Clara slashed at him with all her might, but once again, the priest moved with terrifying ease.
He stepped in, swift and silent, and this time, he caught her wrist mid-attack.
Before she could react, he twisted, sending her spinning back against the nearest broken pillar.
Her back hit the stone, breath catching in her throat.
Before she could recover, he was already there—looming over her, one hand pinning her sword against the pillar with effortless strength.
Their faces were so close she could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin.
His golden eyes glowed, not with cruelty, but something far more dangerous: hunger.
"You're wasting too much energy," he murmured, his voice low and smooth, like molten metal.
"Fight with your heart, not just your rage."
Clara struggled, glaring at him, but she could not break his iron grip.
The proximity was maddening—his hand around her sword, his body blocking every escape route.
And yet... he didn't hurt her.
He could have crushed her—but he didn't.
Instead, he leaned closer, so close she could see the faint, ancient scars crossing his chest through the torn fabric of his clothes. Battle scars. Dragon scars.
"You're strong," he said, his voice a velvet blade.
"Strong enough to be beautiful."
Clara's heart pounded violently.
She hated him. She hated his calmness. She hated the way he spoke, the way he looked at her as if she was something precious, not an enemy.
"You... bastard..." she hissed, her breath trembling with fury—and something she couldn't name.
The priest chuckled, a deep, low sound vibrating through the space between them.
With a flick of his wrist, he released her sword.
"Come, Clara," he whispered, stepping back, arms wide open as if daring her to strike.
"Show me your real strength."
Clara gritted her teeth, her whole body trembling with exhaustion.
She tightened her grip around the sword, but deep inside, she knew.
No matter how many times she swung, how fiercely she fought, she couldn't land a single blow on him.
He stood there—calm, unshaken—watching her with a patient, almost amused expression.
It felt like a cruel reminder that no matter how hard she tried, she was still powerless in front of him.
A bitter laugh escaped her lips.
The sword slipped from her fingers, clattering against the stone with a hollow, final sound.
She sank to her knees, head bowed, fists clenched at her sides.
"...Just finish it," she whispered, her voice cracking with frustration and defeat.
She raised her hands in surrender, exposing her throat to him.
"Kill me. If you pity me, end it now."
For a moment, silence wrapped around them like a suffocating fog.
Then, she felt him move.
Not with violence.
But with a slow, deliberate grace.
The priest knelt before her, and without hesitation, his hand reached out — firm and commanding — and gently wrapped around her neck.
Not to hurt.
But to claim.
A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips as he leaned in, his golden eyes burning into hers.
Clara's chest heaved as she clutched the sword he had once gifted her—the very same sword he now threw back into her hands with a sharp smile.
"Fight with your full strength," he said calmly, his voice low and alluring, as if this whole battle was no more than a dance for him.
Clara's heart pounded painfully. Why? Why would he return her weapon now? Was he mocking her... or did he truly want to see her at her best? A part of her burned at the thought—the priest was enjoying this... enjoying her.
Without hesitation, she gripped the hilt tightly, her feet digging into the ground. With a battle cry, she lunged forward, slashing at him with all her might.
The priest didn't even flinch.
Gracefully, he caught her wrist mid-swing, spun her around by the waist, and pushed her away, sending her stumbling back with a gasp.
Before she could regain her balance, he was behind her, his hand gliding along her waist to stabilize her—an intimate touch that left her shivering.
Clara swung again, desperate, fierce—but every movement was parried effortlessly. Each time she attacked, he would twist her wrist just enough to make her drop her stance, or guide her steps into a spin, almost like they were dancing.
It was infuriating—and intoxicating.
Her silver hair whipped around her, her cheeks flushed, her sword flashing in the dim light like a blade of desperate hope.
And yet, no matter how much strength she poured into her strikes, no matter how wildly her heart screamed to defeat him... he remained untouchable.
He moved so calmly, so fluidly, like a dragon looking down upon a sparrow trying to peck at him.
Every clash, every parry, every step they took, felt less like a battle and more like he was savoring her every move, every breath, every desperate struggle.
Clara's body began to tremble—not from exhaustion, but from the devastating realization dawning on her.
I'm not strong enough... I'm nothing compared to him.
Her sword fell from her weakening fingers with a dull clang.
She collapsed to her knees, her beautiful hair cascading over her face like a silver waterfall.
Tears welled up in her eyes as she slowly raised her trembling hand toward him—
"Finish it," she whispered, broken.
The priest smiled darkly and, in one slow, deliberate movement, he walked over and gently grabbed her by the neck.