Steel rang against steel in a staccato rhythm, too fast for the human eye to follow. Every time Lindarion thought he saw an opening, the Sword Saint was already there, intercepting, deflecting, countering.
It wasn't just speed, it was control.
The Saint dictated the tempo, every motion honed by decades, maybe centuries, of combat. Lindarion had fought mages, assassins, beasts the size of mountains, but this was different. The Sword Saint fought like the battlefield belonged to him, as if every step Lindarion took was a trespass.
The Saint turned a parry into a riposte with surgical precision, his blade sliding along Zerathis' darkened edge before twisting into a downward diagonal slash. Lindarion caught it, the shock rippling up his arm hard enough to make his fingers tingle.
"Your strength has grown," the Saint said evenly, pushing down. "But strength without discipline is wasted."
Lindarion's lips curled in frustration. "Discipline won't save you from this."
