Everyone had thought the duel would be over in seconds. And it was.
But the result was the complete opposite of what they had imagined. Sigrid had lost—not through injury, not through exhaustion, but through the most fundamental disgrace a knight could suffer.
She had lost her weapon!
A knight's blade was her life. Her soul. Every centaur learned this from the moment they could stand. They gripped their swords with the same tenacity they gripped their own existence.
Even the greenest amateur understood: you never let go.
The moment the sword leaves your hand, your life leaves with it.
And Commander Sigrid, the strongest among them had committed this most amateur of mistakes.
Poppy tugged on Thea's hair. "Thea! What happened? Why did Sigrid's sword fly away?"
"I...I don't know, my Lady. But...it looks like Sigrid doesn't know either."
And it was true.
Sigrid stood motionless, gazing down at her empty hands as though they belonged to someone else.
