CHAPTER 44: THE GAMBIT

Jorel launched forward like he’d been fired from a cannon, sand exploded beneath his boots, armor catching firelight in a streak of molten gold. His left blade cut high, a whisper of silver meant for the neck, fake. The real danger came low, the right sword stabbing straight for the gut.

The Stranger didn’t flinch. His sword dropped in a perfect, downward sweep, catching the thrust and sliding along its edge with the hiss of grinding steel. Sparks kissed the air.

Jorel spun, momentum flowing like water, his left blade slicing horizontally for the chest.

The Stranger simply stepped back. One, clean, fluid motion. The sword missed him by a breath.

Distance reset.

The crowd gasped, realizing that even Jorel’s precision couldn’t break through the phantom’s calm.

The Stranger moved this time. Three quick steps. Then, an overhead slash so fast it cracked the air.

Jorel’s swords crossed in an X above his head. The impact was thunder. His knees buckled slightly, the sheer strength vibrating through the sand beneath them.

The people screamed, that much force from one arm?

Jorel snarled, shoving upward, tossing the blade aside, then countered immediately, both swords flashing outward in a deadly scissor motion.

But the Stranger turned, smooth as a dancer’s pirouette. The blades missed him by the width of a whisper. His elbow shot back, Jorel barely leaned away, the strike grazing his chinplate.

They broke apart, circling again, fire and shadow pacing in tandem.

Jorel lunged, then swerved right. His sword swept low toward the Stranger’s legs.

The Stranger lifted his foot, the blade slicing harmlessly through empty space.

Jorel flowed upward with the motion, his second sword rising toward the Stranger’s ribs, perfect follow-through.

Steel met steel. The Stranger twisted midair, deflecting the strike in a burst of sparks.

Jorel pushed off the clash, flipping backward, landing in a spray of sand, then charged again.

A thrust high. A slash low. Both simultaneous.

The Stranger’s eyes, hidden behind that dark helm, must’ve seen everything. He chose. Blocked the high strike, let the low one come.

But as the blade swept toward his waist, he jumped.

The sword cleaved empty air.

Still airborne, the Stranger’s sword came down in a brutal vertical chop.

Jorel rolled forward, barely escaping. The blade slammed into the ground, and the obsidian sand shattered, glass shards glittering under the torchlight.

He came up behind the Stranger, ready to end it.

Both swords drove forward, aimed for the spine, the kill.

The Stranger dropped flat. Like a stone. Both blades whistled over him.

Then his leg swept out in a circle, Jorel leapt over it, spinning midair.

The Stranger used the momentum of the sweep to twist upright, his sword flashing in a deadly arc as he rose.

Jorel was still midair. Couldn’t dodge.

He crossed both blades to block—CLANG!—and the impact hurled him backward. He crashed into the sand, skidding meters away.

But he rolled, came up crouched, blood roaring in his ears.

The crowd lost its collective mind.

Now there were no more pauses. The tempo climbed, Jorel became a storm, his twin blades striking in blinding patterns. Slash, slash, thrust, feint, spin, slice. He was fury wrapped in gold.

And for the first time, the Stranger gave ground.

Each blow he met, parried, redirected, but his feet slid back with each impact. The arena could feel it, Jorel was pressing him, the golden tide swallowing the shadow.

Cheers erupted. "He’s driving him back!"

Then, the opening.

The Stranger’s sword was just out of position, his stance wide.

Jorel went for it. Both swords thrust forward, full commitment.

The Stranger didn’t block.

He stepped inside.

The blades passed harmlessly on either side of him.

Their helmets almost touched.

The Stranger’s head snapped forward, Jorel barely dodged the headbutt, felt it graze his ear.

He countered with a knee to the gut, met the Stranger’s thigh instead. The two locked in that breathless, brutal closeness, muscle against muscle, each testing the other’s limit.

Then, together, they shoved off, steel scraping as they separated.

Both men drew air like bellows, but Jorel’s chest rose faster, heavier.

He came again, but something faltered, a hesitation, half a heartbeat too long. The Stranger saw it.

Jorel swung both blades downward, overhead, twin arcs of silver.

The Stranger stepped forward. Into the attack.

The swords came down on either side of him, striking sparks against his armor.

His pommel drove forward, slamming into Jorel’s chest.

Not full force, but enough.

The air left Jorel’s lungs. He stumbled, reeling.

The Stranger followed with a vicious horizontal slash, Jorel caught it, barely, both swords lifting in defense.

But his guard trembled. The power behind that single arm was monstrous.

Jorel tried to retreat, to find his rhythm again, but the Stranger was no longer holding back now.

A thrust to the shoulder, and blocked. A counterstrike, ducked. The Stranger’s blade swept upward, so close it nicked a lock of hair from Jorel’s head.

Then came the spin, so fast it blurred. A wide, waist-level strike that sent Jorel leaping back.

He was trapped near the arena wall now, blocking strike after strike. Every parry rang out like a bell tolling the countdown to defeat.

The crowd sensed it, the tone shifted from triumph to tension, gasps mixing with shouts.

Then came the feint.

The Stranger faked a thrust, then flipped his grip, bringing his sword around in a sudden, brutal backhand slash.

Jorel’s guard was too high. Too slow.

The blade slipped through.

Time slowed. The edge kissed the air where his neck had been a fraction of a second before.

Jorel threw himself backward, crashing into the sand.

The Stranger froze. Didn’t follow. Didn’t strike again.

He extended his hand.

Jorel stared up at him, chest heaving, sand sticking to the sweat on his face. For a long, trembling heartbeat, he said nothing. Then he reached up, gripped the offered hand, and let the Stranger pull him to his feet.

They returned to their marks, the air between them electric.

But something had shifted.

Jorel knew—knew in his bones—that the Stranger could’ve ended it just now. And he hadn’t.

The arena screamed and cheered, but the noise didn’t matter anymore. The two men were locked in a world of their own.