Lindarion moved first.
A burst of lightning shot from his feet, propelling him forward like a thunderclap. His first strike came in low, Zerathis glowing with divine light so bright it turned the courtyard shadows to ash.
The Sword Saint met it with a single, clean parry. The force of the impact split the flagstones beneath them, the shockwave blowing back dust and loose rubble.
Before the Saint could counter, Lindarion's follow-up came, a sweep of darkness affinity, so dense it swallowed light, followed instantly by a pillar of fire roaring upward from under the Saint's position.
The crowd, demons lining the walls, soldiers peering from balconies, roared at the display, a mix of awe and bloodlust.
But the Saint moved through it all like water flowing around stone. His blade cut through the darkness, dispersing it into harmless vapor, then angled just so, diverting the fire pillar into a harmless spray of molten sparks.
Lindarion pressed harder.
