The morning light filtered through the tall, open windows of the training grounds in Onymë Ennorë, casting golden beams on the polished stone floor. The air was alive with anticipation, as word had spread throughout the city: Anórien, the High King of the Avari, would face his son, Arinyanénar, in a friendly duel.
The gathered crowd included warriors, craftsmen, and healers alike, all eager to witness the clash between father and son. Some whispered that it was a test, a way for Anórien to measure his son's growth, while others speculated that it was simply the fiery spirit of the House Emlithor manifesting in good-natured competition.
Arinyanénar stood in the center of the training ring, dressed in a sleeveless tunic that revealed the well-defined muscles of his arms. Amanarótar was secured in his hand, its golden blade catching the sunlight. He rolled his shoulders, exuding confidence, but his mind was sharp, focused. This wasn't a battle, but he knew his father would not hold back.
Across from him, Anórien grinned, his fiery orange-red eyes gleaming. He wore light armor, Solarion gleaming with a faint glow. It was a weapon just like Amanarótar, crafted by Aule himself and imbued with a power that seemed to mirror the sun.
"You've grown strong, my son," Anórien said, twirling the spear effortlessly in his hand. "But strength alone doesn't win battles. Let's see if you've learned that yet."
"Come then," Arinyanénar replied, his golden eyes alight with challenge. "Let's see if your age has slowed you, Father."
Anórien laughed heartily, planting the butt of his spear on the ground. "Age only makes us sharper, boy. Let me show you."
The signal to begin was given, and Anórien exploded into action. His spear shot forward like a bolt of lightning, the polished tip aimed straight for Arinyanénar's chest.
Arinyanénar moved just as quickly, sidestepping with a dancer's grace. The spear's tip grazed his tunic, but he was already spinning away, bringing Amanarótar up in a fluid arc to parry the next thrust. Sparks flew as sword met spear, the clash echoing across the training grounds.
Anórien grinned. "Good. You're faster than I expected."
"You haven't seen anything yet," Arinyanénar shot back, lunging forward.
He struck low, aiming for Anórien's legs, but the older elf pivoted smoothly, his spear coming down to block the attack. The force of the collision reverberated through both weapons, and Anórien used the momentum to sweep his spear upward in a wide arc.
Arinyanénar ducked, rolling to the side and coming up with his sword ready. He attacked again, this time feinting to the right before slashing left. The blade of Amanarótar sang through the air, glowing faintly with golden flames.
Anórien barely avoided the strike, the heat from the blade brushing his armor. "Clever," he admitted, stepping back to gain some distance. "But you'll need more than tricks to win."
He lunged forward, his spear moving like a serpent. Arinyanénar deflected the strikes, but the relentless assault forced him to retreat. Anórien pressed his advantage, spinning his spear in a dazzling display of skill that kept his son on the defensive.
Then, with a sudden burst of speed, Anórien thrust the spear forward, aiming for Arinyanénar's shoulder.
Arinyanénar reacted instinctively. He twisted his body to the side, letting the spear graze past him, and stepped inside his father's guard. With a swift, upward strike, he knocked the spear aside and brought Amanarótar to bear.
For a moment, the two were locked in place, Arinyanénar's blade inches from Anórien's neck, while Anórien's spear was poised to pierce his son's ribs.
The crowd held its breath.
Then Anórien stepped back, lowering his spear with a grin. "Impressive," he said, his tone carrying both pride and amusement. "But we're not done yet."
Anórien planted his spear in the ground, and it glowed with a radiant light. The gathered elves shielded their eyes as the spear summoned a burst of flame that surrounded its wielder.
"Show me if you can withstand the sun's fury!" Anórien declared, his voice booming across the arena.
Arinyanénar didn't falter. He held up Amanarótar, the golden blade igniting in response. The flames danced along its edge, matching the brilliance of his father's spear.
"Then I'll show you the dawn's strength!" Arinyanénar replied.
They charged at each other, fire meeting fire in a dazzling explosion of light and heat. The clash of their weapons shook the ground, and the crowd gasped as both combatants moved with incredible speed, their strikes and parries too fast for the eye to follow.
Arinyanénar spun and leapt, his sword dancing through the air like a living flame. He combined the elegance of his sword-dancing with the raw power of his training, forcing his father to match his pace.
Anórien laughed as they fought, clearly enjoying the challenge. "You're good, boy. Very good. But let's see how you handle this!"
He thrust his spear forward, and a wave of flame erupted from its tip, rushing toward Arinyanénar like a tidal wave.
Arinyanénar didn't hesitate. He swung Amanarótar in a wide arc, its golden flames cutting through the inferno. The force of his strike sent the flames scattering harmlessly around him.
Then he charged, using the momentum to close the distance. With a final, powerful strike, he knocked the spear from his father's hands and held Amanarótar to Anórien's throat.
Anórien froze, a wide grin spreading across his face. "You win, my son," he said, his voice filled with pride.
The crowd erupted into cheers as Arinyanénar lowered his blade and stepped back, breathing heavily. Anórien picked up his spear and clapped his son on the shoulder.
"Well done," he said. "You've truly become a warrior worthy of your name."
Arinyanénar smiled, but there was no arrogance in his expression, only gratitude. "Thank you, Father."
As they left the arena together, the crowd parted to let them pass, their cheers echoing through the halls of Onymë Ennorë. It was a moment Arinyanénar would remember, not just for the victory but for the bond it had strengthened between him and his father.