Amélia exhales.

  Just once.

  Then something clicks.

  The flustered girl—the one blushing under chants, stumbling over words—vanishes. Her shoulders settle. Her grip tightens. Her feet slide apart into a stance that is wrong for a civilian.

  Too low.

  Too forward.

  Too aggressive.

  Her eyes lift.

  Focused. Empty. Sharp.

  Guren’s smile fades a fraction.

  There it is, he thinks.

  That instant—barely perceptible, but unmistakable—the transition from girl to weapon.

  Amélia doesn’t announce herself.

  She doesn’t shout.

  She doesn’t warn.

  She moves.

  The ground cracks under her foot as she launches forward, a blur of white and steel. No battle cry. No wasted motion. Just speed—terrifying, controlled speed.

  Guren’s instincts scream.

  He barely brings his sword up in time—

  CLANG!

  The impact rattles his arm.

  Before he can recover, her blade is already coming again. And again. And again.

  A storm.

  Amélia presses him relentlessly, each strike flowing into the next with brutal efficiency—low slash, rising cut, feint into a straight thrust aimed at his throat.

  Guren backsteps, once.

  Then twice.

  The crowd falls silent.

  No cheering. No chanting.

  Only the sharp, rapid ring of metal on metal.

  Rhys stares.

  His breath catches in his throat.

  …What?

  This isn’t instinct. This isn’t luck.

  This is experience.

  He watches her move—how her weight shifts before each strike, how she anticipates Guren’s parries, how she hunts openings like she’s done this a hundred times before.

  I didn’t know, he thinks, stunned. I didn’t know she was like this.

  Guren blocks another strike, teeth clenched now, boots sliding back across the dirt.

  “—Tch.”

  He tries to counter.

  Amélia doesn’t let him.

  She slips inside his guard, shoulder brushing his chest, her blade skimming past his ribs—close enough that he feels the cold of it through his uniform.

  Guren twists away just in time.

  “Alright—!” he starts.

  She doesn’t care.

  Her sword snaps upward, hooking his, forcing it aside. Her knee slams into his thigh. His balance breaks.

  The crowd exhales as one.

  Guren stumbles back—

  Amélia surges forward and pins him.

  Steel meets steel as she locks his blade down, forcing him to one knee, her sword pressed hard against his collar, inches from his throat.

  Dust settles.

  Silence.

  Guren looks up at her.

  For the first time—

  He isn’t amused.

  He’s wide-eyed.

  And smiling.

  Amélia’s red hair whips around her face as she moves, loose strands catching the morning light, flashing like embers with every turn of her head.

  Steel crashes again.

  Guren barely parries, boots grinding against the dirt as he’s forced back another step.

  Then another.

  He laughs—but it’s tighter now, sharper.

  “Alright,” he says between clashes, “let’s start simple.”

  CLANG.

  “Who—” he blocks high, twists, barely avoids a cut to the shoulder, “—are you?”

  Amélia doesn’t answer.

  Her sword comes down in a brutal diagonal arc. Guren raises his blade just in time, the impact jolting up his arm.

  “And where,” he continues, retreating as she presses forward, “did Orphelia find you?”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The crowd starts to murmur.

  Then roar.

  “PRIN-CESS!”

  “PUSH HIM!”

  “GET HIM!”

  Amélia drives him back again—her strikes relentless, precise, merciless. She gives him no room to breathe, no rhythm to settle into. Each attack forces a reaction. Each reaction costs him ground.

  Rhys finds his voice.

  “Yeah!” he shouts, fists clenched. “Get him! Wipe that smirk off his face!”

  Guren glances past Amélia for half a second—just long enough to hear Rhys.

  Big mistake.

  Her blade whistles past his cheek, slicing air where his head had been a heartbeat earlier.

  He stumbles back, nearly colliding with a crate at the edge of the circle.

  The crowd erupts.

  Guren laughs again, breathless now.

  “No answer?” he asks, parrying another furious series of strikes. “Nothing at all?”

  Amélia says nothing.

  Her face is calm. Focused. Almost cold.

  She steps in, shoulder low, sword snapping upward, forcing his guard open—then twists, driving him back yet again.

  Guren’s boots scrape dangerously close to the boundary of the crowd.

  He blocks, barely.

  “Interesting,” he mutters. “You fight like someone who’s already lost everything.”

  Still no response.

  Only steel.

  Only motion.

  Only pressure.

  And as Amélia advances, blade flashing, eyes locked on him with terrifying clarity, Guren realizes something that makes his grin widen despite himself—

  Orphelia didn’t just save this girl.

  She trained her.

  Mara stands rigid at the edge of the circle, arms crossed, eyes locked on the clash of steel.

  She isn’t cheering.

  She’s studying.

  Each step Amélia takes.

  Each angle of her blade.

  The way she closes distance without hesitation, how she never overextends, how her strikes aren’t flashy—but purposeful.

  Mara exhales slowly.

  Back on the train…

  The thought clicks into place.

  The civilians hadn’t been lucky.

  They’d been protected.

  Her gaze sharpens, following Amélia as she forces Guren back yet again.

  So that’s why, Mara thinks. That’s why he wanted her.

  Nearby, perched on a crate with her legs dangling, Nyra leans forward, eyes wide. Her dark green hair bounces as she grips the edge.

  “She might actually win,” Nyra blurts out.

  Callen, sitting beside her with a half-eaten ration bar, scratches the back of his head.

  “Eh… I wouldn’t go that far.”

  Nyra snaps her head toward him, glaring. “Are you blind? She’s destroying him.”

  Callen shrugs, unfazed.

  “You’re forgetting who Guren is.”

  Nyra squints at him like he’s just insulted her intelligence.

  “He hasn’t even attacked yet,” Callen continues. “His style’s all defense. Observation. He never strikes first.”

  He nods toward the duel.

  “The one who looks like she’s winning?” he says. “That’s usually the one about to lose.”

  Nyra opens her mouth to argue—

  And then Guren moves.

  It’s subtle.

  A shift of weight.

  A half-step back that isn’t retreat.

  His blade turns, not to block—but to invite.

  Amélia surges forward, pressing the advantage.

  That’s when Guren spins.

  Steel flashes in a tight, complex arc—his sword sliding along hers, redirecting the force, twisting her momentum against itself. He pivots, foot hooking behind her ankle as his shoulder bumps her off balance.

  Amélia’s focus fractures.

  Just for an instant.

  She hits the ground hard, dust kicking up around her.

  Before she can roll away—

  Guren’s sword stops an inch from her throat.

  Silence crashes over the courtyard.

  Then—

  The crowd erupts.

  Shouts. Whistles. Applause slamming together like thunder.

  “DAMN!”

  “SHE ALMOST HAD HIM!”

  “PRINCESS!”

  Amélia blinks, chest rising and falling, staring up at the blade hovering at her neck.

  Guren steps back and lowers his sword, offering her a hand.

  She hesitates—then takes it.

  As he pulls her to her feet, he grins, genuine this time.

  “Well done,” he says. “You almost caught me.”

  The crowd cheers again.

  Guren leans closer, voice low enough that only she can hear.

  “You’ll be useful to the UF,” he adds.

  Amélia meets his gaze, unreadable.

  And somewhere in the crowd, Rhys realizes—

  the world he thought he understood is much sharper than he imagined.

  Amélia walks back toward the edge of the circle, the noise following her like a tide that refuses to recede.

  Clapping.

  Shouts.

  Someone yelling “PRINCESS!” again until another voice tells them to shut up.

  She drops down beside Rhys on a crate, breathing a little hard, red hair loose around her shoulders. Rhys looks at her like he’s still trying to process what he just saw.

  “You did really well,” he says, a grin creeping onto his face.

  Amélia ducks her head, embarrassed, fingers tightening around her sleeve.

  “Sorry,” she murmurs. “I couldn’t beat him.”

  Rhys scoffs.

  “Beat him? You almost buried him. Don’t worry—we’ll make Guren cry together.”

  She snorts despite herself.

  From the center of the circle, Guren claps once—sharp, commanding, the sound cutting through the chatter.

  “Alright,” he says, turning. “Next.”

  His eyes land on Elias.

  “…You.”

  Elias stiffens like he’s been sentenced.

  “Me?” he squeaks.

  Rhys twists around immediately.

  “That’s you!” he points. “Go on!”

  “You can do it!” Amélia adds, softer but no less sure.

  Elias looks between them, panic written all over his face. He swallows hard, hands trembling, then slowly stands. Amélia rises just enough to pass him her sword.

  It looks far too big in his grip.

  The crowd parts to let him through, some already laughing.

  “This one’s gonna trip and die!”

  “Someone get the medic ready!”

  Elias steps into the circle, shoulders tense, feet planted wrong. Guren watches him with mild curiosity, sword resting easily at his side.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Guren says.

  Elias hesitates—then swings.

  It’s bad.

  The blade cuts air far too high. His balance pitches forward. Guren doesn’t even lift his sword, simply leaning aside as Elias stumbles past him.

  Laughter ripples through the crowd.

  Elias turns, face burning. His breathing comes fast and shallow. He raises the sword again—too tight, too stiff—and charges.

  Guren takes a single step back, parries lazily, then stops moving entirely.

  “Relax,” Guren says. “You’re fighting the sword, not me.”

  Elias freezes.

  Then—he exhales.

  His grip loosens. His stance shifts. Not stronger. Just… different.

  He backs away instead of attacking.

  The crowd quiets a little, confused.

  Elias’ eyes flick to the ground.

  To the dirt.

  He drags his foot back suddenly, kicking up a low spray of dust—not at Guren’s face, but at his feet.

  Guren’s eyes narrow.

  “Cute,” he says.

  Elias charges again—but this time he stops short, slashing low, then high, forcing Guren to step back.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Rhys leans forward.

  “…Wait.”

  Amélia’s smile fades into something sharper.

  “He’s not trying to hit him.”

  Elias’ attacks are sloppy, but intentional. Wide arcs. Sudden stops. Every strike forces Guren to react, to shift his footing.

  Elias backs up again, breathing hard, then drags his heel through the dirt once more—another cloud, thicker this time, rising between them.

  Guren steps back instinctively to keep his footing clear.

  The crowd goes silent.

  Elias’ eyes flick to the boundary line.

  He lunges—not at Guren’s chest, but at his shoulder—forcing Guren to pivot and retreat another step.

  Elias skids to a stop.

  “…You’re out,” he says, voice shaking but loud enough.

  Guren blinks.

  “…What?”

  The crowd erupts.

  “OUT!”

  “HE BAITED HIM!”

  “CAPTAIN LOST!”

  Guren looks down. Then at the line. Then back at Elias.

  Rhys’ mouth falls open.

  “No. Way.”

  Amélia stares—then bursts out laughing, covering her mouth.

  Before Guren can respond, the crowd surges forward, grabbing Elias, lifting him off the ground.

  “PUT ME DOWN— I DIDN’T—” Elias yelps, panic mixing with disbelief.

  Guren exhales slowly, rubbing his temples.

  “…I hate all of you.”

  Rhys and Amélia exchange a look—

  And for the first time since Velkaris, all three of them are laughing.

  Guren watches the chaos settle.

  Elias is finally released, nearly dropped back onto his feet, dizzy and red-faced, the crowd still patting his back like he’s just won a war. Rhys is laughing too loudly, pointing at Guren with the satisfaction of someone who will absolutely never let this go. Amélia hides her smile behind her sleeve, cheeks pink, eyes bright.

  Guren exhales through his nose.

  Unbelievable.

  He slides his sword back into its sheath and lets his gaze linger on the three of them—not as recruits, not as civilians, but as problems.

  First, he thinks, an idiot who thinks he can fix the world by bleeding for it.

  Rhys—still riding the adrenaline, still burning with that same stubborn fire Orphelia had carried.

  Second, a mercenary wearing the face of an innocent girl.

  Amélia—too fast, too precise, too quiet. A blade pretending to be a smile.

  And third…

  His eyes shift to Elias, still blinking in disbelief as Callen claps him on the back.

  The one who actually uses his brain.

  Guren laughs.

  Not loudly. Not cruelly.

  The kind of laugh that comes when fate stops pretending it’s subtle.

  He steps forward, the crowd naturally parting for him, and stops in front of the three of them. His hands rest behind his back, posture relaxed, but his eyes sharp with interest now instead of mockery.

  He tilts his head.

  “…How,” he asks, voice carrying easily over the courtyard,

  “did Orphelia manage to pick you three up?”