I twist around and immediately bring my spear down from my shoulder to level it at my opponent. Fell charges towards me – he’s quick. Even in sand. No banter, more’s the pity – I could do with the preparation time.

  We clash within a second of the duel being called. I’m fighting on the defensive from the start – my reactions are barely fast enough to parry the flurry of blows I’m faced with. It certainly doesn’t give me enough time to consider my next move.

  Fell’s blade is longer than I was expecting – its tip almost reaches my hands despite the length of my spear. And he hits hard, the spear reverberating in my grasp. Panic flares up in me as he lunges and it nicks my fingers. I flinch backwards as the fiery pain of the gash sparks up my nerves. I resist the automatic reaction of leaning on Sensation Management – as an internal Skill, that’s one of those forbidden to me right now.

  But what’s even more problematic is that the blood is starting to make my grip slippery.

  Distance! I hear the echoes of Mathis’ instruction.

  When Fell lunges again, I swing my spear from my hips, striking his blade and pushing it off to the side. Using my momentum, I bodily slam him.

  It’s like running into a brick wall and I let out a winded breath of air, my ribs already feeling bruised. A Skill or enchantment in the armour? Or is he just that solid?

  But my attack works – for a moment. I feel him shift off balance. Then he steps back and regains it, but I’ve gained a little breathing space.

  I dance backwards, sending part of my awareness into the ground. At least I no longer have to focus all of my attention to shape the earth. When Fell takes a step towards me, his foot catches on the dense sand I’ve set over his boot and he stumbles, throwing one hand out to catch his balance.

  I lunge forward to take advantage of his weakness, but he’s already recovering and parries my spear with his long blade. His movements almost blur with his speed. He doesn’t have to use two hands for that? I realise, dismayed.

  My spear is out of position; I backpedal again to regain the distance. Despite being too far for the sword to reach me, Fell swings it towards me, stepping forwards with determination. A force pushes me, strong enough to make me stumble backwards slightly. He takes advantage and closes the distance.

  Once more, I’m on the defensive. I’m frantic, using point, butt, shaft…everything my teachers have taught me over the last few days, only barely keeping up with his attacks. Offence? Not possible.

  Fell is far calmer. Each movement is made with intention and skill – I’m an idiot flailing a stick where he’s a trained knight. He’s not just a good swordsman, I realise; he’s an excellent one. My little training seems laughable in comparison.

  Then he triggers that same Skill again and his blade blurs.

  Too fast! I stumble back, every thought gone, my desperate twitches of my spear driven by instinct and not thought. My world is consumed by the terror of feeling that steel slicing into my flesh.

  My efforts aren’t enough – blood starts seeping from an increasing number of attacks that land. Stabs, slices, few doing much damage individually. But with each nick, a chill spreads through me. Dread grips me as my joints start freezing. His speed was already difficult; it quickly becomes impossible.

  I give up on attempting to counter-attack. Using my spear like a quarterstaff may be my only salvation. I can’t even run away right now!

  With every hit from that massive sword, I expect my spear to break. But it stays strong. I need to move my spear far less than Fell needs to swing his sword. The difference may enable me to last. Hope thaws the icy grip around my heart.

  I just need to endure a bit longer.

  He can’t continue this forever, surely?

  Just a bit longer.

  A bit longer.

  Little by little, the chill fades from my body – it seems to be an effect that relies on making contact with my flesh. Blocking and deflecting the blows is enough to deny that. I see frustration growing in Fell’s eyes as nothing he tries gets through.

  The flurry of blade strikes slows. My hands, numb from withstanding the blows, barely feel the change. But my eyes spot the different pattern.

  Fell looks winded – his Skill must use lots of stamina. I see my chance and take it, shifting my grip and stabbing forwards with a lunge that even Mathis would be proud of.

  Fell arcs his sword towards me, and even I can see that its path will miss my spear entirely. Victory sings through me.

  The next moment, I’m flying through the air. The breath is knocked out of my lungs again as I land hard on the ground. My spear, bloodied by the injury to my right hand and countless other wounds, flies out of my grasp.

  Oh no!

  A shadow falls over me and I react instinctively, summoning a wall of sand from the ground to block my attacker.

  It gives me a moment to look around and find my weapon – lying several body lengths away. What happened?

  I dismiss the thought – I can figure that out later. The wall isn’t going to keep Fell back for long. Already I see his shadow moving.

  He’s too close for me to scramble for my spear. But I’m not as defenceless as he thinks I am. I just need a few moments.

  To buy time, I extend the wall to cover myself completely. It’s only a moment before I feel Fell’s sword chopping away at the sand – my barrier won’t last long. But hopefully it will be enough.

  Sand is not an ideal barrier – it offers resistance, but no true stopping power. Fell quickly recognises this and strikes with the point of his blade rather than the edge. A sharp bar of steel pierces my little cocoon, barely centimeters away from slicing my nose. Time to move.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  But first…. I tighten my magic, then jump upwards.

  I explode from my defensive mound, sand flying in all directions. Amusement bubbles up inside me as Fell pulls at his blade and finds that he can’t get it out.

  “Is your sword named Excalibur?” I can’t help but ask. Fell looks up at me, his eyes glittering behind his helm. He even pauses his ineffective tugs for a moment in favour of staring at me in confusion.

  “...What?”

  “Actually, maybe not – Excalibur was stuck in a stone, not in sand,” I muse, one hand behind my back.

  I see the moment Fell decides that his efforts would be better spent focussing on retrieving his weapon rather than engaging with me. The muscles in his neck tense as he expends a great deal of force.

  That, of course, is the moment I ask the earth to release his blade.

  It’s Fell’s turn to fly back and land heavily on his back. I’d moved before I even asked the earth to release Fell’s weapon, dashing to collect my own. Grabbing it in my left hand and swiping my right along its blade, I run with all the speed I can muster towards where Fell is splayed out like a beetle on his back.

  I level my spear at the prone form, determined to bring this to an end here and now. Fell’s sword is out of position; he’s lying helplessly on the ground. I can win this!

  And then my spear buries itself in sand. My opponent vanished a moment before my spear could find his flesh.

  A heartbeat of incomprehension. Then an explosion of pain that goes through me along with a sharpened bar of steel.

  The tip of Fells’ sword emerges from my chest. I cough. Blood fills my mouth with the taste of copper. Breathing becomes difficult. My fingers numbly let my spear fall to the ground.

  I don’t need to use Flesh-Shaping to realise that his sword has hit one of my lungs. At least it didn’t hit my heart or I’d need to call this now. It’s not the first time I’ve been run through by an opponent, but last time I could numb the pain with Sensation Management.

  I grit my teeth, a faint whimper emerging from my mouth – it’s not as agonising as the Pure Energy, but it’s close.

  Fell angles his blade, and I slide off it. Every inch tears on the way out, leaving a burning wound laced with spreading chill that makes my teeth want to chatter despite the burning of the wound.

  I land heavily on the sand, a grunt forced out of my body. It’s almost as hard to prevent myself from screaming as it is to avoid using Flesh-Shaping. But I can’t. I haven’t lost the duel. Not yet.

  I push myself over onto my back, my movements feeling wretchedly slow. That chill continues to spread throughout my limbs. Heir Fell stands near my feet, unmoving. Even through the helm, I can see he looks troubled. His blade hangs low, dripping my scarlet blood onto the pale sand.

  “Yield and the healer will save your life,” he rumbles. Unwilling to make the final blow? Then I don’t have to yield yet.

  He’s giving me breathing room and I take the gift willingly, using the mana already imbued in my armour to seal the holes and tighten it around my torso. I can’t heal myself, but I can create a tourniquet and stop the blood pouring out of me. The internal injuries I can deal with later – after I win.

  I ignore my body screaming at me that I can’t breathe – I can. I still have one fully working lung.

  “Why…do you…care?” I ask, then turn my head to cough, red splattering on the sand. The chill is starting to leave my limbs, and with it I feel my speed of movement increase again. I don’t let on, though. Fenrir, are you proud of my performance? I don’t actually ask him. I mustn’t use my connection to my Bound.

  “I…I don’t want your death on my hands.”

  He doesn’t want to be known as the one who killed the heir of a Great House? Or is he worried about the retribution Nicholas might deal out to him? Maybe, but there's more to it. Even behind the helm, there’s a glitter of genuine remorse.

  I nod in approval, forcing my mind away from the fiery agony consuming my chest. Time to finish this.

  “Good thing…you won’t…have to deal…with it, then,” I tell him, breathing shallowly. I then press my closed fists against the ground. The strength of my arms is enough to launch myself at him.

  Despite his surprise at my attack, he shifts his blade into a guard position. I wrap my left hand around it, the sharpness of the blade struggling to cut the hardened claws that I’ve grown there. I wrench it off line. My other hand, also bearing Bastet’s talon-like claws, reaches for the gap between his helm and his armour.

  He reacts faster than I can move, shifting his left hand up to defend his neck, so I change my attack, striking instead at his side.

  It’s armoured, but I find a place where it is leather alone and tear at it with my claws. His hand comes down to grip my wrist.

  We wrestle – Strength against Strength. He fights to regain control of his blade; I fight to sink my claws into his flesh.

  I push my Strength further than I ever did in training, but to no avail – Fell matches me. But he’s not making much progress either. Maybe our Power stats are similar. But I begin to tire even while he stays strong – maybe he has more Endurance than I do. Or maybe it's the gaping wound inside me and the pain of every breath that saps at my strength.

  Giving up the idea of tearing through his armour with my right hand, I redirect my efforts. Twisting my right wrist, I break free of his grip, then, contrary to his expectations, I rip at his sword wrist with it.

  His right hand loosens in surprise and I rip the sword out of it, shoving it in my Inventory.

  I take great pleasure in the choked-off noise he makes.

  I take less pleasure when he subsequently wraps his left hand around my throat and drives me to the ground again.

  The sensation of air being driven out of my lungs is even less pleasant when one currently has two gaping holes in it and is leaking all over my thoracic cavity.

  Another punch shatters my nose, the cherry on this agonising sundae. Without my superhuman Constitution, it would have caved in my skull.

  “Give me back my sword!” Fell yells at me and then punches me again.

  My brains scrambling and blood going into my eyes from some cut or other, I reach blindly towards his head. He grabs both wrists and pins them to the sand – our Strength might be roughly equal, but he’s got the advantage of angle and weight.

  But I’m not completely down and out – and this isn’t a wrestling match which will be called in three seconds.

  I send part of my mind into the earth, grateful that it reduces my awareness of the pain in my body. Then, expending much of my remaining resources of strength and stamina, I lift my wrists off the sand and twist my hips enough to push Fell off balance and to the side.

  I pour mana into the earth. A spear of sand grows faster than anything I’ve ever done with earth. Tipped with shining and sharp metal, it slams through Fell’s armour and into his torso.

  He gasps and his hands loosen. I take full advantage of that, wrenching both of my hands free and clawing for the sliver of flesh between Fell’s helm and his armour.

  He reaches to stop me, but he’s too slow.

  My claws sink into the flesh of his throat, all of them tipped with my homemade poison. Satisfaction goes through me even as my vision blurs slightly – controlled or not, experiments have proven that the poison will continue multiplying by itself for as long as it can consume stamina. Whether Fell knows it or not yet, I’ve won. As long as I can keep him away from me.

  My attention off the sandy spike, it falls apart. That’s fine – it’s done its job. Fell lands heavily on his side on the ground. I push his legs off me and roll away, out of arm’s reach.

  Fell’s right hand comes up to encircle his throat, his breath beginning to come in gasps. It almost looks like he’s having an allergic reaction – is this the effect of using the poison so close to the trachea?

  “Do you yield?” I ask, then cough, more blood emerging to colour the sands red. My vision swims again. He gazes at me, wide-eyed. I find myself hoping he will, and not only because I want to win.

  As reluctant as he was to have my death on his hands, I find myself just as reluctant to be the cause of him perishing. Despite everything, it’s hard to despise someone who chose not to even try to kill me when I was lying at his feet.

  “I do!” His voice is thin but still comprehensible. “I yield!”

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