The clash of blades had become its own language, every strike, every parry, every pivot a question answered by force.
Sparks lit the sand like scattered stars as Jorel lunged again, his twin blades singing through the air.
"Why are you here?" Jorel demanded, between blows, his breath sharp, the words slicing through the din.
The Stranger's sword met his mid-swing with a ringing clang, forcing him back. "No. Why are YOU here?"
Their blades locked, faces inches apart, one hidden behind a visor, the other streaked with sweat and firelight.
Jorel pushed, teeth bared. "My father," he spat, breaking away, swinging again. "They said he murdered a noble." Strike. "They hanged him." Parry. "Called him butcher." Step, pivot, slash. "But I know he didn't do it."
The Stranger sidestepped, blade flashing in a downward sweep that caught Jorel's right sword and sent a jolt through his arm. "How can you be sure?" he asked, not mockingly. It sounded… genuine. Curious.
