Darion watched them clash, wood cracking against wood, feet shuffling in the dirt. But his mind drifted.
They might see him as all strong and powerful because of how ruthless he had been in battle, because of the undead army he commanded, because of the way he had burned Valdenmoor's barracks and captured their king.
To the knights of Percvale, their Baron was a force to be reckoned with.
But the truth was different.
The thing was... he would probably lose against the weakest knight here.
He wasn't that good of a fighter. He knew the basics, how to hold a sword, how to stand and how to swing, but he had never trained the way these men trained. He had never spent hours sparring and building muscle memory until his body reacted faster than his mind.
He was decent, at best. Maybe. He doubted even that. In a fair fight, one on one, no undead, just him and a sword against one of these knights? He would lose.
