Kael sat by the window, polishing the borrowed sword in slow, thoughtful strokes.
Dreamweaver remained hidden in his spatial ring—too infamous, too dangerous.
The blade in his hands was plain steel, borrowed from the armory, but well-balanced.
Outside, morning sunlight filtered through the drapes, catching the metal's edge like a whisper of war.
The door creaked open.
Selene stepped in.
Her expression said it all—disbelief still clouded her gaze.
She hadn't spoken of it outright, but the tension lingered.
Kael hadn't told her the real plan.
She'd thought the passkey was for stealing a spellbook.
Maybe sabotaging a ward.
Not freeing the Divine General.
Not triggering a duchy-wide manhunt.
She lingered near the doorway, hesitating before stepping closer.
He set the blade aside and reached for his tea.
On the table between them, a newspaper lay open—its headlines already sanitizing the chaos of last night.
"So," Kael murmured, scanning the front page, "they're calling it an attack on the estate."
He tapped the headline with one finger.
"Not a prison break."
Selene's gaze drifted to him.
She gave a faint, bitter smile.
"They soul-searched every servant who's ever set foot near that vault."
Her voice dipped wry.
"Not mine. I'm just a personal maid, after all."
Kael chuckled softly.
"Lucky you."
The moment stretched—easy, if only for a heartbeat.
But then Selene's eyes sharpened.
Her voice lost its softness.
"So… how did you know the code?"
She watched him closely.
Kael took a slow sip of tea.
Didn't flinch.
Then—he glanced at Yue, invisible beside him.
"I just knew."
Selene puffed her cheeks in mock frustration, arms crossed.
"Still hiding things, mister?"
Kael smiled faintly.
No denial. No explanation.
Just silence that said: yes, and I have to.
Then her shoulders eased, and her expression softened.
"All the best for the duel, Kael," she said quietly.
His eyes drifted down to the folded newspaper beside the teapot.
The headline stared back at him like a provocation:
"Magicless Third Son to Duel Blood Magic Prodigy Today — A House Divided."
Kael traced the rim of his teacup with one finger.
His voice, when it came, was calm.
Certain.
"I'll win."
###
The duel grounds had risen like an ancient beast from the bones of the capital.
A war-stage from the First Dominion, nestled in the city's stone heart—ringed by towering marble columns and weathered statues of forgotten heroes.
The air thrummed with anticipation.
Thousands gathered.
Nobles in jeweled balconies, commoners packed shoulder-to-shoulder on raised platforms, servants and soldiers clinging to walls and archways just for a glimpse.
The city held its breath.
On the elevated judge's dais, the Duke of Drenlor sat slumped in a wheeled throne—his face pale as ash beneath layers of regal furs.
The Duchess stood behind him, still and severe, hands knotted in silent tension.
Veyran stood to the side, arms folded, his presence heavy with expectation.
A drumbeat.
Then a chant.
"Glory to Thalrik, War-God of Iron and Blood!"
From the eastern gate, a procession emerged—priests clad in crimson robes and steel half-armor, carrying banners embroidered with axes and flame.
Each footfall rang like a war bell.
The crowd parted.
Even the Duke inclined his head as the High Priest stepped forward and raised his arms in blessing.
The duel was now bound by divine sanction.
Then came Aerik.
The crowd erupted.
His blood-red cloak fanned out behind him like a banner of conquest.
Magic crackled faintly along his fingers—controlled, practiced, arrogant.
He moved like a predator with a crown.
"Aerik Drenlor!"
"The Blood Prodigy!"
"A student of the Royal Academy!"
"The pride of House Drenlor!"
"He boiled a man's blood with a glare during the Trials!"
The crowd worshipped him. And Aerik drank it in, flashing a grin as if the duel was already over.
Then—
Kael stepped onto the stage.
The silence was sharp.
Murmurs rippled.
A magicless noble.
A third son.
Walking into a battlefield with nothing but steel.
Some laughed. Some pitied.
Others watched in a new, uneasy quiet.
Kael's boots rang softly against the ancient stone.
His steps were measured.
His expression unreadable.
He didn't look at the crowd.
He didn't need to.
And then—
A silver-laced carriage rolled to a halt beside the noble stands.
The insignia caught his eye.
A silver crescent, entwined with blooming roses.
Kael's heart sank.
Elara.
The door opened.
And she stepped out.
The Princess of the Kingdom—cloaked in obsidian silk, her eyes like still water reflecting deeper storms.
Her presence struck the crowd silent.
"Is that… the Princess?"
"Why would the royal house be here?"
"I thought this was a family matter—"
Elara moved with practiced grace, trailing a gown like midnight behind her.
Her gaze swept the field—then stopped.
On him.
She smiled.
And Kael went still.
It was not a kind smile. Not cruel either. Just sharp—like a blade left on silk.
She knows.
She knows he can use magic.
Behind his shoulder, Yue's voice slipped into his mind like a breeze through broken glass.
"You really attract trouble, don't you?"
Kael didn't answer.
Elara walked to the platform, offered a courteous bow to the Duke.
He shifted in his seat, trying to summon dignity.
"Your Highness… may I ask why you honor us with your presence?"
Elara's voice was light, almost musical.
"I simply wished to enjoy the duel."
Silence rippled outward like a blade drawn in a crowded hall.
No one believed her—of course not.
But no one dared to say otherwise.
Yue muttered in Kael's mind, dry as ash,
"Seriously? At least come up with a better lie."
Kael said nothing.
But he agreed.
The High Priest raised his voice, cutting through the tension:
"Contestants, step forward!"
His voice echoed across the square, solemn as a funeral bell.
Kael tightened his grip on the hilt of his borrowed blade.
He could feel her eyes on him—Elara.
Still watching.
Still silent.
She hadn't exposed him.
Not yet.
Was it leverage? Amusement? A warning?
Doesn't matter.
Not now.
Wind tugged at his coat.
The marble under his boots felt colder.
Across the field, Aerik cracked his knuckles, rolling his neck, that wolf-grin growing wider.
The crowd buzzed.
The Duchess leaned toward the Duke, whispering behind her fan.
Veyran never blinked.
Kael exhaled through his nose.
Focus.
Forget her.
Forget the court.
Forget the whispers.
Aerik stepped forward, cloak snapping behind him.
"Still time to crawl away, little brother," he sneered.
"I'm sure the gods will understand."
Kael didn't reply.
He stood his ground.
The High Priest raised one hand, his voice thunderous:
"By decree of House Drenlor and the Temple of Thalrik—Second Son,
Aerik Drenlor, is restricted to Rank-1 spells only,
In accordance with sacred combat law."
Murmurs exploded through the crowd again.
Unfair.
Insulting.
Hilarious.
But Kael's expression never changed.
He simply adjusted his stance.
And waited for the war to begin.