[center][i][b]Warrior Arena, Kinthar, Capital City of the Kinthari Imperium[/b][/i][/center]

	Bel-Khadan drew his greatsword into both hands, holding the tall weapon at the ready, his eyes not leaving his opponent, the sand beneath their feet gave way easily enough to their steps, as they circled one another the circle getting tighter and tighter with each step. The crowd was silent above them, watching in anticipation of the duel that had been the talk of the streets for nearly three weeks, the lowborn Elf who had stunned his High Elf brothers with his martial prowess, and now the fruits of his skills and training were before him, acceptance into the Swordmasters, immortality in the pages of history, proof that the average Elf could become one of the fabled Swordmasters. Korhal leapt forward suddenly, his weapon sweeping in and arc, low and precise, causing Bel-Khadan to jump back, the edge of Tyrion’s blade swinging through where his knee had been less than a second before. Focussing on the task at hand once more, the Elf brought his blade down in and overhead strike, hoping to use Tyrion’s posture to his advantage. The High Elf was far swifter than he appeared, laden down with a greatsword in his hands, and the weight of his scale armour and two longswords that were sheathed across his back, rolling to the left of the strike and coming up with his blade, grains of sand trailing the arc of the blade.

	Bel-Khadan couldn’t bring his own blade back up in time to parry the strike, so he twisted to the side, keeping his greatsword embedded in the sand and narrowly missing the keen edge of Tyrion, kicking out to gain some breathing room from the veteran Swordmaster. The pair backed away from one another, circling again as they feinted now and again trying to open a gap in each other’s defences, the crowd was cheering as barely ten seconds had passed from Tyrion’s first lunge, but the two warriors couldn’t hear the crowd, their thoughts were all gathered to the goal of victory, all their senses fixated on one another. Bel-Khadan lunged forward, sweeping his blade in a wide arc, sparks erupting from where Tyrion’s own blade met his, the loss of momentum cause Bel-Khadan to continue the swing in another direction, a complete rotation that was not in the usual patterns of a Swordmaster, causing Tyrion to tilt his blade to back to deflect it. Despite the many years Tyrion had on Bel-Khadan, this was something the Swordmaster liked about the elf, he didn’t give up, even if his original tactic failed, he would somehow twist something out to catch someone unawares. Both warriors were silent as they continued, each attack met with a parry, every thrust met with a counter, both twisting aside of blades, the crowd roaring around them. Bel-Khadan surged forward, catching Tyrion’s blade and locking the two together, the Swordmaster felt the sand give beneath his, he fell back a step, the young elf following him, keeping their blades locked, the elf possessed strength that was beyond normal, suddenly Tyrion felt the pressure ease and his eyes widened as he realise his mistake, Bel-Khadan’s armoured leg flashed out, catching the Swordmaster in the side of the knee with enough force to cause the Swordmaster to lose strength and fall to one knee in the sand, the heavy greatswords pushed closer to his chest. Tyrion smiled, he had not seen that coming, a trait he had learned to expect from Bel-Khadan, pushing back with all his strength, Tyrion released his hold on his greatsword, both hands gripping the hilts the pair of longswords on his back.

	Bel-Khadan watched carefully as Tyrion’s sword fell into the sand, keeping his distance of the two blades was his only tactic at the moment, with a greatsword, Tyrion was lethal, with his two swords; the Swordmaster was all but unstoppable. The crowd cheers loudly, as the Swordmaster danced closer, his left blade catching Bel-Khadan’s greatsword in the blink of the eye, his right coming around to try and catch the elf’s leg, Bel-Khadan leapt back from the strike, trying desperately to keep the distance to allow his greater reach to come back to his advantage, Tyrion was having none of it, keeping pace and easily deflecting attempts to ward him off. Both blades came down in an overhead strike, Bel-Khadan barely had a chance to raise his blade to block them, the impact driving him to one knee, Tyrion’s boot connected to his chest, sending him sprawling to the sand, his helm falling away to lay in the furrowed and marked sand around the pair. Tyrion leapt again, intending to end the duel at last, Bel-Khadan left his greatsword in the sand as he clambered to his feet, catching Tyrion mid-leap, both hands locking around the Swordmaster’s wrists, Tyrion’s surprise was evident on his face, as Bel-Khadan used his greater strength to manipulate Tyrion’s wrists, effectively causing the Swordmaster to avoid his own swords. He ducked back, the horsehair of his helm falling around him, and he felt Bel-Khadan release his hold on the Swordmaster’s wrists, pushing him back. Looking up, he watched the elf pick up his greatsword again, before pointing to the sand between them, several red strings lay in the sand, individual strands of the horsehair the was a part of his helm. Tyrion bowed his head in acknowledgement of how close he had come to losing the duel. Bel-Khadan readied himself again, before lunging forward, no longer trying to keep the distance, sparks flashed as blades struck, the sand around their feet rising as if the speed of their movements was creating a small whirlwind. And above them the citizenry of the Imperium cheered their joy of watching the duel, while in an arched booth, surrounded by ten Swordmasters, sat Emperor Bel-adir, his wife at his side, his son leaning against the edge of the booth.

“This elf is rather good,” his wife said, Lady Cristina was not fond of the Arena, she felt it was too warlike for the Imperium.

“Forgive me, Lady, but that elf is beyond good, he is facing a Blademaster, lasting this long is an achievement few can attain,” spoke one of the usually silent Swordmasters, his face hidden behind a veil of chainmail, his silvery eyes fixed on the duelling pair.

“Blademaster?” asked young Tyris, the Emperor’s son.

“The Blademasters, son, are the captains of the Swordmasters, theirs is the right to wear those additional blades, and often they are more lethal with their longswords than their greatswords,” answered Bel-adir, watching with interest as Bel-Khadan managed to yet again drive Tyrion to the sand.

	Tyrion breathed heavily as he got to his feet again, he could see the exhaustion was setting in on both of them, the way Bel-Khadan kept his greatsword closer to the ground now, and the aching in his own muscles spoke volumes. Not in his wildest dreams had he believed Bel-Khadan ready to last this long against him, he had tutored the elf, taught him everything there is to know of the Swordmasters, but this test was not supposed to be this way, he wanted to demonstrate Bel-Khadan’s skills to the entire Imperium, but he had not expected the closeness of the contest. With a light sigh, Tyrion lunged forward again, it was time to end this. Bel-Khadan managed to parry the first strike, and narrowly avoided the second, the third caused the him to almost lose his greatsword, the fourth drove him against the Arena wall, the fifth sparked against the wall as he ducked and rolled aside. Tyrion struggled to not let the exhaustion show as he followed the younger elf, his helm was stifling now, he couldn’t keep pace with him for much longer. Bel-Khadan leapt forward now, Tyrion parried the strike easily enough and twisted away, but Bel-Khadan kept with him, aiming high, Tyrion knocked the strike aside, deflecting it over his shoulder, and aimed to drive the point of his blade into Bel-Khadan’s thigh. His blade never reached the elf, he leapt back with his greatsword still at the ready, panting heavily, sweat dripping from his brow.

“Enough!” roared a voice from heavens, the crowd fell silent as they slowly lowered themselves back to their seats.

With a beat like thunder, the golden majesty that was Draugithar’nuin descended from the clouds, the great dragon settled atop one of the four towers that were a part of the Arena, his long tail wrapping around the marble building carefully, he was old enough to know how much power to exert when landing atop a building, tiny furrows were all that marked his landing on the tower, but he stared at the two combatants with eyes of blood red. Both warriors bowed towards him, before Emperor Bel-adir stepped forward from his booth.

“Forgive us Great One, but this contest is to first blood, as is the law of the Swordmasters,” stated Bel-adir, his voice carried to the Dragon easily despite the distance.

“And First Blood has been given, young Bel-adir,” declared the golden dragon.

Murmurs rose from the crowd, none had seen the blow, then Tyrion planted his swords in the sand, and removed his helmet, placing his hand against the side of his neck, he drew it back with a look of surprise, the red wetness of his blood covered his hand, and he rose it to the crowd. A thin line showed where Bel-Khadan’s greatsword had pressed against Tyrion’s flesh, but the speed and fury with which they had fought, neither had noticed. Tyrion closed his eyes as he replayed every scene of the duel, his mind stopping on the high strike he had deflected, had he not pushed the blade far enough away? Had Bel-Khadan noticed and leapt back while he, a Blademaster of the Swordmasters, had continued unknowing he had been bested?

“Well fought, lord Tyrion, and well won, young Bel-Khadan, welcome to the Swordmasters, you are a fine example of what even the average elf can attain through training and determination,” roared Draugithar’nuin, taking flight once more, his large frame vanishing into the sky.

The crowd roared their joy at the spectacle that was before them, Tyrion bowing to his fellow Swordmaster, before sheathing his two blades and picking up the helm that had been discarded by the young elf. Tyrion smiled at the thought of how long it would be before he had his own tail of horsehair flowing from the back of this. Bel-Khadan rose a fist to the sky in recognition of the crowd’s cheers, before following Tyrion towards the Arena exit, the Blademaster had stopped to pick up his own greatsword, and handed the elf his helm before clapping him on his back.

“You are one of us now, Bel-Khadan, and it only gets harder now,” said Tyrion, putting his helmet back into place.

“Only just, I feel like I’ll faint,” muttered Bel-Khadan.

“I wouldn’t, if you faint you’ll miss your first duty as a Swordmaster,”

Bel-Khadan’s eyes widened in shock, until he saw Tyrion was smiling, then laughing as the stamp of a dozen armoured feet closed towards them.

“Your first duty, celebrate your victory, it’s not every day a mentor is bested by his pupil, enjoy your victory Bel-Khadan, for tomorrow, you shall begin your duties as a Swordmaster, but for tonight, you can celebrate it how you wish,” said Tyrion, as the Swordmasters began to clap both on the back, and they clustered around their new comrade, leading him to the best inn in town.

From the shadows just out of sight, a beautiful woman stepped forward, Tyrion turning to face her with a smile. Cyrene Ravenhair smiled back at him, before they both made their own way silently back home. She knew the truth of the matter, Bel-Khadan had surprised the Imperium with his victory, but Tyrion had known it would happen, not through allowing the elf to land a blow against him, but because he suffered as all Blademasters suffered when their time was coming to an end, plagued by dreams of their death, but Fate was fickle, and gave no hint at when such an event would happen, but what Tyrion did know, as well as Cyrene, war burned on the horizon, but for who did it burn? Whoever it burned for, Tyrion knew his death lay within it's flames.