Deus Necros

Titania simply watched

Ludwig dropped from the branch without ceremony, his cloak catching briefly in the wind before settling across his shoulders like a curtain falling on an unfinished act. He hit the ground light on his feet this time, sword drawn again. The ringing ache in his wrist had faded, but the memory of how she struck lingered. It was precise. Deliberate. There was no wasted effort, no excessive movement. And that alone unnerved him more than brute force would have.

He didn’t waste words this time.

He came forward with a renewed thrust, clean, center-line, all his weight committed behind the tip of Oathcarver. A textbook move. Predictable. Obvious. But his speed was sharp, the angle true, and the intent deadly.

Titania’s only reply was a quiet, disappointed click of her tongue. It was the kind of sound one made when spotting a stain on silk, not when dodging an attack that could sever a boar in half.

The twig in her hand, still glowing with that soft ethereal blue, met the strike with a simple flick.

A deflection.

Not even a true parry, just enough to misalign the trajectory.

And with the backhand return of the same movement, she flicked the branch across Ludwig’s face with pinpoint accuracy.

[ -1 HP ]

His head snapped back, but he didn’t stumble. He stood firm, if only barely, his jaw tightening beneath his breath.

“Son of a…” He held himself from finishing the curse.

“Don’t dally,” she interrupted, already closing the distance again. Her tone wasn’t amused. It was instructive. Chiding. Like a tutor mildly disappointed with a student’s lazy stroke.

Then she struck.

Not a single blow, but a sequence.

Her body moved like it had shed its weight, like gravity forgot her. She moved through the grass like a butterfly catching wind from invisible wings, and her attacks came without pause. The first was a testing jab, an elegant prod, searching for weakness. Ludwig jerked his shoulder back, Oathcarver catching the motion mid-swing. He blocked it.

Barely.

The second swing came faster, closer. Ludwig’s sword was too far extended to recover in time. He could do nothing but watch it slide just past his face, a breath’s width from carving through his cheek. He turned into the motion, hoping to catch the counter-angle.

The third blow struck.

It wasn’t flashy. Wasn’t fast, and wasn’t too heavy. It simply struck his right shoulder with enough force to shove his balance off axis and send him staggering three full paces, boots scraping across roots and undergrowth.

He caught himself. One knee down. Sword up.

The ache spread through dead muscle like heat through ice. He could still move, still fight, but Titania wasn’t even breathing hard.

“You’re improving,” she said then, and there was something different in her voice. Less dismissive. Measured. “That one didn’t send you flying.”

He didn’t respond to the mocking tone. He couldn’t. His mind was tracing her movements, not her words. Each pivot of her hips, the shift of her weight, the subtle signs she gave just before a strike. Her footwork didn’t follow rhythm, it controlled it. Her wrist twitched half a second before her arm moved. Her center of balance remained low. If he could just,

“Try a low feint,” came the Knight King’s voice, quiet but sharp in the silence between them.

Ludwig lunged again.

This time, he wasn’t testing her guard. He was testing her instincts.

He dipped his blade toward her shin, not to strike, but to invite a reaction. His weight shifted quickly, upper body twisting to convert the arc into a vertical swing. A trap. One designed not to land, but to force her into a different rhythm.

And she reacted, just not as he expected.

Titania didn’t block.

She stepped forward. A simple step.

And placed the sole of her boot on the blade of Oathcarver.

The world stilled.

Ludwig felt his arms jolt, like his own weapon had betrayed him. He tugged. Once. Twice.

It didn’t budge.

Not even a flicker of give beneath her foot.

She smiled.

Then she struck.

No flourish. No windup.

Just a palm, flat and firm, pressed against his chest.

And he went down.

The earth welcomed him like an old friend. Dust scattered. Roots dug into his spine. His vision split between blue sky and blurred branches. The force of the blow echoed down his ribcage. No damage. No broken bones. But the sheer pressure had been enough to crush the air from even a living man’s lungs.

“Disappointing, really,” she said, her voice floating into his reeling thoughts like falling leaves. She stood above him, framed against the daylight. Calm. Still wielding a twig like it was a holy relic. “That was clever. But not clever enough. Whoever taught you was arrogant. This isn’t swordplay. This is flailing.”

“That wench…” the Knight King’s voice hissed. “Ludwig… I’m a little bit miffed. How about you let me help you a bit here?”

Ludwig, still blinking against the dancing lights in his vision, muttered back mentally, “Like a takeover? Possession?”

“I cannot do that, no. But I can guide you. You’re fighting like a wild boar. And she’s toying with you. Let me show you and the wench how one should dance. A Tyrant’s Dance.”

Ludwig didn’t argue.

He rolled to his feet, slower this time, more deliberate. His joints creaked, not with fatigue, but stress. He flexed his fingers. The weight of Oathcarver still solid in his grip, but heavier now somehow. Or maybe it was just pride that weighed more.

She didn’t press the attack.

She watched.

Measured. Still. Unhurried.

“For starters,” the Knight King said, voice like a blade along the edge of thought, “Adjust your stance. You’re too high. Too proud and too careful at the same time. Lower the blade, bend your knees. You’re not hunting beasts anymore. This is a duel. Don’t try and take the initiative you’ll fail, let her come to you.”

Ludwig shifted. His feet spaced wider, knees softening. Oathcarver lowered, not in weakness, but in readiness. His center of gravity dropped.

Titania’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’ve stopped trying to hit me. That’s better.”

Then she moved again.