Rashan felt the sharp spike of adrenaline surge through his veins, transforming into a clear, focused intensity. His heart pounded steadily, rhythmically, driving away all distractions. Across the chamber, Eldanaris stood poised—his posture confident yet cautious, his seasoned eyes locked intently onto Rashan.
With precise timing, Rashan activated Splitcut, feeling the spell ripple softly through his blade. The heavy orichalcum sword shifted subtly in his hands—not becoming weightless, but taking on the more familiar heft of a well-balanced longsword, enabling swift, decisive movements. He sprang forward immediately, his momentum explosive and graceful, closing the distance with startling speed.
Eldanaris's eyes widened, momentary surprise flickering across his composed features as Rashan's blade descended faster than anticipated. Instinctively, the Altmer stepped backward, narrowly avoiding the initial strike. The orichalcum ruler slammed into the stone floor with thunderous force, splintering the stone beneath in a web of hairline fractures, its mass fully restored at the last instant.
Without hesitation, Eldanaris countered fluidly, pivoting into a practiced upward slash aimed precisely at Rashan's exposed side.
Rashan moved smoothly, his muscles guided by ingrained training. He used the momentum of his missed strike, allowing the briefly lighter blade to carry him into a tight, agile pivot. Ducking beneath the elder elf's precise attack, he released the Splitcut spell mid-motion. Immediately, the full, crushing weight of the orichalcum sword returned, its presence solid and reassuring in his grip.
The reverse swing surged with overwhelming force.
Their blades met violently, steel shrieking against orichalcum, sparks erupting in a brilliant cascade. The powerful collision reverberated sharply through Eldanaris's arm, jolting his grip and forcing him back two stumbling steps. Grimacing, he glanced hastily at his enchanted blade to ensure it remained intact—relieved to find no cracks.
A determined glare hardened Eldanaris's expression as he swiftly channeled power, unleashing a potent blast of lightning from his fingertips. Jagged, brilliant arcs surged toward Rashan, crackling loudly through the charged air.
Without missing a beat, Rashan's ward snapped into existence—a shimmering barrier of white-blue light intercepting the torrent of electricity. Eldanaris clenched his jaw, pouring additional magicka into the relentless assault, lightning bolts hammering against the ward with fierce, snapping energy.
Yet Rashan pressed forward relentlessly, step by step, ward unwavering against the continuous assault. Eldanaris felt a chill deepening in his chest, frustration and disbelief merging.
Realizing the futility, Eldanaris abruptly ceased his lightning attack, readjusting his stance and lunging forward, blade raised and ready for close combat.
As Rashan closed in, he reached for one of the throwing daggers strapped beneath his belt and snapped it forward with a fluid flick of his wrist. The weapon spun silently through the air, a streak of motion under moonlight. Eldanaris tracked it with precision, angling his sword with a sharp twist of his wrist and slicing the blade from the air like it was nothing. The second dagger came a breath later—faster, tighter. This time, Eldanaris rotated his torso with practiced grace, letting the steel whisper past his shoulder.
The distance between them vanished in a heartbeat. Rashan triggered Splitcut again—his blade responding instantly, moving with deceptive speed. Eldanaris saw the shift, the change in weight and momentum, and reacted. He stepped sharply into Rashan's guard, using the closeness to drive his elbow into Rashan's ribs with a meaty, bone-thudding impact.
But Rashan didn't fold.
Instead, the shimmering pulse of ironflesh beneath the mask flared, and the blow was blunted against magically reinforced muscle. His vitality absorbed the impact like sand catching a hammer, dispersing the force. Eldanaris felt it, felt the resistance, and knew—this wasn't ordinary fortitude. This man was built for war.
Then the counterstrike came.
The ruler blade, heavy and recharged to full mass, surged into a broad arc. Eldanaris barely had time to respond. He dropped his weight, shoulder hitting the stone with a muted thud as he rolled backward, feeling the blade's rush graze the air where his neck had just been. He flowed through the motion with almost ritual grace, rising to his feet in a single, seamless movement.
A sharp exhale cut through his lips, his focus razor-edged.
The form was beautiful—surgical, but fluid. This wasn't brute strength; it was discipline, a craftsman's violence. And yet… how in Auri-El's name was he wielding such a weight with such ease?
The next blow snapped forward—fast, clean. Eldanaris met it, parried, and pain rippled down through his forearm to his shoulder. His bones rattled under the strain.
Then, in the flare of sparks and shrieking metal, he caught it—a flicker of green light pulsing from Rashan's hand.
Magic.
His breath hitched, not in fear, but fascination. He wanted to peel back the layers of this opponent, dissect him spell by spell, rune by rune. Who was he?
Eldanaris narrowed his eyes, stepped in, feinted once. A flick of the wrist. A promise of steel. He needed contact. Just one opening. He had a dagger hidden, sheath stitched tight beneath his robes, always in reach. A shallow stab could turn the tide.
He feinted again—this time wove magic into the motion. A crackle laced the strike. One bolt slipped past the ward and struck Rashan's shoulder, a hiss of lightning and heat—but Rashan didn't flinch. His vitality absorbed it, grounding the energy like water on stone.
Fascinating.
He wasn't old. Eldanaris saw it now—the fine edge of youth, smooth skin peeking beneath the mask. And the movements? Refined, but not yet eroded by age or repetition.
Then he noticed it. The rhythm. Rashan switched grips like a duelist with something to prove—moving from one-handed speed to two-handed weight and back again. He wasn't pressing an advantage—he was dictating the rhythm.
No. Eldanaris would not take a two-handed strike. He was biding his time, counting tempo like a symphony conductor waiting to cut the beat.
He adjusted sharply, stepping back into Rashan's guard just as the tempo peaked, throwing the rhythm off like a false note in a perfect measure.
Rashan was enjoying this far more than he should have. His lungs drew steady, unfaltering breaths, his limbs loose and ready. He wasn't winded—not even close. If anything, he felt charged, electrified. Every parry, every step was sharp, measured, alive. Gods, this was exhilarating.
He had options. Several, in fact—ways to end the fight cleanly, efficiently. But he ignored them. Not yet. He wanted to try something. Something he'd poured hours into, practiced until it was burned into muscle memory. It had never felt quite right in drills. Now was the moment to test it.
Crashmark.
The inverse of Splitcut—a calculated reversal. Not a spell to lighten the blade, but to amplify its mass exponentially mid-motion. Done right, it turned a swing into a meteor.
The fight stretched like a drawn bowstring, tension humming in every breath. Then—the moment.
Eldanaris saw what he thought was an opening. Rashan had shifted his grip to one hand, slashing at an angle that carried only a fraction of the blade's full power—eighty percent, no more. It was bait. Eldanaris took it.
Perfect.
He grinned, slipping into the gap with his sword raised. Rashan's ruler blade came in, wide and deceptively slow.
In that suspended moment—where breath and motion fell silent—Rashan cast Crashmark.
The magic surged through the blade. It grew heavier by the heartbeat. Not gradually—instantly. The spell compressed its mass, tripled its weight, and unleashed it all at the end of its arc.
Eldanaris's eyes sparkled with triumph. Rashan could practically hear his thoughts: angled deflection, dagger in the offhand, finish it with finesse.
Stylish, Rashan thought. On someone else, it might have worked.
Then the world collapsed.
Rashan's blade met Eldanaris's sword with an earsplitting crash. Steel groaned. Enchantments flared and cracked. The high elf's blade chipped, twisted, and was ripped from his hands like it had been snatched by a god. The impact roared like a war drum through the fort.
But it didn't end there.
The ruler blade kept going.
Rashan's smile bloomed beneath the mask.
Eldanaris's eyes widened, lips parting in instinctive disbelief.
Then came the blow. The orichalcum slammed into his ribs with an explosive, sickening crunch. The magic in his ironflesh spell shimmered, absorbed some of it—but it was like sand trying to stop a boulder. His vitality flared too late, too weakly.
Rashan felt the shock ripple up the handle, a deep reverberation that told him everything he needed to know. Bone shattered. Something tore. Organs shifted and collapsed under the impact.
Eldanaris bent around the strike like a reed caught in a hurricane.
His skin turned pale as chalk. He could no longer feel the weight of his own limbs.
Agony wrapped around him like fire. Every breath was razors. His mind clawed for focus—he had to stay awake. He had to activate the rune that would allow him to commit suicide… he couldn't be captured!
Then the pain stole even that.
And he fell.