They both entered the arena, greeted by the eager buzz of the crowd. Two random citizens, their faces flushed with excitement, handed each of them wooden swords, worn smooth by countless festival duels. The largest marked area on the field awaited them, its chalk lines faint but clear beneath scattered straw and crushed petals. Whispers and murmurs rippled through the onlookers, anticipation crackling in the air.
Across the kingdom and the empire, debates had raged for months over who would prevail should these two meet in combat—and now, finally, the time had come to settle those arguments.
Lucien laughed, the sound low and rich. He refused the wooden sword with a simple shake of his head, his expression unreadable as his crimson eyes flicked toward Arthur.
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Marquess?"
A slow grin spread across his lips, eyes gleaming with amusement and challenge as he nodded toward a cluster of guards off duty. They stood nearby, still clad in armor, weapons resting at their sides but clearly alert despite the festival's joviality.
"May we borrow your weapons for a moment, gentlemen?"
Arthur stepped forward with a confident ease, extending his arms toward the guards, palms open and inviting. The two men exchanged uncertain glances, voices lowered in hurried murmurs.
"This'll get us fired if we get caught…" The taller guard's voice was gruff, laced with caution.
"Oh, come on! These two outrank the Baron himself, surely they'd pardon us if it came to that…" The smaller guard pressed, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.
The taller guard sighed, shoulders reluctantly dropping before he nodded. The smaller guard's grin widened in triumph as they unslung their swords, handing them over to Arthur without hesitation.
"We've got the swords we need," Arthur announced, turning back to Lucien with a sparkle in his gold eyes.
"Here!" He tossed the sword toward Lucien, who caught it effortlessly, the blade settling comfortably in his right hand.
"Any rules?"
Lucien's crimson gaze sharpened, flicking to Arthur's sword arm, taking in the stance and style with surgical precision.
Arthur chuckled, gripping the sword with both hands, the familiar weight grounding him like an old friend.
"No rules beyond honor and skill. We fight to the finish—or until one yields."
Lucien's grin deepened, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "So be it. Let's see if the nickname Sword Saint of the West truly suits you."
They stepped fully into the marked arena, the crowd's murmurs swelling like a rising tide. The sun hung high, casting long shadows across the dirt, spotlighting the two figures—one calm and steady, the other wild and lethal.
Arthur assumed the Middle Guard stance, sword tip aimed squarely at Lucien's chest, posture balanced and deliberate. His shoulders were relaxed, breathing steady, every muscle coiled like a spring ready to snap.
Lucien mirrored nothing of this. Instead, he lowered his blade into a Low Guard, the tip nearly grazing the ground. His body was loose but coiled, ready to strike or dodge on a moment's notice. His eyes flicked once toward the guards on the sidelines, then back to Arthur's figure, gleaming with cold, calculating intent.
For a heartbeat, neither moved.
Then, with a low chuckle, Lucien sprang forward—a sudden, whipping diagonal slash meant to test rather than kill. Arthur stepped back, blade flashing up to meet the attack in a ringing parry. The force rattled his arms, but he held firm.
Lucien's blade slid against Arthur's, the sharp metallic clang echoing in the stillness—the sound of two masters locked in a deadly dance. Arthur twisted his wrists, seeking to gain control of the bind, but Lucien's grip was ironclad, his footwork fluid and unpredictable.
With a vicious grunt, Lucien shifted into a Wolf Bind, closing the distance swiftly. His shoulder slammed into Arthur's chest, jarring but not enough to unbalance the marquess. His sword pressed hard against Arthur's, whispering silent threats of death.
Arthur gritted his teeth, pushing back with desperate strength, forcing Lucien a step away.
"You fight with the ferocity of a wolf... but you forget the strength of the lion."
Lucien smirked, voice low and dry. "I'm quite tired of such dramatic metaphors."
Without warning, Lucien feinted high—his blade flashing toward Arthur's head—only to twist low in a lightning-quick reverse Mordhau. The hilt smashed hard toward Arthur's ribs. Arthur barely twisted away, the strike grazing him, leaving a burning sting behind.
Blood bloomed darkly on Arthur's shirt.
Pain sharpened his focus.
He raised his sword again, breath ragged but resolve unwavering.
Lucien's eyes darkened, respect mingling with something colder. "Your conventionality is your weakness."
Arthur answered with a single word, voice steady despite the ache.
"And here I thought it was my biggest strength…" He laughed, shaking off the sting.
They circled each other, sweat and dust thick in the air, muscles taut, each waiting for the other to make the fatal mistake.