“Mind telling me what that spell was?” Sarrak asked, his tone finally colored with a trace of genuine curiosity. He stepped out of the fading dust cloud, reaching up to grasp the frayed edge of his cloak. With a smooth motion, he peeled the ragged garment from his shoulders and let it fall to the bloodstained sands. The fabric fluttered briefly before settling, revealing what lay beneath.

  Sarrak was clad in fitted light armor—dark leathers and reinforced cloth plates sculpted for freedom of movement rather than brute defense. It hugged his frame with an assassin’s elegance, sleek and utilitarian, designed for speed and silence. The armor lacked sleeves, revealing the defined musculature of his arms, which flexed subtly with each breath. On his lower back, a pair of razor-thin daggers were secured horizontally, one hilt sticking out to each side—sleek, blackened blades with a faint, unnatural sheen that shimmered like oil under the torchlight. Whispersteel daggers. Silent. Deadly. Forged for killing without a sound.

  At his hip, slung low and angled for a quick draw, rested a longer, curved blade—its lacquered black scabbard etched with a subtle fang motif. This was the Phantom Fang, a slender, obsidian-hued sword known among those in the Maw for its speed and lethality. The way Sarrak’s fingers drifted toward its hilt, almost lovingly, spoke volumes of his comfort with the weapon.

  Joran narrowed his eyes, watching the fluid ease with which the warrior discarded his cloak and revealed his arsenal. He took a steady breath, recovering his stance after the brutal strain of the spell he had just unleashed.

  “It’s a spell called Arcane Severance,” Joran said, his voice low but strong, cutting through the arena’s renewed silence like a blade through silk. “One of the more obscure spells of Lothara’s arcane archives—rarely used, even more rarely mastered. It creates a temporary field of magical nullification… one that disables all spells, enchantments, and innate abilities within a certain radius.”

  Sarrak’s brows rose slightly at that. “Including your own.”

  “Exactly,” Joran confirmed with a nod. He reached up and swept a lock of silver-blond hair out of his eyes, his expression calm despite the exhaustion threatening to weigh him down. “Most mages wouldn’t dare cast it. Cutting themselves off from magic makes them helpless. Exposed. Just another body waiting to be cut down.”

  Joran raised his hand and pointed to himself.

  “But I’m not like most mages.”

  He drew Vermillion Fang from its sheath with a smooth, almost ceremonial motion. The crimson-steeled blade caught the firelight in a flash, humming with residual energy even as its magic was sealed away. Joran lifted it above his head, the tip aimed toward Sarrak as he eased into a combat stance—legs bent, feet steady, center of gravity low.

  “I trained under the finest mages Lothara has to offer. And I trained under the harsh, unrelenting hand of my father—the Dragon King himself. With or without magic, I was forged to endure. To fight. And now…”

  He tilted the blade slightly, the gesture fluid, challenging.

  “…you finally have the opponent you’ve been asking for. One who can hurt you.”

  A spark of something flickered behind Sarrak’s normally impassive expression. A smirk—real and wolfish—tugged at the corner of his lips. He reached over his shoulder and drew one of the whispersteel daggers from his lower back with a motion so smooth it barely disturbed the air. In his right hand, he drew the Phantom Fang in a single breath of movement. The slender blade glimmered faintly in the light, its edge nearly invisible.

  “Well now,” Sarrak said, rotating the dagger in his left hand until it lay flat against his forearm. “I’m used to people trying to wear me down with tricks and desperation. But this… this might actually be fun.”

  “I figured as much,” Joran replied, shifting slightly as he prepared for the coming assault. “Now’s your chance, Sarrak. Go on the offensive. Show me what a man who’s never had to bleed can do when he finally has to earn it.”

  Sarrak’s grin widened. “You might regret that invitation, Prince.”

  And then he moved.

  The sound of his boots kicking off the sand was like a soft whisper, a heartbeat out of sync with the sudden blur of motion that followed. Sarrak launched forward like a shot, dirt and debris exploding behind him in a spray. He was fast—unbelievably fast. Joran’s eyes tracked the movement only by instinct, his body already reacting, adjusting, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword.

  Sarrak leapt.

  From above, the Phantom Fang came down in a sharp, arcing slash, aimed with deadly precision toward Joran’s left shoulder. The prince twisted at the last second, pivoting his body and raising his sword to meet the strike. Steel clashed against steel with a screeching cry of force and friction, sparks spraying from the point of contact as both blades trembled under the impact.

  Joran grunted, feeling the strength behind Sarrak’s blow. It wasn’t overwhelming—nothing like Varkul’s crushing power—but it was clean, precise, expertly delivered. A swordsman’s strike. Not a brawler’s.

  The moment their weapons parted, Sarrak dropped low, his dagger sweeping toward Joran’s knee with surgical intent. Joran barely caught the motion and stepped back just in time, deflecting the follow-up jab with the edge of his blade. The whispersteel dagger hissed past his leg, missing by inches.

  “Not bad,” Sarrak admitted as he rolled to the side and came back to his feet. “But you’re not the only one with real training.”

  The relentless rhythm of steel on steel echoed across the pit, the crowd's roar becoming a distant murmur behind the sound of battle. Sparks flew in bursts as Joran and Sarrak exchanged blow after blow, the force of their collisions lighting the air with brief flashes of fire and light.

  Sarrak fought with uncanny precision—his movements economical, refined, born from years of deadly repetition. In his right hand, he wielded the Phantom Fang, the slim, obsidian-colored blade gliding through the air like a shadow given form. In his left hand, he held one of his whispersteel daggers, its near-invisible edge glinting only when the light caught it just right.

  Joran matched him strike for strike, Vermillion Fang ringing out in sharp defiance against the assassin’s weapons. Sweat coated the prince’s brow, and his breathing grew heavier—but not from exhaustion. His strength remained vast, his stamina bolstered by the deep reserves of draconic magic that still slumbered within him. But without that magic now—thanks to Arcane Severance—every strike had to be perfect. Every defense, flawlessly timed.

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  And still, neither of them could gain the upper hand.

  They clashed in a burst of flurry—blade meeting blade, dagger glancing off steel. Then, just as Joran caught Sarrak’s sword in a high parry, the assassin broke away with a smooth sidestep and, without hesitation, threw the whispersteel dagger from his left hand.

  Joran’s eyes caught the blur of motion. He twisted, raised his blade, and smacked the projectile aside. The dagger spun and lodged into the sand at his feet, just inches from his boots. But that was exactly what Sarrak wanted. By the time Joran looked up again, Sarrak was already upon him.

  While Joran had deflected the thrown blade, the rogue had used the brief moment of distraction to reach behind him—his hand slipping down to his lower back where the second whispersteel dagger was sheathed. In a single motion, he drew it into a reverse grip and lunged forward. Now armed again, he struck with chilling precision.

  The Phantom Fang arced low in a gut-bound slash, while the freshly drawn dagger came up in a high reverse strike toward Joran’s face. It was a trap—perfectly timed, perfectly executed. Joran had less than a heartbeat to react.

  Vermillion Fang swept downward in a powerful block, catching the sword with a heavy clang that sent a jolt through his arms. At the same time, he raised his left arm—his forearm intercepting the second blade just as it closed in on his cheek.

  The dagger’s tip froze a breath away from his eye. The tension between them was palpable, locked in the moment, steel straining against strength. Joran’s muscles burned. His jaw clenched. But he held firm. Sarrak’s expression didn’t shift much—but his pale eyes gleamed with something new. Interest.

  “Hm,” he murmured with an approving tilt of his head. “Clever reflexes, Prince.”

  Joran didn’t answer—his breath coming hot and quick from the effort of blocking both attacks at once. The prince could feel the force behind Sarrak’s strikes. Even without his magical defense, this was a man who knew how to kill. Up close, in silence, and with surgical precision. The weight of the moment lingered before Sarrak gave a slight push and gracefully disengaged, flipping the dagger once in his hand before sliding back into a loose, open stance.

  “No magic,” he said with a small grin. “Just blade and instinct. I like this version of you.” Joran took a step back, regaining his footing. He raised Vermillion Fang again, steady and unwavering.

  Suddenly, Joran felt it—the faint but unmistakable pulse of magic returning to his veins, like the first breath after near-drowning. His fingertips tingled. The numb edge of the severance spell was lifting, which meant only one thing: Sarrak's ability would soon be back. The clock had started ticking, and he had only seconds left to end this fight before every strike once again became his own undoing.

  Joran’s eyes snapped to Sarrak, who was already rising from his guarded stance, reading the shift in the air with razor instinct. Their blades met again in a flash of steel and a spray of sparks, igniting the arena into a frenzy of cheers, shouts, and disbelief. The crowd had long stopped cheering for just Sarrak—they were now fully enthralled by the spectacle of two masters at war.

  Joran threw himself into the fray with everything he had. His body burned with effort, his shirt clinging to him with sweat. The fatigue from casting Arcane Severance was nothing compared to the grueling barrage of movements he now executed. Each clash of their weapons was a calculated strike. He used feints, redirections, shoulder checks, short-range bursts of speed—his entire training, from Lothara’s elite swordmasters to the grueling drills under the Dragon King himself, flowed through him like muscle memory made flesh.

  Sarrak responded in kind, smiling wide despite the tension in his shoulders and the bruises forming beneath his light armor. With his Phantom Fang in one hand and a Whispersteel dagger in the other, he launched unpredictable combinations—slashing low before whipping high, spinning into precise strikes designed to overwhelm defenses. His eyes glinted with exhilaration, like a man who had finally found purpose.

  "This is what I wanted!" he cried mid-swing. "A real fight! One where I have to think! Adapt!"

  “You’re welcome!” Joran growled back, parrying a downward strike before twisting and narrowly avoiding a blade slicing for his throat.

  They circled each other once more. Then Joran moved in. Feint high. Block low. Shift the angle. Step in. Disrupt the stance. Sarrak tried to match him, but Joran had watched, had learned. The patterns. The small openings. The timing.

  He caught the dagger on the flat of his blade, twisted it aside, and slammed his boot into Sarrak’s knee with a brutal crunch. The man dropped with a cry, falling to one knee just as Joran’s sword swept across and batted the Phantom Fang from his hand. With fluid motion, Joran stepped in, pivoted, and kicked Sarrak onto his back. Before the warrior could recover, Joran planted a foot on Sarrak’s sword arm and brought the edge of Vermillion Fang to his throat.

  Silence fell across the arena like a thunderclap. The crowd held their breath. Even Varkul had leaned forward in his private box, his meat forgotten, his knuckles clenched against the arm of his throne. The arena, once deafening, was now hushed.

  Joran and Sarrak locked eyes. Sweat trickled down their faces. Their chests rose and fell in tandem with labored breath. “Well?” Sarrak rasped, defiant even as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “Go on. Do it. Finish the job while you have the chance.”

  Joran’s blade trembled for a moment. Then he stepped back. The sword lifted from Sarrak’s throat and was stabbed into the ground beside him with finality. Joran extended a hand to him.

  “I’m not a killer,” the prince said, voice low but clear. “That’s not who I am.” Sarrak blinked, stunned. His fingers twitched, almost uncertain of what to do with the offered hand.

  “Why?” he asked. “Why show mercy? Why spare me?”

  “Because you don’t fight to dominate,” Joran replied. “You don’t enjoy pain. You fight because you’re searching for something. A challenge. A purpose. I’ve met enough monsters to know you’re not one of them.”

  Joran stepped closer, hand still outstretched. “You wanted someone who could beat you, right? Well… you found him.”

  Sarrak stared, then slowly reached up. He took the prince’s hand, and Joran hauled him to his feet. As he stood, the shimmer of magic returned to the air—the Arcane Severance had fully faded. Both men felt it instantly. Sarrak glanced at his hand, flexing it, then looked back at Joran. “You realize my ability’s back.”

  “I do.”

  “And there’s nothing stopping me from finishing this.”

  “There’s nothing,” Joran agreed. “But I don’t think you will.”

  Sarrak’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “You’re either the bravest man I’ve ever met… or the dumbest.”

  “Maybe both.”

  The two stood for a moment longer, until Joran turned and began walking toward the exit gate. He left his sword behind knowing that they would want him to hand it over and nobody would be able to lift it. Before he passed under the archway, he paused and looked over his shoulder.

  “You know… if you ever find yourself in Lothara, you should consider applying for the Royal Guard.”

  Sarrak raised an eyebrow. “You offering me a job?”

  “I’m offering you a place where warriors like you are honored—not caged.”

  Joran gave a slight nod and vanished behind the rising gate.

  Above them, the announcer's voice finally broke through the silence:

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN—YOUR VICTOR… PRINCE JORAN OF LOTHARA!”

  The arena exploded with sound. Cheers, screams, applause—it echoed through the Maw like thunder. Yet Sarrak didn’t hear them.

  He just stood there, rubbing his jaw with a tired grin.

  “Brave or foolish… we’ll see,” he murmured.