Ruins And Royalty

A Fight with a Blow to Remember - Chp 5 Part 1

“Today will consist of combat training in the style you feel most confident with,” Sir Damos announced, his voice deep and commanding as we assembled in the arena. “I want to see where your expertise truly lies… if any of you are even worth your titles.”

I scanned the crowd, eyes sharp, cataloging each like a hunter assessing prey. Familiar faces were few; most were strangers, cloaked in the stiff posture and studied grace of royalty. At the far end, I spotted her. Saurora. Her jet-black hair was braided into a chain braid from both sides of her head, pulled back tightly. She didn’t glance my way, didn’t offer a nod or a smile as usual. She had ignored me entirely since we entered the amphitheater. I knew better than to expect forgiveness soon after last night’s quarrel.

Dayron and Kalmin were scattered among the group. I tried to read them. Kalmin, always passive, seemed more concerned with appearances than strategy, a social butterfly lounging through triclinium dinners and the royal thermae. Dayron, on the other hand, would never outright defy orders, though his hesitation was visible; a quiet tension beneath his composed exterior. Despite any personal disagreement, he would obey.

My gaze drifted toward the back of Princess Isalyn of Freyah. A man stood near her, dressed in matching garb, his hair the same fiery shade. Likely her brother, I thought, though I couldn’t be certain.

“Now, let’s get started. To your places!” Sir Damos barked, and the royals dispersed across the arena. I hesitated, unsure where I was meant to stand; the briefing had been partially lost on me.

“I’ve already picked a partner for you, Nightingale.” A husky voice approached, the weight of it drawing my attention. Sir Damos stopped before me, and for the first time I registered his sheer height. His shadow fell across me, swallowing me in its shade. Without a word, he shoved a long sword into my hands.

“I prefer a short sword,” I said, holding the weapon out for him to take back. He ignored me completely.

“Your opponent today will be Princess Isalyn Bellefay of Freyah,” he continued, turning away. I had no choice but to follow.

Of course. Fate always had a cruel sense of timing. Out of everyone here, I had to fight her. I could already feel the guilt gnawing at me, imagining Saurora’s fuming expression flashing in my mind. Every step toward Isalyn was heavy, burdened with the memory of my sister’s wrath and the unspoken tension of the Games that awaited us all. “Fantastic,” I muttered under my breath, though the words carried no real excitement.

The oval amphitheater rose around the dirt arena, its stone walls climbing impossibly high, reaching toward the sky like silent sentinels. It would have been breathtaking if the seats were filled with spectators, but the emptiness only amplified the solemn tension of the space.

We stopped at the circle reserved for sword fighting, and there she stood. Isalyn.

“I don’t think we’ve met before,” she said as I stepped into the circle. Her armor was full gladiator leather, etched with faint markings that reminded me of the glowing script on the Chakrams Sir Damos had wielded. She gripped a longsword, poised and calm.

“No, we haven’t,” I replied bluntly, swinging the sword in a loose arc, feeling its weight, readying myself for the fight.

She tilted her head, eyeing my attire. “No leg guards… or helmet?” she asked, settling into her stance.

“I don’t need them,” I said, a hint of confidence in my voice.

“Princess Isalyn Bellafay of Freyah,” Sir Damos announced, arm extended toward her, the other tucked behind his back.

“Prince Aaron Nightingale of Emperos,” he continued, pointing at me with deliberate ceremony. Clearly, introductions were his duty, not ours.

We took our positions, eyes locked, swords ready. I felt the familiar rush of anticipation, the urge to unleash frustration through movement, through strike but a shadow of annoyance tugged at me. This wasn’t the opponent I wanted. Someone like Mykhailo would have been perfect. Utterly predictable, skilled, and challenging. Instead, I faced my eldest sister’s love interest, and the thought only made the encounter more complicated, more bothersome.

I tightened my grip on the hilt, willing my irritation into focus. The arena was silent but for the faint scuff of boots on dirt, a stage set for conflict and unspoken tension. Every heartbeat thudded against my ribs, reminding me that this was just the beginning.

Without warning, Princess Isalyn lunged forward, her sword slicing diagonally toward me. I swung mine up just in time to deflect the blow. She didn’t hesitate, pulling back mid-strike, twisting the angle, aiming from another direction. Quick thinking saved me; I blocked with a half Iron Gate guard, the force jarring through my arms.

We circled each other warily, measuring distance, waiting for the other to make the next move.

The fight felt slower than I had hoped. Yet, Isalyn wasn’t giving her full strength.

Something held her back.

Why Sir Damos had paired us, I would never know, and it frustrated me. I should have faced someone on my level, someone who could truly test me.

She shifted into a rear stance, then lunged again. I readied to block, but a different plan flickered in my mind. Just before her blade clashed with mine, I sidestepped, letting her momentum carry her past me. In one smooth motion, I spun, swinging the fuller of my sword across her back. She stumbled but recovered instantly, pivoting to face me again.

“Sly,” she muttered, pointing her sword sharply at me.

“Are you done playing around?” I asked, calm but edged with impatience.

“Only starting,” she replied, her stance firm, eyes narrowed.

Then it escalated. Our swords clashed violently, sparks flashing as she pushed the pace. Finally, the fight felt real, dangerous. Each strike tested my reflexes, each parry my strategy. After a few exchanged blows, I was ready to end it.

I took a loud stance, sword held diagonally, and leapt forward, slamming into her. She raised her blade just in time, and I couldn’t hide my satisfied grin. I hadn’t intended to strike her anyway. My goal was closer, tactical. I rotated 180 degrees on my front foot, sweeping with the back, catching Princess Isalyn off guard. She toppled flat on her back, and I moved in… not to kill, of course, but to mark the open space beside her face, signaling my victory in practice.

However, before I could claim it, she yanked her sword up from beside her, blocking my advance. One hand clutched the grip, the other pressed the fuller at the end of the blade. She thrust upward, trying to shove me away. Her teeth clenched as she fought to prevent my sword from reaching the sand beside her head, the edge of her own blade dangerously close to her neck.

“Yield,” I commanded, feeling her arms begin to tremble under the pressure. She was at her limit, yet refused to surrender. If she thought I’d relent to spare her, she was mistaken. She had only two choices: yield, or wait for Sir Damos to call the fight.

“Yield,” I repeated, my tone sharp, unwavering. She didn’t flinch. Instead, she smiled.

“Anemos!” she shouted, and in an instant, the arena shifted.

White, glowing ancient writing appeared along her arms, tracing up her shoulders and neck. The same glow etched itself along her sword. Then a violent gust of wind erupted from her blade, so powerful it sent me flying backward. I crashed into the sand, sword skidding out of the circle, leaving me completely exposed. The force claimed her victory, and I had no choice but to accept defeat.

I glanced at my sword, then at her. Standing there, proud, a faint smile playing on her lips. I was completely speechless, my confusion written across my face for all to see.

“Are you sure you don’t want those enchanted Chakrams?” Sir Damos asked, breaking into laughter.

I lowered my head, burning with embarrassment. Of course. He’d paired me against Princess Isalyn deliberately. Both hailing from Freyah, she would naturally wield an enchanted weapon. I should have seen it coming.

Isalyn stepped toward me, extending her hand. I slapped it aside, rising on my own and brushing sand from my tunic.

“Very amusing,” I muttered, sarcasm dripping from my voice, though my irritation was clear.

Sir Damos approached, a smug grin on his face. I was this close to punching him. Isalyn drifted away, leaving the two of us alone, though I had zero interest in his lecture.

“You fight like a true Nightingale,” he said, watching me closely. I only stared back, expression flat.

“If you’re interested in the Chakrams, I’ll personally bestow them on you and train you to wield them properly,” he continued, voice dropping into a more serious tone.

“I’m not interested,” I replied curtly, brushing past him.

Sir Damos sighed, shaking his head at my stubbornness. “If you change your mind, find me in the barracks near sundown. I’m there every day.”