Gorak stepped back. A single drop of dark blood rolled down his collarbone and hit the stone.
The hundred female Troglodytes in the crowd erupted. They slammed their spears against the floor, creating a deafening war-beat. First blood belonged to the old guard.
Immediately, she unleashed a blinding flurry of strikes from every angle. But as the seconds ticked by, the reality of the duel became obvious.
Gorak was not actually fighting.
The Warlord kept his hands open. He merely parried her weapon, shifting his weight just enough to deflect the blows. He was an impenetrable wall playing pure defense. He refused to throw a single offensive punch.
Up on the balcony, Iron-Scale tapped the polished, razor-sharp blade of his scythe against the stone railing. The ringing metal cut right through the cheering crowd.
