Diomedes did not hesitate: he advanced straight at Achilles, girded with two enormous round shields, one on each arm, as though they were wings of bronze ready to close over the enemy.
Achilles, for his part, cast aside the useless remains of his spear. In the blink of an eye, his body became blurred violence: he wrenched an axe from the ground with a movement that raised a whirlwind of sand and dust behind him, and hurled himself forward like a golden lightning bolt.
The first blow fell with a crash, and bronze answered bronze with a dry and vibrant clamor. One of Diomedes' shields received the impact without yielding an inch.
Achilles did not stop. He nearly vanished from sight, leaving behind only the shifting trace of dust. Then he emerged from another flank and unleashed a new slash; yet the second shield awaited, firm as a wall.
And thus the dance began.
From every possible angle the Pelid assailed: high, low, sideways, oblique. His figure blurred with speed, and every weapon he wielded—axe, sword, spear—shattered or became notched beneath the violence of his own blows. Hardly had one broken before another took its place in his tireless hands.
But none managed to breach the defense of Diomedes.
With each surge, Achilles raised more and more dust. Soon the sand of the entire stadium seemed to rise in a dense amber curtain, a thick fog that devoured the light and concealed both contenders.
"What prodigy is this?!" cried Calliope, raising her arms in theatrical astonishment. "Achilles' speed has raised a sandstorm! The haze has fallen upon the arena and has devoured the warriors!"
She made a solemn pause, placing a hand upon her chest.
"Perhaps your mortal eyes cannot pierce this mist… but those of a goddess know no such impediment. Remain attentive: I shall narrate every heartbeat of this tempest."
Within the cloud, Diomedes made his decision. With a deliberate motion he let both shields fall; they struck the ground with a dull clangor and sank into the sand like forgotten anchors. Freed of the weight, his silhouette became light, almost spectral. He slipped to one side and vanished into the mist.
Achilles, surrounded by the haze he himself had created, spun upon his heels, alert.
"Diomedes!" he roared, his voice cleaving the fog. "Show yourself!"
He received no answer.
And suddenly, as if born from the very womb of the dust, Diomedes appeared with a long sword gleaming in his right hand. He launched a precise slash; Achilles intercepted it at once, and they crossed blows with mounting fury. Diomedes advanced, forcing Achilles to step back once, then again, while the metallic thunder rang out like miniature storms.
The clash of steel against steel tore through the air, tearing sparks that flashed briefly in the sandy gloom.
Achilles answered with a descending cut, brutal and precise. Diomedes barely evaded it, stepped back… and once more dissolved into the mist.
The Pelid set himself on guard, breathing deeply. Then, from his back, a shadow emerged with a deadly edge aimed at his neck. Achilles ducked at the last breath of the instant; the sword whistled over his head.
Spinning upon himself, he launched an upward thrust toward his rival's throat. Diomedes blocked the assault, and once again the steel sang.
The swords met again and again: steel against steel, sparks against sparks, thunder against thunder. Each clash was a lightning bolt within the storm of dust.
"Though Diomedes shelters himself within the cloud he has chosen as his ally" proclaimed Calliope, pointing to the covered arena, "Achilles has not yielded ground."
Her eyes shone with fervor.
"From up here, the sparks bursting in the mist and the roar of metal… they look like lightning dancing within a storm!"
Suddenly, the exchange ceased.
Diomedes stepped back… and once again vanished into the amber curtain, leaving Achilles alone in the midst of that sandstorm, attentive to the slightest whisper that might announce the next attack.
Achilles planted himself firmly, sword raised, his senses taut as lyre strings about to snap. His eyes, fierce and golden with wrath, scrutinized the curtain of sand swirling around him. He did not breathe: he stalked.
And then he saw it.
A blurred silhouette, the unmistakable outline of Diomedes' crested helm barely emerging from the golden mist. Achilles did not hesitate. With a contained roar he hurled himself forward, the edge of his sword tracing an ascending arc laden with all the divine fury of his blood.
The blow was devastating. The helmet was sent flying through the air, spinning upon itself. That which held it was severed without resistance.
But there were no cries, no blood. Diomedes was not there.
The Pelid frowned as he realized his mistake. What he had cut was neither flesh nor bone, but the long handle of an axe planted in the sand. The helmet had been placed as a decoy.
Achilles remained motionless for a moment, his chest rising and falling quickly, surprise flashing across his face like lightning.
Calliope, from her elevated box, crossed her arms in a dramatic X, ordering absolute silence from the multitude hidden behind the mist.
"Look well, mortals" she announced, her voice resounding like distant thunder. "Diomedes has offered a specter of himself to draw the lightning… and the lightning has bitten the void!"
Achilles barely had time to curse his carelessness.
Diomedes did not wait for the confusion to settle. He emerged from the mist like a vengeful specter, his right foot driving into the sand with such force that it raised an explosion of dust. His long sword, gripped with both hands, shot forward in a straight and brutal thrust. The blade struck Achilles' helmet with a sound that was more thunder than metal.
The Pelid lifted from the ground. His light feet, famous for dancing upon the waves, lost contact with the earth. The crested helm flew backward, spinning in the air like a leaf torn away by the wind. Achilles' body traced a brief and painful arc.
But Diomedes grants no respite.
Before Achilles could touch the ground, he was already in motion. He closed the distance with firm strides, the muscles tense beneath his armor, every fiber of his being devoted to the next blow. He raised the sword to deliver an ascending cut, determined to split his rival at the most vulnerable instant.
Achilles' feet finally touched the ground, and he gave a desperate push backward with his heels. The movement was swift, almost impossible, but even for his divine speed… it was too late.
At that precise instant, Calliope extended both arms downward with a wide and majestic gesture.
A sudden wind, born from her divine will, swept across the sand like an invisible hand. The amber cloud dissolved into shreds, revealing the center of the stadium.
The audience held its breath. A sepulchral silence fell over the stands, so dense that it seemed time itself had decided to halt.
In the middle of the arena, the two heroes remained face to face, panting, sweat mingled with dust and blood. Diomedes still held his sword, firm.
Diomedes, unmoving, sword still raised. Achilles, on his knees, with his hand pressed against the right side of his face.
Calliope leaned over the railing of her box, her eyes wide open, her voice trembling for the first time with genuine surprise.
"For the second time in all his history…" she pronounced slowly, almost reverently "Achilles is bleeding!"
A bright red thread escaped between Achilles' fingers, sliding down his cheek, dripping onto the sand.