“You both know the conditions.” Gabriel Martin’s firm, quiet voice carried over the flats. “The duel will continue until one of you concedes or is killed. There will be no interference or intervention, and no weapons except the ones you carry now. Breaching any of these rules means that you forfeit the duel. Do you both understand and accept these terms?”

“Yes,” I answered, while the Patriarch simply nodded.

“Very well. The duel will start at twenty feet. When I give the signal, you will begin.”

Gripping my sword, I retreated the specified length and turned as the Patriarch did the same. I could feel Ember’s and Riley’s stares at my back, and saw Tristan several yards away, watching with his arms crossed and a grim look on his face. Martin raised his hand, paused a moment, then clenched his fist and stepped back, getting out of the way. The duel for my life, Tristan’s life and the lives of all the dragons I’d sworn to protect had officially begun.

The Patriarch sauntered forward, confident and self-assured, the blade still held at his side. But he moved with a lethal grace I’d seen all too often, in both enemies and friends. There was no question that he knew how to fight, and fight well. Raising my sword, I stepped forward to meet him.

We circled each other a moment, looking for openings, probing defenses and weaknesses. Our feet crushed salt beneath them, the noise rippling over the absolute silence as we circled warily, just studying our opponent. The Patriarch was taller, stronger and had a longer reach than me. I’d have to get well inside his guard to land a blow, while he could keep me at a distance.

“How does it feel, Sebastian?” The Patriarch’s voice was barely audible, meant only for my ears. “To be completely enslaved to the lizards? To know your soul is damned, but there is nothing you can do about it?”

I narrowed my eyes, circling just outside his reach. “Who are we speaking about?” I answered in an equally low voice. “Me, or yourself?”

The Patriarch gave a weary chuckle. “I know my soul is damned,” he said tiredly. “I am fully aware that I’ve made a deal with the devil, and the time will come when I must stand before God and answer for my crimes. But I am still the leader of this Order, and I can still eliminate our enemies. One day, I will break free of this contract, but for now, our enemies are dying and will continue to die as long as I am here to oversee it. Every death pushes the devils closer to extinction. That is worth the cost of my soul.”

Abruptly, the Patriarch lunged, sweeping his sword at my head. I leaped back, smacking the blade away, the clang of steel on steel ringing out in the silence. The Patriarch swung again, and I brought my sword up to block, but abruptly he twisted it and came in from another direction. I dodged, but the tip scored my face, right below my eye. Scrambling away, I braced for more attacks, but the Patriarch stopped and lowered his blade, smiling at his handiwork.

“First blood to me,” he said in satisfaction. “I hope you prayed before you came here, soldier.”

I took a steadying breath, weighing my options. That he was playing with me was troubling; he obviously knew more about swordplay than I did and was content to stretch this duel out for as long as he could. Or until I made a fatal mistake. I could feel blood trickling down my face and resisted the urge to wipe it away, keeping my attention on my opponent. I couldn’t banter with him. The longer we sparred, the smaller my chances of victory became. If I was going to beat the Patriarch, I had to do it now.

I lunged savagely, cutting at his face, making him blink and step back to avoid it. Quickly, I pressed that small advantage with an upward slice that made him retreat another step. I pursued him across the field with a series of slashes and cuts, intending to overwhelm him and give him no chance to recover.

The Patriarch smiled. Parrying a slash, he sidestepped with the motion, appearing behind me in a blindingly quick move, and brought his weapon slicing across my back. I felt the bite of the sword edge rip through my shirt a second before the pain hit and I stifled a yell of agony. I whirled, barely managing to keep my feet, as the Patriarch stepped forward and casually pointed the tip of his sword at my face.

“Yield, soldier,” he said. “The fight is lost. I promise to give you a quick death if you renounce your blasphemous crimes and beg forgiveness of the Order. Put down your sword, and I will end your pain and send you to God with a clean conscience. Your dragon friends would not do the same.”

“No,” I panted, raising my sword as I backed up a few steps. My back and left shoulder burned like they were on fire, and every motion sent a fresh stab of pain up my spine. It was a long, shallow gash, parting muscle and skin, more painful than deadly. I could still stand, and if I could stand, I could fight. I would not yield. I would see this through to the end, for her.