Chapter 7: The Prince and the Sword
...
The news of my invitation to House Marlowe's Grand Hunt spread faster than I anticipated.
By the next morning, servants were whispering about it in the halls. Courtiers exchanged smug glances behind gloved hands. Even the kitchen staff paused their preparations to gossip over trays of honeyed fruits and cold meats.
It wasn't just a social event—it was political theater. One where each nod, toast, and smile masked the steel beneath.
House Marlowe was one of the oldest military lineages in the empire, and their approval carried significant weight. Being invited as a guest meant more than simple courtesy. It was a message.
Prince Lucien is no longer just a disgraced thorn in the crown. He's a contender.
Which meant I had to prepare.
And not just with polished shoes and forced charm.
Because the Grand Hunt wasn't a dance or a tea party—it was a showcase of strength, skill, and blood. Nobles from across the empire would participate in a ceremonial beast hunt through the ancient forests of Halebrook Vale, an event part ritual, part combat, and all theater.
I needed to be ready.
I ordered the guards to clear the private training grounds.
Not because I wanted solitude—though I did—but because Lucien had a reputation to manage. He was arrogant, yes, but also a duelist known for reckless elegance. That reputation had to stay intact, especially with new eyes on me.
I stepped into the circular stone arena behind the east wing. Mist hung low over the grass, curling around the edges like sleepy smoke. The morning sun filtered through the high walls, casting long shadows that cut the arena into golden shards.
My sword, Calemir, waited on a rack nearby. An heirloom blade—silver steel with crimson etchings down its spine, said to be folded a thousand times and enchanted to cut through magic as easily as air.
I unsheathed it.
It felt wrong in my hand.
Not because it was cursed, or broken, or heavy.
But because I had never truly wielded it.
Lucien had. The old Lucien. The prince with cruelty in his blood and fire in his breath. But me?
I was a guy who once rage-quit a boss fight in a dating sim because the Quick-Time Event bugged out.
I took a deep breath.
Then swung.
One slash. Two. A wide, arcing spin.
Then a thrust. A downward feint. Reverse grip.
It was clumsy. Uncoordinated. Like trying to paint with a broken wrist.
I stopped and adjusted my stance.
My mind tried to recall the muscle memory of a man I had never been. I imagined Lucien fighting with flare—his every movement like a choreographed insult, designed not just to win but to mock.
But I didn't want to fight like him.
I wanted to fight like me.
So I slowed down. Focused.
Grip steady. Elbows loose. Feet grounded.
And for the first time… the sword responded.
My body found rhythm. The blade whistled with each cut, clean and sharp. The wind shifted around me. The sweat on my brow no longer felt like failure—it felt like effort.
Purpose.
I lost track of time.
Until—
A voice called from the shade near the wall.
"…You've improved."
I turned.
Mirelle stood with her arms crossed, a sparring blade slung over her back, dressed in light leather and breeches meant for combat—not court.
"I didn't realize I had an audience," I said, panting slightly.
"You didn't," she said. "I came to train. But you're hogging the ring."
She walked in, boots crunching on the gravel. Her blonde hair was tied back in a loose knot, and her usual icy stare was replaced with something… assessing.
She drew her blade.
"Fight me."
I raised an eyebrow. "Is that a request or a threat?"
"Consider it a lesson."
I hesitated.
I knew she could crush me. Mirelle wasn't just strong—she was a prodigy with the sword. In the game, she once cut down a wyvern alone during a route event. She was sharper than steel and twice as cold.
But I couldn't back down.
Not here. Not now.
We circled each other in the ring.
She moved first—fast, like a bolt from a crossbow.
Our blades met with a clash of metal.
She didn't hold back.
And I quickly realized something else: she wasn't trying to win. She was testing me.
Each blow was measured, precise—pushing, not overwhelming. She was watching how I moved, how I reacted. A silent conversation through swordplay.
"You're slower on your left," she said between strikes.
"Noticed."
"Your grip's better. Footwork still sloppy."
"You're oddly chatty today," I grunted.
"You're oddly tolerable today."
I grinned despite myself—and got my shoulder nearly dislocated for the distraction.
I rolled away, breathing hard.
She lowered her blade.
"You're not bad," she said at last. "Not good. But better than I expected."
[Ding!]
[Mirelle Affection +3 — Status: Sparring Respect]
[Combat Flag Progress: 25% — Unlocks Joint Training Arc at 50%]
I sheathed my sword and offered a respectful nod.
"Thanks."
She paused. Then added, more softly, "Don't let them corner you at the Hunt. It's not just beasts in the woods. There will be traps. Politics. Blood feuds."
"I know."
She turned away, then glanced over her shoulder.
"And Lucien…"
"Yeah?"
"If they send someone to kill you again, make sure you kill them first."
She left without waiting for a reply.
That evening, I received a message.
No paper. No wax. Just a single silver feather, left on my pillow.
A sign from the Whisper Hallows—an underground information guild hidden beneath the capital.
It meant one thing: they had information.
And wanted to trade.
The price?
I'd have to go alone.
And tomorrow night.
...
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