Soren just laughed, the sound bright and dangerous.
"My turn, Your Majesty."
The crowd murmured, the sound rippling through the ranks of guards and servants who had gathered on the ramparts to watch. Jorel Draen stepped forward. He didn't take a practice sword. He drew his twin steel blades, the metal singing as it left the scabbards.
Soren gripped his practice sword, his heart leaping. "Now this will be a proper fight."
Jorel offered a slight, knowing smirk. "Don't hold back on my account, Sire."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
They began to circle. Jorel's style was unlike anything taught in the Nevarian academies. He used a "Featherfall" stance, staying light on the balls of his feet, his body swaying like a reed in a storm. Then, he exploded into motion.
