Mr. & Mrs Meropide

Chapter Eight: The Duel

The courtroom was steeped in tension as Clorinde and the criminal faced each other, the air thick with anticipation. Navia, usually composed, now felt a deep fear gnawing at her. She knew Clorinde's capabilities, but seeing her there, still bandaged and clearly not fully recovered, filled her with dread. She gripped the edge of her seat, her knuckles white, her eyes fixed on Clorinde with unspoken concern.

On the opposite side of the room, Wriothesley was equally tense. His calm demeanor was strained as he watched the two prepare to clash. His fists clenched tightly at his sides, the tension evident in every muscle of his body. He had seen Clorinde fight before, knew her strength, but the thought of her facing such a dangerous opponent in her current state made his heart race with worry and anger.

As Chevreuse removed the criminal's handcuffs, the gravity of the moment became undeniable. She handed him a sword with visible reluctance, her eyes narrowing as she issued a clear warning. "A move towards the audience, and I'll put a bullet in your head," she said, her voice low but firm. The criminal, desperate yet understanding the stakes, nodded as he gripped the weapon.

As the combatants squared off, Clorinde tightened her hold on her sword. The pressure caused the wound on her upper arm, still healing from her previous battle, to reopen. The white bandage quickly soaked through with blood, turning a deep red before the duel even began. The audience collectively gasped, their concern evident, but Clorinde didn't flinch—her face remained impassive, as if the pain didn't exist.

The criminal, fueled by desperation and sensing a potential weakness, was the first to move. He lunged forward with a vicious strike, his sword slicing through the air with deadly intent. Clorinde, despite the fresh blood staining her bandage, met his attack with a swift, precise parry. The sound of clashing steel echoed through the room, a stark reminder of the life-or-death stakes before them.

As Wriothesley watched, his mind drifted back to the night Clorinde had recounted her earlier duel with this same criminal. She had spoken with a calmness that belied the intensity of the encounter, describing how she had faced him in the wild, away from the controlled environment of a courtroom. The criminal had been a formidable adversary, his speed and agility making him an especially dangerous opponent. Clorinde had explained how each of his strikes had been delivered with precision, forcing her to parry carefully, calculating each response to avoid falling into his traps.

Disarming him had been one of the greatest challenges she had faced. He was fast—faster than most opponents she had encountered—and every time she thought she had an opening, he would slip out of reach or counter with an unexpected move. The duel had dragged on, with Clorinde needing to anticipate his every shift in tactics. The fight had pushed her to her limits, and though she had ultimately emerged victorious, it had been a close and exhausting battle.

As Wriothesley watched the current duel, the memory of Clorinde's retelling brought his worry to the forefront. He knew just how challenging this fight would be, especially now that Clorinde was injured. The sight of her bandage soaking with blood only intensified his concern. He feared that if the fight dragged on like it had before, the outcome could be dire. He could only hope that Clorinde's strength and experience would prevail once again, just as they had in the wild.

The duel was fierce, each move calculated, each strike met with an equally fierce counter. The criminal fought with the desperation of a man who knew his life was on the line, while Clorinde, despite her injury, maintained her composure, her swordsmanship as sharp as ever. But the toll of her wounds was becoming more evident with every passing moment.

Sensing an opportunity, Clorinde decided to shift her approach. Instead of relying solely on her upper body, which was weakened by her injury, she unleashed the strength in her legs. With a swift and powerful kick, she sent the criminal flying backward. The force of the blow was so strong that he was nearly thrown off his feet, but he managed to catch himself just in time, slamming his sword into the ground to anchor himself and prevent further movement.