Mordred collapsed slowly to his knees on the hot sand of the arena, his legs unable to bear his own weight any longer. A wave of brutal, merciless exhaustion washed over him, the result of merciless combat, severe wounds and considerable blood loss. His arms trembled with fatigue, and his katana slowly slipped from his hand, falling silently into the sand beside him.
His breath was short and ragged, every breath seeming to cost him a colossal effort. Suddenly, he felt strong but surprisingly delicate hands gently lift him by the arms. Raising his head slightly, he saw two dragon guards dressed in impressive dark armor supporting him with a precaution he'd never imagined possible coming from them.
