Arion's gaze locked onto Cedrik's, steady and unyielding.
"This help," he said, voice low but edged with ice.
Without a word more, Arion's mana stirred—a pulse, silent but potent beneath his skin.
His body straightened, muscles coiling like a drawn bowstring. Then came the strike: a single, clean punch delivered squarely to the face of the pompous youth before him.
The world seemed to pause for a heartbeat, the echo of impact hanging in the charged air.
Cedrik's body flew backward with a graceless thud, colliding with the stone wall like a sack of flour. He groaned, dazed, scrambling upright with eyes wide in disbelief.
Arion stood with a faint smile playing upon his lips. "Your father must have brought you along," he said coolly, "so that I might assist in broadening your horizons."
Even as the words left his mouth, the pounding of boots filled the corridor. Cedrik's guards—half a dozen in ornate livery—came rushing up the stairs, faces set in fury. Their swords were drawn with neither hesitation nor declaration.
And just like that, civility vanished.
Gasps echoed from the upper gallery as several guests, who had lingered nearby in hope of witnessing some noble entertainment, quickly fled the scene. None among them wished to be caught in the crossfire of two heirs, not when the lines of power ran deep and vengeful.
Arion, unarmed and sore from training, had no time to retreat.
He grabbed the nearest object—a stout wooden chair—and swung it like a mace, splintering one leg against the blade of the first attacker. Sparks flew as wood clashed with steel.
They came at him in twos and threes, blades singing and boots pounding.
He ducked, dodged, turned with the grace only honed pain could teach.
Yet the chair—noble instrument though it was—was no match for metal. Bit by bit, the wood was whittled down until only the cracked frame remained.
A shallow cut across his arm made his fingers twitch. If he didn't get his hands on a real weapon soon, he'd have his name engraved on a gravestone before supper.
Then fortune twisted.
Cedrik, flushed with rage and not nearly as graceful as he thought himself to be, shoved one of his own guards forward in a reckless rush to reach Arion. The man stumbled, his balance compromised.
Arion remembered a lesson his mother once taught him: "Mana is a bridge between intent and motion, my dear. The world listens if you ask it kindly enough."
He drew upon his mana again, this time not to fortify his limbs but to shape the air. His fingers curled in a pulling motion, like beckoning a dog to heel.
And lo—it worked.
The staggering guard's body lurched forward, drawn by an unseen force towards Arion.
Quickly, he seized that opportunity.
With his left hand, he snatched the man's sword from his hand and with his right, he delivered a bone-shaking blow to the guard's head, felling him in one breathless instant.
Steel in hand, Arion pivoted, blade flashing.
He slashed at Cedrik, who had only just arrived, prompting the noble to stumble back in a clumsy dodge. Cedrik's foot slipped on the polished floor, and his dignity, already cracked, splintered further.
Arion laughed—not cruelly, but with breathless exhilaration.
His heart raced, his eyes shining bright.
The corridor reeked of sweat, steel, and splintered wood, yet he smiled—like a child catching snowflakes for the first time.