Page 86 of The War of Four Winters

Captain Malek approached with two servants. They carried matching spears of polished copper-clad wood and lightweight shields decorated with flowing wave patterns in blue and gold.

"The ritual cleansing begins our preparation," Captain Malek explained, offering a small copper bowl filled with water scented with unfamiliar herbs. "It marks you as a participant in the sacred trial."

He dipped his fingers into the bowl and drew a symbol on my forehead, a curved line that resembled flowing water. The scented liquid felt cool against my skin, its subtle fragrance clearing my mind and sharpening my senses.

"What does this symbol mean?" I asked, as he completed the marking.

"The flow of life," he replied simply. "As water finds its path around all obstacles, so must a true duelist adapt to any challenge." He gestured to the weapons. "Choose your spear and shield. They are perfectly matched in weight and balance, crafted by our finest artisans."

I tested each spear briefly, selecting the one that felt most natural in my grip. The shield was lighter than those I had trained with in Ostovan, designed for quick movement and deflection rather than brute force blocking. The entire kit felt perfectly balanced for a dueling style that would emphasize agility and precision over power.

"The sand marks the boundaries," Captain Malek continued. "Step beyond it, by accident or design, and you forfeit the trial. The water pool at the center is sacred ground. Neither combatant may cross it, though you may circle around."

Lady Sariel had emerged from a side chamber in a fitted dueling outfit of deep red silk with lightweight armor at vital points. She moved to the edge of the sand circle, her own forehead marked with the flowing water symbol, her hands testing the balance of her selected spear with practiced familiarity.

"The Trial of Flowing Waters has three possible outcomes," she explained as she took her position. "First blood, boundary crossing, or surrender. No fatal strikes are permitted, but injuries will not be prevented." Her amber eyes held mine. "Are you prepared, human consort?"

I nodded, stepping onto the sand with more confidence than I truly felt. The fine red grains shifted slightly beneath my boots, requiring subtle adjustments in balance. I positioned the shield on my left arm, feeling its perfect weight distribution, and took the spear in my right hand.

"May water witness our truth," Lady Sariel intoned formally. "May sand record our steps. May copper sing our conviction."

A soft tone sounded from a struck copper bowl resonating through the pavilion. The Trial of Flowing Waters had begun.

Lady Sariel moved as if gravity had suddenly released her. She glided across the sand with fluid grace, her spear held at a perfect angle to initiate either attack or defense. I adjusted my stance, shield raised to protect my center while my spear extended in a guard position I had practiced countless times on Ostovan's training grounds.

Her first thrust came with remarkable speed, testing my defenses rather than committing fully. I deflected it with my shield, the impact lighter than expected as she instantly withdrew to a ready position. We circled each other warily, each movement leaving delicate patterns in the red sand beneath our feet.

"You favor a defensive posture," she observed, her breathing controlled and even. "Unusual for a warrior of your experience."

"In Ostovan, we're taught to assess before committing," I replied, watching her footwork carefully. The way she distributed her weight revealed much about her likely next move.

"Wise," she acknowledged, "yet sometimes hesitation costs more than action."

As if demonstrating her point, she suddenly advanced with a combination of thrust and sweep that forced me to retreat. Her spear moved like an extension of her arm, each motion flowing into the next with seamless precision. I blocked two strikes with my shield and parried a third with my own spear, the copper-clad weapons meeting with a musical chime that resonated through the pavilion.

We separated again, circling the water pool at the center. Lady Sariel moved with the confidence of someone who had never tasted defeat in this circle, her amber eyes evaluating my technique with professional interest.

I knew I couldn't match her technical mastery—not on her native ground, not with a lifetime of training in this specific style. But I had spent years adapting to larger, stronger opponents. I trained with Andrej, who was twice my size and often defeated him handily. The spearmaster who taught me was from Qet, and it was said Qet’s warriors were born with spears in their hands. Those lessons, combined with what I'd learned since meeting Ruith, had taught me to adapt where I couldn't overpower.

Instead of waiting for her next attack, I launched my own. My spear darted forward in quick succession, forcing Lady Sariel to defend rather than attack.

Surprise flickered across her face as she parried my strikes. "Interesting technique," she commented, retreating a half-step. "Neither human nor elven, from what I can tell."

"Something new," I confirmed, maintaining pressure. "Like the world we're trying to build."

She smiled widely. "Well articulated through both word and weapon."

The duel intensified, each of us seeking advantage while respecting the ritualistic nature of the combat. Lady Sariel's technique was flawless, every movement economical and precise. My own style was more adaptive, incorporating elements from multiple traditions as needed. We circled the sacred pool, our shadows dancing across its reflective surface as we tested each other's skill and resolve.

The watching crowd had fallen completely silent, their attention fixed on the unprecedented spectacle of a human dueling their clan leader in the sacred trial. Each exchange of blows drew subtle reactions. A collective intake of breath at a particularly close thrust, a murmur of appreciation for an elegant parry.

Time seemed to stretch and compress simultaneously. My world narrowed to the circle of sand, to the rhythmic patterns of attack and defense, to the constant adjustments required to counter Lady Sariel's fluid style. Sweat dampened my clothing despite the morning coolness, the water symbol on my forehead threatening to run with each exertion.

Then came the opening I had been watching for. Lady Sariel executed a perfect thrust, but in her confidence, extended slightly further than necessary. I pivoted rather than retreating, letting her spear pass within inches of my ribs while simultaneously sweeping my own weapon toward her extended arm.

She recognized her vulnerability an instant too late. Though she attempted to withdraw, my spear's tip grazed her forearm, drawing a thin line of crimson against her copper skin.

First blood.

---