Mr. & Mrs Meropide

Chapter Eleven: A Duel to Remember

The atmosphere in the Pankration ring was electric as Clorinde turned to face her new challenger. The crowd, already buzzing with excitement, seemed to swell with anticipation as they realized who had just entered the ring. Wriothesley, the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide, had removed his coat and stepped forward, his confident smile hinting at the challenge to come.

The Duke was no stranger to the Pankration ring. Known for his strength and tactical prowess, he had earned his place as a formidable opponent. His reputation within the fortress was well-established, and it was rare for him to find someone who could truly match his abilities in hand-to-hand combat. With his impressive muscle mass and years of experience, Wriothesley's punches were known to be devastating, each strike carrying the weight of his power and skill. His fists could incapacitate most opponents with a single, well-placed blow.

But Clorinde was no ordinary opponent.

Clorinde, still in her uniform but without her coat, stood tall, her calm demeanor hiding the thrill of the upcoming duel. She had faced many adversaries in this ring, and though she had earned the respect of the inmates, this challenge was different. The Duke wasn't just any opponent; he was a symbol of authority and power within the fortress, and defeating him would be no small feat.

The crowd, realizing the significance of the duel, pressed closer, eager to witness what promised to be an unforgettable match. Excited murmurs filled the air, and soon, the buzz turned into a frenzy as inmates and onlookers began placing bets on the outcome. The sudden surge of betting delayed the fight slightly, as the spectators clamored to get their wagers in.

Wriothesley waited patiently, his eyes never leaving Clorinde. He could see the determination in her stance, the quiet confidence that came from countless battles fought and won. When the last of the bets were placed, the ring fell into a hushed silence, the air thick with anticipation.

Neither Wriothesley nor Clorinde made the first move. They circled each other slowly, each waiting for the other to strike. The tension between them was palpable, the crowd holding their breath in anticipation. Wriothesley, ever the strategist, decided to test Clorinde's reflexes first. He threw a few light punches, gauging her reaction.

Clorinde parried them with ease, her movements fluid and precise. Her expression remained calm, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—something that told Wriothesley he was in for more than just a sparring match.

"Don't insult me," she said, her voice carrying a hint of offense. It was clear she felt underestimated by his light approach. With a determined glint in her eyes, Clorinde went on the attack, her strikes coming fast and strong, showing Wriothesley exactly why she was so respected both inside and outside the ring.

As she launched her attacks, it wasn't just her raw power that caught Wriothesley's attention—it was her footwork. Clorinde moved with an almost deceptive grace, her feet seeming to glide across the ground with practiced ease. Each step was calculated, every movement precise. But what was truly remarkable was the subtle clicking sound she occasionally made with her heel. It was a slight noise, easily overlooked by most, but its effect was profound.

The clicking sound was deliberately misleading, making it seem as though Clorinde had taken an extra step or had shifted her balance when she had not. It was a tactic designed to throw her opponent off-balance, to make them anticipate a move that wasn't coming, or to react to a feint that didn't exist. Wriothesley, keenly aware of this subtle trickery, found himself momentarily on the back foot, realizing that Clorinde's reputation was well-earned. Her footwork wasn't just about speed or precision; it was a tool she wielded as expertly as any weapon, designed to disorient and confuse.