Lucavion moved.
—FWOOOSH!
A blur. A breath.
And then—
—CLANG!
Steel rang as Lucavion's estoc collided with Rowen's blade, not in testing jabs or measured exchanges, but in a ruthless, full-committed thrust angled high toward the shoulder joint—an opening most would never think to exploit so early.
Rowen stumbled half a step, his sword sliding back just in time to parry, sparks spraying in a sharp arc across the marble. His heels scraped as he righted himself, muscles tensing, face contorting—not in panic, but in surprise.
The crowd flinched.
Lucavion didn't let up.
He spun low, the estoc curving around as he twisted on his heel—
—SHHHK!
—a horizontal slash aimed to disarm, not kill, but it came with enough force to rattle Rowen's wrist and send vibrations up his arm.
Rowen's eyes sharpened.
"—Tch!"
He dropped his stance instantly, weight sliding into his back leg, sword drawing a tight crescent through the air.
—CLANG!
This time, the blades locked.
