The sun filtered through scattered clouds, painting the sky in gold and silver hues. The training field behind the old hall of House Eryndor had come alive since Kael had returned to walk among the living. Under Sir Osric's supervision, the sessions had intensified—repeated movements, sweat, falls, harsh but fair instructions.
That morning, however, something in the air was different.
[Kael's Perspective]
He felt the ground beneath his feet more firmly, the wooden training sword fitting better in his hands. Osric's teachings were beginning to merge with his instincts—lighter steps, fluid defenses, sensing an opponent's intentions before they even moved. For the first time, he didn't feel like a shadow of what he once was. He felt… present.
"Keep your focus. The enemy always reveals something before they strike," Osric warned, arms crossed as he watched.
Kael nodded, preparing for another exchange of blows, when voices disrupted the rhythm.
Horses approached, their hooves pounding arrogantly against the dry ground. A group of five young nobles rode in, dressed in fine garments, their family ornaments gleaming. At the front, with a crooked smile and cold eyes, Arven Vancor dismounted with the grace of a dancer. He wore a black leather jerkin reinforced with light golden plates, his sword's scabbard engraved with luxurious patterns, his platinum blond hair tied back in a flawless short ribbon. His skin was pale and well-kept, his features sharp, his expression caught between mockery and superiority. A golden necklace bearing the Vancor crest hung from his neck, glinting in the sunlight.
"Sir Osric. What an honor to see you still active here," he said with false courtesy, inclining his head.
"Lord Arven," Osric replied, restrained. "I wasn't aware House Vancor had an interest in morning drills on the frontier."
"Just curiosity. I heard the Eryndor heir was back on his feet. Thought it'd be interesting to see for myself." He strode toward Kael, eyeing him up and down. "Tell me, is it true what they whisper in the taverns? That you survived by the gods' sheer whim? A mercy gift, perhaps?"
Kael didn't answer.
Arven smirked.
"How about a test? Just the two of us. A friendly duel, of course. To see how much of House Eryndor's former glory still lives… or has rotted away."
Sir Osric stepped forward, his expression hardening.
"This is not a spectacle."
"No, of course not," Arven said, raising his hands. "Just a duel between nobles. Or does the archducal heir need to hide behind his house's knights? How has your sister been managing that, by the way? Still pretending to lead while your house's blood dries on the ground?"
Every word from Arven was poison disguised as honey. Kael knew what he wanted—not a fight, but a public humiliation. A blow against his honor, his house, and everything that remained of what they once were.
Kael took a deep breath. Blood pounded in his ears, but the calm Osric had taught him settled over his mind like a cloak.
"I accept," he said, and silence fell like a stone over the field.
The swords were exchanged for reinforced training versions—deadly in skill but not in lethality. The other nobles lined up around them, some smirking with veiled scorn. Lyara and Elene, watching from a side balcony, stood rigid. Lyara's eyes burned with something between apprehension and contained fury.
[The Duel]
Arven began with an elegant flourish, twirling his sword in a wide arc to display his skill. He lunged with a quick lateral slash, followed by a low thrust. Kael sidestepped in an arc, redirecting the strike with the base of his sword. His feet were steady, his gaze calm.
"Is that all? I expected more from the sleeping legend," Arven taunted, leaping to the side and attacking with a vertical-horizontal combo.
Kael blocked the first, deflected the second with his hilt, and countered with a short thrust toward Arven's flank, forcing him to retreat with a jump.
"At least Kael's sister knew how to scream properly when my father humiliated her at the last assembly," Arven called out, glancing at Lyara. "What a pathetic sight."
Kael remained impassive, using the anger as an anchor for focus.
Arven spun, striking with the back of his sword. Kael ducked, rolled, and positioned himself behind him, feinting toward his right shoulder before switching to the left at the last second. The impact drew a grunt from Arven.
"Damn you!" he snarled, attacking with renewed ferocity. Strike after strike, fast and relentless, seeking openings—but Kael danced between them with fluidity, parrying with minimal force, using his body to absorb and redirect.
"You move like a peasant trying to play warrior. I bet even the dogs in your house have more honor," Arven spat, pressing with a rapid series of thrusts.
Kael saw the break in rhythm. An impatient movement—and there it was: the opening.
With a precise pivot, he deflected Arven's blade aside and, with a step inward and a twist of his hips, delivered an upward strike that sent his opponent's sword flying. The hilt arced through the air and embedded itself in the ground near Osric.
Kael stepped forward, pressing the wooden blade's tip against Arven's throat.
"I yield!" Arven declared, voice firm.
[Lyara's Perspective]
The silence lasted seconds—then erupted into murmurs, shock, and shame. Arven was on the ground, dust-covered, his face flushed with rage.
Kael's victory had been clear, clean, and public.
...
Hours later, in the main hall, through a magical crystal, the Vancor patriarch demanded retribution.
"This was a disgrace. A trick, a trap! My son was dishonored!"
Lyara stood firm, hands clasped before her.
"The duel was accepted by both parties before witnesses. As the archducal heir, Kael is protected by Noble Law during public training events. Your complaint has no legal standing."
The old Vancor narrowed his eyes.
"You will pay for this."
[Elene's Perspective]
She felt the weight of the moment. This wasn't just a victory. It was a declaration. A warning. Kael had risen—and now the world would begin to see him.
[Vancor's Spies' Perspective]
Under the cover of night, new orders were given. Secret movements intensified. Men were sent to villages, to merchants, to the less loyal guards. If before they had only watched, now they sought to interfere.
Kael had become a symbol that needed silencing.
But what rises in silence is harder to crush.
And the first blades had already been drawn