The first lunge was a blur. Roen moved with a savage grace that belied his size, his sword a glittering arc of steel. Arin barely managed to twist aside, the blade whistling past her ear, a breath of cold air. A sickening whoosh as it cleaved the space where her head had been moments before. He was fast. Faster than she'd anticipated. He had training, reach, and a burning, primal rage that fuelled every strike. She had only her quickness, her street-honed instincts, and the sheer, stubborn will to survive.
He pressed the attack, a relentless storm of steel. Each swing was designed to maim, to break. Arin danced back, her feet light on the stone, the plain dagger in her hand a small, defiant flicker against his massive sword. She parried, deflects, and weaves, the clang of metal echoing in the vast courtyard. The guards, unmoving, watched the gruesome ballet. Aenythar, perched high above, shifted, a low growl rumbling in its chest, its eyes never leaving her.
