the mist invaded his line of sight, and he took a side step, ending up swinging all the way around to face forward again. The crowd laughed because it was true—he looked ridiculous.
Perfect.
While he attempted to regain his bearings, I moved my fingers in a precise, practiced pattern. I breathed out and instructed the water in the air to drop substantially. The mist around us shimmered—then froze.
In an instant, the air glittered with ice. Millions of microscopic crystals bloomed, catching the sunlight like a storm of falling stars.
Balan held his arm back and let loose his spectral blades. The frozen mist struck them mid-swing. The energy wavered. The weapons vibrated, shimmered—then cracked.
Balan's eyes widened.
His phantom swords shattered, exploding into a halo of diamond shards that hung in the air for a breath before fading from sight altogether.
Balan staggered backward, his face contorted in bewilderment and growing panic.
The destruction of his spectral weapons had clearly rattled him more than any physical blow could have—those phantom blades weren't just conjured tools; they were extensions of his magical essence, and their violent shattering had sent shockwaves through him—I could see proof in his expression.
His real sword sagged toward the sand as tremors ran through his sword arm.
One palm pressed desperately against his temple, fingers splayed wide as if trying to hold his scattered thoughts together.
The confident sneer that had dominated his features throughout our duel was now gone, replaced by the wild-eyed look of a man whose world had just been turned upside down.
His focus—that razor-sharp concentration every knight cultivated through years of training—lay in ruins around him like the glittering remnants of his shattered magic.
Now was my chance. I didn’t hesitate.
The crowd blurred. The noise dimmed.
All I knew was that I was now fully water—fluid, precise, unstoppable.
I pulled moisture from the air again, my movements becoming a fluid dance of concentration and power as I shaped the gathered water into three gleaming tendrils, each one as thick as my forearm and rippling with condensed energy.
They curled and undulated beside me like summoned spirits made manifest.
The water whips moved with grace, responding to my will as naturally as my own limbs. I could feel their weight, their potential for destruction, the way they hungered to strike. The crowd's roar became a distant thunder as my focus narrowed to this single moment.
They struck in perfect unison—a choreographed assault that spoke of years of rigorous training under Merlin's watchful eye.
The first tendril snapped forward like a striking serpent, its tip hardening to ice just before impact.
It connected with Balan's sword hilt with a resounding metallic clang that echoed across the arena, the force reverberating up through his arm and sending violent tremors through his already weakened grip.
His fingers spasmed involuntarily, and his blade went spinning from his grasp like a discarded toy.