The Man Who Would Not Kneel
Their defeat was inevitable.
The battle between Steffan and Lucas had reached a fever pitch.
The courtyard had become almost unrecognizable.
Broken stones covered the ground.
Dust hung in the air like a thin gray veil, and the sharp sounds of fists colliding echoed between the surrounding buildings.
Every exchange between the two men carried enough force to make the nearby spectators instinctively retreat.
Lucas had the advantage.
Once he seized the initiative, he refused to give Steffan even a moment to recover.
His blonde hair was disheveled from the battle, and blood ran down one side of his face.
Yet his blue eyes remained frighteningly focused.
He stepped forward.
Steffan raised his arms to block.
Boom!
Lucas's fist smashed into his guard.
Steffan staggered backward.
Before he could stabilize himself, Lucas was already there again.
Another punch.
Then another.
Each strike was clean and deliberate.
