Chapter 86: The List (6)
Phillip’s blade came down fast, fast enough that any half-second hesitation would have cost Lucien the duel before it even began.
But instead of meeting the strike head-on, Lucien let his instincts and muscle memory take over.
He shifted his weight to his back foot, twisting just enough to let the broadsword slice harmlessly through the space where his shoulder had been a heartbeat before.
The thud of wood striking air was sharper than he expected, followed by the muffled thunk of Phillip’s foot landing off-balance from the committed lunge.
Opportunity.
Lucien stepped laterally, his movements measured, deliberate, not lunging in for a reckless counterattack but circling, forcing Phillip to turn and recover his stance.
In that instant, his feet found their rhythm, heel-to-ball-to-toe, steadying his own position.
Vaelira’s voice echoed in his head, not the casual, teasing tone she sometimes used, but the clipped, precise instruction she had drilled into him during practice:
‘Swordsman duels are not decided by the first blow. They are contests of endurance. If you know your fundamentals, and your opponent knows theirs, the one who tires first…’
‘Loses.’
Lucien’s eyes flicked over Phillip, his grip, his shoulders, the angle of his stance.
This wasn’t some wild, untrained brawler.
Phillip’s initial charge had been clean, disciplined.
He’d closed the gap quickly enough to put real pressure on.
The gap in their skill?
Noticeable, but not a chasm.
If Lucien played this smart, kept his breathing steady, forcing Phillip to waste energy on repeated gap-closing bursts, he could chip away at that advantage.
A few more big lunges like that and Phillip’s guard would start to sag.
But before Lucien could settle into that strategy, Phillip shifted.
It was subtle, a change in the bend of his knees, the tilt of his shoulders, but it was enough.
His blade lowered fractionally, his weight more evenly distributed.
Defensive posture.
Lucien’s brow furrowed behind the bamboo headgear.
That wasn’t the move of someone planning to exhaust themselves with repeated assaults.
The realization clicked like a lock turning in his mind.
That first swing… hadn’t been meant to land.
It was bait.
A probe to measure Lucien’s reaction time, to see if he would overcommit or panic.
Phillip had been gathering data from the very first movement.
‘He’s not just swinging blind. He’s testing me.’
The air between them seemed to tighten.
Neither moved for several seconds, the space inside the arena growing heavy with the weight of that silent understanding.
Lucien could feel the crowd’s presence pressing in from the raised seats above, their restless murmurs muffled under the helmet.
He kept his breathing even, watching Phillip’s eyes through the slits of the headgear, looking for any twitch of muscle that might telegraph the next move.
Every inch of stance, every fraction of weight distribution, every tightening of the grip, it all said something.
And Phillip was speaking loudly without saying a word: ‘I know you’re not green. Now show me how much you’ve really got.’
Lucien adjusted his footing.
Phillip’s shoulders tensed in response.
Lucien eased his saber slightly to the side.
Phillip mirrored with a minute shift of his guard.
The crowd might have seen stillness; Lucien saw the conversation, the probing, the feints, the silent declarations of intent.
He wasn’t just fighting an opponent.
He was negotiating for control of the tempo itself.
His pulse slowed, not from calm, but from concentration so sharp it bordered on a razor’s edge.
One wrong choice here would mean surrendering momentum to Phillip.
And momentum, in a duel like this, was as fatal as any blade.
The world narrowed to the wooden hilt in his hand, the faint vibration of his heartbeat in his fingertips.
Lucien’s grip tightened.
***
Vaelira’s footsteps echoed down the narrow hallway, the uneven rhythm of her pace betraying her hurry.
Her hands, clutching the strap, were mottled with dried black ink, stains blooming from fingertips to the base of her palms.
The smudges were the lingering ghosts of a frantic effort, scrawling her notes at breakneck speed in the last class, barely keeping her quill straight, desperate to finish so she could run here.
She had not bothered with neatness.
There hadn’t been time.
The faint murmur of many voices rolled toward her before she saw the source, like the sound of distant waves before a shore.
It wasn’t idle chatter, it was heavier, more compressed, the way people sound when they’re speaking in hushed tones while holding their breath for something to happen.
The doors to the gallery seating loomed ahead, broad and carved but worn smooth in places where countless hands had pushed them open.
She did the same, feeling the cool wood under her palm before the panels swung inward with a faint creak.
A few heads turned, momentarily distracted by the newcomer, but their eyes inevitably drifted back toward the arena floor.
Whatever interest they had in her was nothing compared to what was happening on the floor.
The duel had its claws in them already.
Vaelira didn’t bother scanning for a perfect vantage point.
She slipped into an empty seat near the middle row, just below Balt and Corin.
She didn’t greet them, her eyes were already on the fight.
Down on the polished wooden floor, Phillip and Lucien moved in a slow, deliberate orbit around each other.
Their steps were light but deliberate, swords poised, weight balanced.
Neither lunged.
Neither feinted.
Not yet.
The tension was palpable, prickling along her skin.
Vaelira’s gaze swept over Lucien first, cataloguing what she saw, slightly off-center stance, but still well-aligned.
The position of his lead foot was a little wider than she would have liked, but it gave him stability.
She nodded faintly to herself.
‘He won’t go down in a single hit. Not unless he makes a glaring mistake.’
Then her eyes shifted to Phillip.
Her mouth drew into a thin line.
His stance was sharper, more disciplined in the way the weight was evenly distributed between both feet, his knees slightly bent but not overly so, the hilt of his sword resting at just the right angle to cover multiple lines of attack without shifting grip.
This was the form of someone drilled for years, each habit shaped into muscle memory until it was second nature.
Both were holding defensive positions, but for Lucien, that isn’t the ideal choice.
The saber wasn’t designed for drawn-out, rigid guarding, it excelled at sudden, darting attacks, exploiting gaps with speed and precision.
By staying locked in a defensive posture, Lucien was inviting a longer exchange, one that didn’t inherently favor his weapon’s strengths.
In a stalemate like this, where both fighters refused to commit, Phillip’s more traditional blade and posture held the advantage.
Vaelira’s hand rose to her mouth unconsciously.
Her ink-stained fingers brushed her lips as she nibbled the tips, smudging faint black streaks across her cheek.
She didn’t notice.
Her focus was locked on the calculated stillness below, running through potential exchanges in her mind like a chess match where each move had blood behind it.
***
Above her, Balt leaned toward Corin, his voice low.
“What’s going on? Why aren’t they doing anything? Is it…are they stuck?”
Balt's own lack of experience in melee combat made him turn to Corin for his insight.
Corin’s gaze didn’t leave the arena.
His voice came slowly, deliberate, each word carrying weight.
“They not stuck.… waiting.”
Balt frowned.
“Waiting for what?”
Corin finally turned his head, just enough for Balt to catch the faint glint of understanding in his eyes.
“For the other to open their shell.”
Balt blinked.
“Shell?”
Corin’s lips twitched, not in humor, but in the grim realization of the situation unfolding in the arena underneath them.
“Think of each fighter like clams. Right now, inside their shells. Safe. Guard up. No openings. But they want to strike, they just don’t know if they can break the other’s shell without shattering own in the process.”
Balt followed his gaze back to the duel, his brow furrowing as the meaning began to settle.
“If one attack,” Corin continued, “and fail to break through, they be exposed. Their shell will still be open when counterattack comes. And this kind of fight… you don’t get time to close it again.”
Balt swallowed.
“So what you’re saying is…”
“Duel can end in two swings,” Corin said, voice low, almost reverent in its certainty.
“One mistake. One failed strike. That’s all it takes.”
Balt’s shoulders stiffened as the realization sank in.
To him, melee combat had always seemed like a crude exchange, two people whacking each other with sticks until one fell over.
But here… here it was something else entirely.
A game of nerves.
Of patience.
Of calculated risk where one wrong decision wasn’t just costly, it was decisive.
Down below, Lucien and Phillip’s measured footwork continued, their eyes locked, their bodies betraying nothing of their thoughts.
Yet to those watching closely, the truth was written in every micro-adjustment of grip, every twitch of a lead foot: both were coiled tight, waiting for that one moment to explode.
And somewhere in that silent contest, each man was asking the same question without words: ‘Will you blink first?’
Balt leaned back in his seat slowly, eyes wide now, not with confusion, but with the creeping weight of understanding.
The arena was silent except for the faint scrape of wood on the polished floor as the two duelists circled.
Neither shell had opened.
Yet.
