The air was crisp and cold upon the plateau of the Citadel. It was eerily quiet in the courtyard, the familiar silence of dawn that seemed to sap the energy from anyone unlucky enough to be up at such an hour. The vivid hues of daybreak were somewhat sullen this sunrise, though; drained by the thick dark clouds above. The customary moistness of morning added a cool humidity to the climate inside the courtyard’s low walls, but it did little to wet the dry throats of the three Arconans perched above Estle. The courtyard was a picture of beauty: luscious grass, marbled walkways and flowerbeds that decked the opening to the Citadel. All of it a wonderful façade for what went on behind the onyx walls.
Wuntila stood in front of the Citadel, garbed in a heavy black cloak that fluttered mildly with the breeze. Celevon and Cassandra looked at their Proconsul and knelt, bowing their heads as they did so.
“You are both here because you chose to look fate in the eyes. Remember the rules, don’t get ahead of yourselves and fight like Arconans.” Wuntila turned on his heel, his cloak billowing, and disappeared into the shadow of the Citadel.
Both fighters looked at each other and rose. They marched off in opposite directions and faced each other, waiting in anticipation for their signal.
They didn’t have to wait long.
“Begin!” The Proconsul barked. The two combatants heard the heavy stone doors of the Citadel echo across Estle.