The night enveloped the meadow in a blanket of darkness, broken only by the silvery light of the moon and the flicker of torches held by the small audience.
Right about this time, most of the nobles were engaged in a post-dinner feast after spending the entire day in the forest. An anticipatory silence replaced the distant cheers of the revelers. This clearing was a place for a different kind of celebration—one that would be marked by the clash of steel between generations.
Vyan stood with his sword poised, his stance relaxed yet alert, eyes locked on Eryndor. The old man mirrored his grandson, a lifetime of battles etched into the lines of his stern face. Despite his age, Eryndor's grip was steady, his eyes as sharp as his blade.
"Last chance to back down, Your Grace," Vyan called out, a smirk playing on his lips. "I wouldn't want you pulling a muscle. Or worse, your pride."
