Arthus hailed from a house of warriors, bound by the martial traditions of his kin; he had chosen the path of the blade. To those watching, they had expected this day to be nothing more than another trivial amusement for Arthus, much like every contest before it.
The gathered nobles had never, in their wildest imaginings, expected to see a swordsman of Arthus's calibre in such a dishevelled, battered state. Nor could they conceive of a young magis daring to handle him with such clinical ruthlessness—a feat none before had possessed the audacity to attempt. They fixed their gaze upon Seraph, etching his name into their memories with a newfound, hungry interest.
Within the arena, all motion succumbed to a deathly stillness. Seraph remained rooted to his mark, regarding the young knight with a gaze of glacial indifference. Since the onset of the bout, he had not shifted so much as an inch; yet, his eyes remained anchored upon the flame warrior, never wavering for a heartbeat.
'The man is far from frail,' Seraph privately evaluated his adversary. 'With that enchanted panoply and that blade, this knight possesses a raw power exceeding that of a goblin alpha. His only failing is a dire lack of authentic combat experience—and a hide that lacks the unnatural resilience of a demon.'
Indeed, almost the instant he struck the sands, Arthus surged back to his feet with fluid, acrobatic grace. His metal boots bit into the arena floor, anchoring him with the unyielding permanence of a mountain root. The Flamestone claymore remained levelled at the young magis. Remarkably, he bore no visible injury, appearing as pristine as he had at the first stroke of the midday sun. Only his features had hardened into a mask of absolute gravity, his white-knuckled grip betraying a burgeoning intensity as the thermal haze began to scorch the very air.
"I'll concede you've a formidable strength," Arthus remarked, his voice now chillingly devoid of its former heat. "I've long sought an adversary of your standing."
Impatience and a volatile temper were Arthus's birthright; he was a man who traditionally pursued his own whims, deaf to the counsel of others. Yet today, for the first time, the spectators bore witness to a chilling composure—a serene focus they had never seen him manifest. Furthermore, the fiery aura radiating from his frame had shifted, taking on a weight that was entirely alien to his usual bluster.
"I am Prince Arthus of Arkflame! And this—is Flamestone!" Arthus proclaimed, his voice ringing with the height of martial honour.
The revelation fell from his lips as his aura flared with a newfound brilliance. At the onset, Arthus had deigned to offer no such greeting, striking without warning—a slight against any opponent's dignity. Yet now, by declaring his name and station amidst the sands, he offered the formal acknowledgement of a worthy foe; it was the supreme honour Seraph could receive from a Prince of Arkflame.
The young magis's eyes narrowed, scrutinising the highborn warrior. Seraph had long suspected as much; he was hardly surprised by the man's exalted station. Though Sophia had withheld his royal title, 'Arthus' was no common name; indeed, only one in the realm of Arkflame bore it—the Second Prince himself.
"Seraph Arkstorm, of the Sanctus Sanctum," Seraph countered, his voice as flat and unyielding as ever.
The air between them seemed to crackle as their gazes locked. Both settled into their stances, tracking every minute shift in the other's posture. Arthus's gauntlets tightened around his hilt as he lunged, once again seizing the initiative.
[Scritch!]
Metal boots scraped across the arena floor, spitting sparks as Arthus charged like a living wildfire. Sweltering heat billowed from his blade, the thermal distortion making the steel appear even more massive than before. He possessed the raw might of the inferno; while his celerity was not unparalleled, his offensive power was harrowing.
The flame knight breached the magis's reach, bringing Flamestone down in a violent arc. The blade lanced with a visceral crimson light as it swept toward the earth, intent on cleaving Seraph in two with a single, merciless stroke.
Seraph glided through the air with feline grace, banking above the lethal arc of the steel before unleashing a relentless volley of counter-spells. The collision of blade and mageia erupted in a chaotic symphony; several ancient trees beyond the perimeter were shorn in two, their trunks splintering like dry kindling. A screeching resonance of metal against mageia force reverberated through the Stormcloud Citadel, forcing many to cover their ears to shield their senses from the cacophony.
[Spark! Boom!]
The pair traded blows in a protracted dance of attrition. Arthus was a swordsman of undeniable might, yet his cumbersome plate and reliance on raw power left him with a conspicuous deficit in celerity.
Though Seraph employed only his ventus mageia, the sheer velocity it granted him ensured the knight could not so much as graze the hem of his white cloak. Furthermore, the young man's wind-based evocations were no longer the frail whispers of his past; their concussive force now bore a punishing, heavy weight.
As the duel stretched across the gruelling hours, the inevitable conclusion—foreshadowed since the opening gambit—became absolute. The young magis of Sanctus possessed a preternatural endurance; not once throughout the ordeal was he brought to his knees. Even when Arthus managed a successful strike, he found his steel arrested by a shimmering mageia shield, unable to breach the young man's inner sanctum.
Conversely, Arthus became the anvil to Seraph's hammer. Despite his formidable defence and dogged refusal to stay down, the toll of the hours began to bleed him dry. The heavy plate that had once been his fortress had transmuted into a leaden anchor, dragging him down beneath the relentless tide of spells.
Finally, as Arthus collapsed for a count that no one could track, an unspoken truth settled over the crowd. Though no official arbiter had yet proclaimed the end, it was clear to every soul present that the Prince of Arkflame had run out of roads to victory.
None among the gathered multitude dared call Arthus frail; had they stood in the stead of the Flame Throne's scion, they would likely have succumbed before the first incantation had even fully manifested. This served only to illuminate the staggering, almost incomprehensible potency of the magis Seraph.
It was a well-worn truth that in the seasons of one's youth, a magis's power is at its most nascent; the spectators dared not conceive the harrowing heights Seraph might scale in the cycles to come.
The violent, suffocating struggle had endured for six gruelling hours, stretching from the swelter of high noon to the encroaching shadows of dusk. The firmament above the arena began to bleed into a bruised violet; the sun was in retreat, and the moon's ascent was imminent, heralded by the first biting draughts of the evening chill.
At the arena's heart lay the young knight, his fiery aura finally extinguished, his golden plate mired in the grit of defeat. Conversely, the young magis remained at his mark, having scarcely shifted from his starting ground. Throughout the entire ordeal, Seraph had maintained his sovereign territory, repelling every royal assault and casting the red-haired man back time and again.