The training yard had been transformed overnight into a makeshift arena, with hastily constructed wooden stands for the nobility and a roped-off area for the castle's staff and guards. Alex surveyed the setup with growing suspicion—this wasn't training. This was theater.
"A public demonstration," King Aldric announced, his voice carrying across the courtyard. "So that all may witness the prowess of our summoned champions."
From the elevated platform where the royal family sat, Alex could see the calculation in every noble's eyes. Lord Garrett leaned forward with predatory interest. Lady Morwyn's fan fluttered nervously. Even the younger nobles had abandoned their usual bored expressions for something sharper, more focused.
They weren't here to witness heroism. They were here to assess threats.
"The rules are simple," Sir Marcus declared, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Each hero will face a trained opponent in single combat. Victory conditions are surrender, incapacitation, or—" he paused dramatically, "—first blood."
Alex felt Vlad tense beside him, but not with fear. With anticipation.
"I'll go first," Vlad said, stepping forward before anyone could object. His opponent was a castle guard named Bran, a veteran with scarred hands and the easy confidence of someone who'd survived a dozen real battles.
The crowd hushed as the two combatants circled each other. Bran carried a practice sword and shield, moving with textbook precision. Vlad had chosen no weapons—a decision that drew murmurs from the watching nobles.
"Begin!" Sir Marcus called.
Bran's first strike was a testing thrust, perfectly executed. Vlad didn't dodge. Instead, he stepped into the blade, letting it pierce his shoulder as his hands closed around the guard's wrist.
The crowd gasped. Bran's eyes widened in shock as Vlad's grip tightened with inhuman strength. But what truly unnerved the watchers was Vlad's expression—not pain, but ecstasy.
"More," Vlad whispered, and drove his knee into Bran's ribs with enough force to crack bone.
The guard staggered, trying to pull back, but Vlad held firm. A second strike, then a third, each one more devastating than the last. The practice sword clattered to the ground as Bran collapsed, unconscious.
Vlad stood over his fallen opponent, breathing heavily, the wound in his shoulder already beginning to close. When he looked up at the crowd, his eyes held a darkness that made several nobles take involuntary steps backward.
"Victory to the Berserker," Sir Marcus announced, though his voice lacked its earlier enthusiasm.
Alex studied the faces in the crowd as servants rushed to tend to Bran. Fear dominated, but there was something else—a calculating recognition. They'd seen enough to know Vlad was dangerous, but not enough to understand exactly how dangerous.
Perfect.
"I'll go next," Nyt said, her voice carrying clearly across the suddenly quiet courtyard. Her opponent was a court mage named Aldwin, a young man with nervous eyes and hands that trembled slightly as he gripped his staff.
They faced each other in the center of the ring, magical energy crackling in the air between them. Aldwin raised his staff, beginning an incantation that would summon bolts of force energy—standard battle magic, designed to overwhelm an opponent without causing permanent harm.
Nyt simply stood there, watching.
The first bolt of energy lanced toward her, brilliant blue-white light that should have sent her sprawling. Instead, it struck something invisible around her and simply... stopped. The energy swirled for a moment, then began flowing into her like water down a drain.
Aldwin's eyes widened in panic. He began a second incantation, more complex, more powerful. Lightning erupted from his staff in a jagged arc that would have killed an ordinary person.
Nyt absorbed it all, her hair beginning to glow with stolen energy. When she finally moved, it was with fluid grace, one hand extended toward her opponent.
The magic she released wasn't Aldwin's lightning—it was something else entirely. Dark energy that wrapped around the mage like living shadow, not harming him but making him acutely aware of how easily it could.
"Yield," Nyt said softly, and her voice carried the weight of absolute certainty.
Aldwin dropped his staff, his face pale with terror. "I yield."
The crowd was silent now, the earlier excitement replaced by something colder. They'd expected to see magic—instead, they'd witnessed something that devoured magic, transformed it, made it into something alien and wrong.
"Victory to the Parasite," Sir Marcus announced, though he stumbled slightly over the unofficial title.
Alex was already moving forward when Sir Marcus called his name. His opponent was Sir Tormund, a knight in his thirties with the kind of measured composure that came from actual combat experience. Unlike the previous opponents, Tormund carried real weapons—a sword and shield that had seen genuine battle.
"An interesting choice," Alex said as they took their positions. "A knight against an unarmed college student."
"The rules allow for any weapon you choose," Sir Tormund replied, his voice courteous but firm. "I assumed you would select something appropriate."
"I did."
Alex glanced up at the royal platform, where King Aldric sat with barely concealed anxiety. "Your Majesty, I believe the rules stated that victory conditions include surrender, incapacitation, or first blood. Is that correct?"
"Yes, but—"
"And there's no restriction on how one achieves those conditions?"
Sir Marcus frowned. "What are you suggesting?"
"I'm clarifying the parameters." Alex's voice carried clearly across the courtyard. "Because I notice that Sir Tormund is wearing the ceremonial armor of a knight in service to the crown. That armor bears the royal seal, doesn't it?"
Tormund glanced down at his breastplate, confusion flickering across his features. "Yes, but I don't see—"
"According to the Codes of Chivalric Conduct—third edition, I believe, based on the heraldry I've seen—a knight in service to the crown cannot draw blood from a guest of the royal house without direct royal command during a formal duel. Is that correct?"
The crowd stirred, murmurs of confusion and growing interest. King Aldric leaned forward, his face pale.
"I... yes, that's technically correct, but this is a training exercise—"
"Which you announced as a formal demonstration before the assembled court," Alex interrupted smoothly. "And since you introduced us as summoned champions, that makes us guests of the royal house, doesn't it?"
Sir Tormund's face was cycling through confusion, realization, and growing horror. "You're saying I cannot legally strike you?"
"I'm saying that if you do, you'll be violating your oath of service." Alex's smile was cold, precise. "Of course, you could choose to break that oath. But then you wouldn't be a knight anymore, would you? Just a man with a sword attacking an unarmed guest."
The silence stretched. Alex could see the calculation in every face—nobles recognizing the legal trap, commoners sensing the shift in power dynamics, King Aldric realizing that his simple loyalty test had been turned into something else entirely.
"I yield," Sir Tormund said finally, his voice hollow with defeat.
The crowd erupted in confused muttering. Some nobles looked impressed despite themselves. Others seemed genuinely frightened. The commoners, who had expected to see traditional combat, were buzzing with excitement over the verbal duel they'd witnessed instead.
"Victory to the Causality Engineer," Sir Marcus announced, though his voice held no enthusiasm whatsoever.
Alex walked back to his companions, ignoring the stares and whispers. He'd demonstrated exactly what he'd intended—that raw power wasn't the only way to win, and that the kingdom's own laws could be weapons in the right hands.
"Where's Eli?" Nyt asked quietly.
Alex glanced toward the infirmary entrance, where the nursing student was visible through an open doorway, tending to Bran's injuries. "Exactly where he should be. Playing the hero."
"You planned this," Vlad said, flexing his healed shoulder. "You knew they weren't testing our abilities."
"They were testing our loyalty. Whether we'd play by their rules, fight their fights, become their weapons without question." Alex looked up at the royal platform, where King Aldric was engaged in urgent conversation with his advisors. "We just demonstrated that we make our own rules."
"And now?"
Alex watched the crowd dispersing, noticed how the nobles grouped together in urgent conversation, how the commoners looked at them with a mixture of awe and fear. The kingdom had summoned heroes, but they'd created something else entirely.
"Now they know we're not their heroes," he said simply. "The question is what they plan to do about it."
As if summoned by his words, Ser Roderick appeared at Alex's elbow, his face grave with concern.
"A word?" the spymaster asked quietly. "I fear today's demonstration may have... accelerated certain timelines."
Alex nodded, unsurprised. Every move created ripples, and those ripples always returned as waves.
"Vlad, Nyt—find Eli. Keep him close." He looked at his brother. "And try not to hurt anyone unless they hurt you first."
"What about you?" Nyt asked.
Alex followed Roderick toward the castle's shadowed corridors. "I'm going to find out exactly how much trouble we're in."
As they disappeared into the castle's depths, the training yard slowly emptied. But the conversations that had started there would continue long into the night, in private chambers and hidden alcoves, as the kingdom's power brokers tried to decide what to do about the weapons they'd summoned.
Weapons that were proving to have minds of their own.