The first exchange lasted less than a second.
Sir Rahnadel moved again.
The ten-foot titan didn't just move; it redefined physics. Clad in gold plating, the divine knight broke its statue-like stillness in a way that not be possible. One millisecond, it occupied the far end of the courtyard, with it's blade locked in a textbook high guard that radiated a predatory calm. The next, the air itself seemed to fracture as the construct cleared twenty feet of stone floor in a single, swift surge.
There was no build-up, no tell, just a violent displacement of space that put the machine directly in King Arthur's personal radius. The knight's longsword descended in a vertical arc, a brutal executioner's strike that prioritized raw, downward force over technical flair. It was a simple command rendered in steel—a singular, crushing intent designed to end the encounter before the king's heartbeat could catch up to the reality of the assault.
But Arthur's Excalibur rose to meet it anyway.
