The duel stretched on, minute after brutal minute, the sand beneath them churned into paste from their boots.
At first glance, it seemed a one-sided slaughter.
Lord Gregor pressed forward like an unstoppable force, his axe carving deadly arcs through the air, each swing forcing Talek into desperate retreats. The boy danced backward, his warhammer raised more in response to force Gregor to break his offenses rahter than to deliver damage, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The crowd watched in hushed anticipation, murmurs rippling through the stands—Gregor has this. The boy is finished.
But the two fighters knew better.
Between the clashes of steel, in the half-seconds where they broke apart, chests heaving, the truth became clear:
Gregor was slowing down.
