Karlienne’s eyes followed the juggled coin pouch. The clinking sounds of the coins made her heartbeat rise with every syllable it communicated. A very arcane and private language that existed only between Karlienne and money.

“We are exchanging favours. I take it,” The half-elf held a mask of calmness about herself.

“A mutually beneficial one,” I added immediately.

She gathered her wits with feline quickness and asked, “Something to do with the tourney?”

“Nothing nefarious, just convince Captain Hilam, to organise the contestants in a different order,” I let my eyes bath in the glorious sight of the assembled contestants once more, “It is important that Celerim reaches the finals.”

“Easily arranged,” the prospect of easy coin trigger her inner greed and an insane maniacal glee danced in her otherwise composed face. The same sort of glee that held Arlene in its thrall when she sliced and diced in the name of justice. For a single moment, I entertained the notion of these two half-elves being related and then laughed at the absurdity of it.

“There is more, Merrick and Zelaphiel should face each other in the semi-finals,” A cold steel-like resolution hardened my words, “In no circumstances, should Merrick cross swords with Celerim. Poison his waters, give him loose bowels, I care not.”

Karlienne’s lips withdrew in hesitation but the lull of clinking coins triumphed over her morality.

---

Lord Caelum thrust his sword with well-practised grace. A feigned attack with an intentional opening, one which Celerim refused to follow. The sharpened tip of the former glinted with another feigned thrust. The high-elf sidestepped. A refusal to fall for the obvious. Frustrations slowly built up in the man compounded by cheers from the crowd. A hard squint contorted the man’s eyes. He went for another feigned thrust only to change to a diagonal slash halfway. The Justiciar met the blade with his own and with a flick of his wrist disarmed the man.

The disarmed blade fell. A small cloud of dust rose in its fall.

“And the winner is Lord Stormaire,” shouted the announcer amidst loud cheers.

Dispersing his momentary displeasure, Lord Caelum held a smile of sincerity as he clasped arms with Celerim.

---

Grand Paladin Zelaphiel stood unflinchingly as sparks flew from his armour. His opponent, Sir Darnell, panted like a mangy mutt. His thick arms sored from the countless blows that he rained upon the proud Paladin. The latter still had his weapon sheathed. Desperation propelled the man as he went for a straight thrust, intending to end the duel. Zelaphiel grabbed the thrusted sword with gauntleted hands. Silence reigned among the crowd for a moment at what they witnessed. The Paladin yanked the opponent’s sword forward forcing the unprepared man to fall. Sir Darnell’s eyes widened as the sabatoned foot of the Paladin rose. Zelaphiel ended the duel with a strong kick to Sir Darnell’s shoulder as he wrenched the sword free from the latter’s grasp.

Paladin Champion Zelaphiel approached the dejected Sir Darnell with the same smile that made him popular.

“For a human, you have shown considerable skill and tenacity,” His clear voice carried over the makeshift arena, “Let it be widely known, that Sir Darnell did not lack grace or strength. He is just paired with an ill-matched opponent.”

Merrick will have a hard time against Zelaphiel.

---

Ottomar’s hefty axe cracked the ground where Merrick stood moments ago.

“So, we going hunting afterwards?” The sturdy man hefted his axe effortlessly and whistled a tune, “Brought me some spices and nice rum to share.”

Merrick rolled back placing some distance between himself and his opponent.

“Not this time,” disappointed Merrick.

“Cause of ye brother,” engaged Ottomar, “sad thing, Jarryd, nice lad. Heard about it. Some dark-elf wench stabbed while the lad slept.”

Merrick allowed silence as his answer.

Ottomar closed the gap and swung his axe. A huge horizontal slash that Merrick rolled backwards to avoid.

“Tell ye what,” Ottomar closed on Merrick again, “need a hand in extracting Justice. Will join ye.”

Merrick did not allow himself a response and widened the gap.

“ye fighting? or want me to chase ye like a lass in a spring festival,” groaned Ottomar in frustration.

Merrick allowed himself to show a sliver of congeniality.

“I got plans set in motion,” uttered Merrick.

“What plans?” asked Ottomar.

Merrick spun around and neared his opponent. Before the dust his footsteps could settle, Merrick tapped the pommel of his sword on Ottomar’s helm.

Ottomar threw his heavy axe in resignation and concealed his grin with a scowl.

“Ye caught me while distracted,” grumbled Ottomar.

“You got tired chasing me,” retorted Merrick concealing a peal of laughter.

The two figures exited the grounds drenched in their banter, unheeded to the announcement of the winner.

---

Lord Inell, contrary to his initial presentation, proved skilful with his two-handed flamberge, fully utilising the extended reach of his weapon to keep his opponent at bay. Merowyn, for what he lacked in reach made it up with his mobility. The warrior danced around the less mobile Lord Inell holding his attention. The fight came to an abrupt end when Merowyn kicked sand and dust from the ground clouding Lord Inell’s vision. Capitalising on the partial vision of his opponent, the warrior tripped the armoured opponent.

“The winner Warrior Merowyn,” shouted the announcer.

Merowyn offered his strong arm for the fallen Lord Inell to grab.

“Brought some Wild honey and Direwolf fur,” uttered Merowyn.

“Thanks Merowyn. Likewise, we hit a lodestone the other day. Got some for you,” answered Lord Inell.

Merowyn grinned in response.

---

“Now we have our two favourite contestants,” the enthusiastic words of the announcer cut through the murmur of the crowds, “Warrior Merowyn on the left faces Lord Stormaire on the right. The winner will get to cross swords in the finals.”

An aura of placid serenity surrounded the Justiciar while Merowyn’s lips curled with candid fervour. Dark orcish eyes, wide-open and filled with determination considered the Justiciar for an extended moment. The latter’s hands slowly curled around the hilt of his Justiciar issued sword.

“Lord Stormaire,” Merowyn abandoned his stiff posture and relaxed his shoulders as he trudged sideways, the focus still on his opponent, “It has almost been a tradition that I meet Merrick in the final round. I do not intend to break tradition.”

“In my defence, I did not know that I was disturbing such a time-honoured tradition,” answered Celerim.

“Worry not, Young Lord,” Merowyn shrugged his shoulders and clicked his tongue in dismay, “The real tradition is the hunting party we join afterwards. You are heartily invited.”

Celerim chuckled at the odd turn of events.

“Never have I been invited in the middle of a duel, by an opponent.”

“Interested?” Curiosity motivated Merowyn question.

“How could one refuse such an audacious offer?” answered Celerim with a question.

“Now lets us be done with this,” uttered Merowyn and after an acknowledgement from the high-elf, he sprung into his battle-dance.

With the slender blade as an extension of his own arms and powerful legs to complement his unerring movement, Merowyn mirrored the famed blade singers. His motion, unpredictable and yet artistic. The wheezing sound of his twin blades cutting the air mesmerized the audience in an enthralled silence.

A century of practice guided Celerim’s stance. He stood motionlessly, with an intense focus on his opponent. His pale grey eyes followed the blurry arc left by his opponent's blade. With an iron grip, Celerim clutched his sword pointed firmly towards the menacing orc.

Merowyn rained a flurry of blows on the high-elf. The skilful fluidity of a blade singer combined with the endless stamina of his racial heritage made the orc weave two-bladed whirlwinds. A feat that would inevitable grant him victory had he successfully reached his opponent. The high-elf widened the gap every time the orc approached, almost mimicking the spring ritual dance of the wood-elves, with Merowyn being the aggressive pursuer and Celerim the coquettish partner.

“Celerim is being pushed back,” uttered Syrune with unblinking eyes.

“Or Cel is the one leading Merowyn,” cut in Savvas as the drow leaned over

Cel is it? Well, you are entitled to your own secrets.

Summoning unconcealed strength from the depths of his willpower, Celerim abandoned the game of chase. The rhythmic sound of metal clashing against metal rose as his Justiciar sword met the twin-bladed whirlwinds. The frequency of the ringing increased as the High-elf attempted to penetrate the orc’s defences. The latter ignored Celerim’s attempts and continued his bladed maelstrom of an assault. The high-elf stood unassailable. Merowyn continued raining his flurry.

A still silence only interrupted by the sounds of clashing blades prevailed. The duel would have lasted for eternity if it weren’t for the sliver of gleaming metal that broke from Merowyn’s blade. The broken blade flashed through the air and buried itself a few fingers deep in the ground. The skill of a blade singer combined with the raw power of an orc, an amalgamation of unlikely elements compelled the slender blade against the Justiciar Sword. Against such odds, the blade broke, ending the duel.

“Now I know why Orcs and Axes go along well,” grinned Merowyn, the orc’s face devoid of any malice.

“Would you fetch a new blade?” questioned Celerim.

“My loss,” replied the orc, “besides, I know all there is to know. A thousand times we duel and a thousand blades will break.”

“The winner, Lord Stormaire,” shouted the announcer. His words drowned in a sea of ovation, for both the contestants.

---

The Paladin in shining armour regarded the proud warrior before him. Cool hazel eyes filled with sudden consideration, at the poorly armoured Merrick.

“Say, Sir Merrick,” addressed the grand paladin without any contempt, “is that confidence in your skill or is it a specialised martial style that made you forego leg armour?”

“Neither,” Merrick allowed himself a self-deprecating wry smile, “Just situations.”

“If your pride allows, and let the divines strike me if I even attempt to tarnish it,” Zelaphiel lowered his guard and with cool hazel eyes filled with pity considered Merrick, “would you consider my offer of a pair of greaves and tassets.”

“Aye, pretty elf, offer him codpiece too,” shouted Ottomar from the sides.

“Naaa, Merrick’s too big for elven codpieces,” roared a voice from the crowd.

“You are wrong,” retorted Merowyn who stood idly next to Ottomar, “Merrick gains nothing by wearing a codpiece.”

Merrick shook his head in disappointment at his friends.

“Ignore their ramblings,” pleaded Merrick.

Without any further exchange, the two assumed their battle stance. Merrick clasped his dark steel sword with hard grit and lowered into a combat stance. Grand paladin Zelaphiel stood imperturbably with arms crossed.

Merrick initiated the attack and struck the paladin with ophidian celerity. The sound of dark steel striking against metal echoed. Merrick rolled and stuck again. A horizontal slash. A forward thrust. A wide rising upward sweep. The warrior favoured unpredictability. Zelaphiel staggered. Without a moment to pause, Merrick bull rushed. Upon impact, the Grand Paladin fell on his knees. His intricate armour protected his body but not his ego.

Merrick allowed himself a moment of respite.

“Would you now draw your sword?” asked the man.

With fleeting steps, Zelaphiel widened the distance between himself and the warrior.

“Impressive skill,” praised the elf before he freed his sword.

The fighter regarded the paladin, their eyes locked in a tenuous duel of their own. A strong breeze flew through the makeshift arena tossing the paladin’s golden hair. Merrick clutched his sword like the last straw of a drowning man. An unspoken acknowledgement passed between them and Merrick renewed his attack.

Merrick danced around cleaving savage arcs around the Grand Paladin. Zelaphiel’s longsword snaked around in an attempt to draw first blood. The man responded to Zelaphiel’s counter with a surge in swiftness, till he became a vortex of laceration while latter held stubbornly like an impregnable citadel.

Donning mock affront like a veil, Merrick kicked a dust cloud and gambled with another bull rush. Dulled in vision and befuddled by the sudden slam, Zelaphiel stumbled backwards. The Grand Paladin rubbed his cheeks. The thick red fluid oozed from the clean-cut and stained his gauntleted fingers.

A huge sigh escaped from the High-elf. Much to the astonishment of the crowd, the Paladin Champion drove his sword, blade down into the ground.

Savvas edged to the end of his seat and scoffed, “damned Paladins.”

Merrick seizing the opportunity, bull-rushed again. Zelaphiel interrupted him. The paladin’s sabaton dug into the man’s breastplate. The clear and loud sound of metal striking against metal rang through the arena. Merrick fell with a thud. The warrior lay motionless gasping for air.

All assembled eyes were on the paladin. A faint glow outlined the paladin and further exulted his divine favour. The fresh cut on Zelaphiel’s face mended leaving no trace.

The paladin’s face dripped with savage mockery.

“Nice trick, but cheap. Let me show you something from the veritable arsenal of a Paladin Champion,” The elf advanced towards the struggling man with calculated steps.

Searing bright light assaulted Merrick. His arms twisted in a futile attempt to shield his burning eyes. Merrick’s howl of agony pierced through the arena. With self-control that he had not known in years, he slowly rose, stumbled and groped in the bright daylight. A desperate attempt to aid his failing vision and soon convulsed on himself, emptying his half-digested breakfast.

“Sensitive to light, an adverse reaction to my spell,” mentioned the Grand paladin as a casual observation.

I glared daggers at Karlienne. The half-elf pretended to avoid gazing in my direction.

Willing his wobbling feet, Merrick forced himself to stand against his opponent. Devoid of vigour and afflicted with an ephemeral loss of vision, his spirit still persisted.

“Unethical behaviour, Lord Ellandor,” roared Celerim. No further titles were added before Zelaphiel’s name.

The grand paladin raised an eyebrow at Celerim, belligerent at the implied affront.

“Ostentatious parading of your gifts does not make you a paragon,” His unconcealed displeasure erupted.

“Merely resurrecting my honour, Justiciar,” The paladin’s words dripped with venom as he countered.

“In case your memory failed,” continued the paladin, “I did not resort to parlour tricks.”

With an unsheathed sword tightly clutched in his hands, Celerim hopped into the arena.

“You stood on the same grounds. You had the same advantage,” Celerim’s nostrils flared, “yet you choose to display your Aasimar powers. How is that valiant?”

“Then come at me together,” taunted the Paladin.

Captain Hilam strode in, relieved of his trepidation.

“Lord Strormaire, Venerable Grand Paladin Champion....”

“This is no longer a tourney affair,” Celerim cut Captain Hilam’s words.

With balled fists and reluctant legs, the Master of tourney stepped back.

A mad glee danced on Savvas face. I yoked my seething rage. Why do things never progress according to plan?

“Fools are not bred from ignorance but from a misguided sense of honour,” ironically, the words of Vangere rose as a vague memory.

“Now it is my turn to repay the debt, Merrick,” Celerim’s action, a thrall to his notion of chivalry.

Merrick tried to say something but sensed the tension in the air between the two high-elves, resigned himself from voicing his opinion.

Zelaphiel muttered something under his breath and slowly ran his hands over his longsword. Flames sprung on his longsword, bearing no effect on its wielder. An ethereal glow settled on the paladin champion outlining his amorphous form. Zelaphiel held the calmness of an older brother teaching his younger siblings while his flames danced cruelly on his longsword.

Celerim and Merrick held their swords with vigour and attacked zealously and yet fared no better than geriatrics with a cane.

In a span of a few heartbeats, Zelaphiel humiliated both his opponents. Merrick lay spread-eagled on the ground, gasping for air, his armour in tatters. While Celerim stared with unconcealed frustration at his broken Justiciar sword. A series of crisscrossing burns marred the Justiciar. Bright crimson liquid spilt from an open maw on Celerim forehead obscuring his vision on the right.

“Poetic Justice there,” shouted Merowyn from a corner.

“Bring me, my Sentinel,” screamed the Justiciar.

“Celerim,” the clear voice of Lady Stormaire cut in, “You have proven your worth by crossing swords with Paladin Champion Mirnovian. There is no further need.”

Celerim ignored the coaxing of his mother. The hubris of youth fanned his inner rage.

“The Sentinel now,” roared the young high-elf.

A squire threw The Sentinel at Celerim which the latter caught deftly.

Zelaphiel smirked at the Justiciar and brandished his flaming blade.

The cheers of the onlookers ignited the fire in the Justiciar’s veins.

The Paladin champion opened with an overhead swing. Celerim raised The Sentinel, blocked and spun closing the gap. The Paladin’s eyes widened at the sudden resistance. With a backhanded blow, Celerim rammed the pommel of his blade into Zelaphiel’s face.

Metal met bone. Bone yielded. The crunching sound filled the still arena. For a fleeting moment, complete silence ruled, then the painful wail of the Paladin Champion followed.

Celerim twisted his torso with primal rage and he rained a flurry of blows on the older elf. The cold dark blade of The Sentinel, unaffected by the divine flames of the Paladin’s weapon assaulted the Paladin with unerring mechanical precision. Cornered, Zelaphiel abandoned offence and adapted defensive posture. A fury, that many thought the charming Justiciar to be incapable of, burned in Celerim’s eyes. Warmed by the rage, more blood pumped from the open wound and drenched the Justiciar’s right arm crimson. Zelaphiel’s embellish armour now hung like rags on a beggar, busted by the repeated blows.

“You lost everything,” sneered the paladin champion, “how low have you sunk, Justiciar?”

Silence responded from Celerim as he continued delivering blows. More blood seeped from the wound, down his arms and painted the pommel of Sentinel.

“Answer me, Justiciar, was it worth selling your soul?” roared the older high-elf.

Eliciting reticence from his opponent in return, Zelaphiel threw his sword to shatter and went down on his knees with clasped hands.

“What is he doing?” asked Colby.

“Manifesting Immanence,” I uttered under my breath.

“What kind of Paladin brings Immanence to a duel?” sneered Savvas with unconcealed disgust.

Only Syrune’s eyes widened, brimming nevertheless with academic curiosity.

Golden lights descended, shimmering and outlining the transcendental form of eight figures. Their forms incorporeal, and yet their presence very physical, moved in unison, surrounding Celerim.

Fresh blood flowed through Celerim’s arms down the pommel and trickled down the blade of Sentinel.

The lissome form of Zaehran navigated through the crowd with urgency towards the two fighters.

“Lord Ellandor, you have taken it far. That is enough,” screamed the panic-stricken Lady Stormaire from the dais.

And then, ominous ripples travelled through the air behind and the portal tore open. In the vague twilight beyond, something stirred.