Svenn led them to separate rooms to prepare.

  The duel would begin in less than an hour. The way he said it made the time feel like a tightening noose.

  ---

  Notch's room was larger than Viktor's entire apartment on the island.

  Windows arched high, letting morning light pool across polished floors. Tapestries softened stone walls—hunting scenes rendered in thread, nobles frozen mid-feast. A heavy bed sat in the center, duvet folded with the precision of someone who never slept in a hurry.

  Everything smelled faintly of cedar and old polish.

  Wealth here wasn't hidden. It bled through seams and pooled in corners, tangible as water.

  Notch paced once around the space, boots sounding small and foreign against thick rugs. The room seemed infected with affluence the way a wound might take to salt. Every object gleamed with a story he didn't belong to. He found himself cataloguing—the carved desk, the brass-inlaid chest, the wardrobe that would swallow his handful of shirts whole.

  *Maybe Roger stole all this,* he thought, fingers tracing the desk's edge. Steady riches like this weren't normal for someone so young, even nobility.

  "I'll ask him about it later," he said aloud, as if the uninterested ceiling might offer counsel.

  Sly shifted against his shoulder, warm and steady.

  He sat on the bed and peered through the window.

  The view dropped straight into a mini-arena in the southwest courtyard. Smaller than the grand coliseums from game lore, but intimate in a way that would make anyone in the center feel very seen. Sand stretched out, bordered by low stands where trainees would sit, and further out, a ring of higher seats for patrons and nobles.

  Already a figure moved inside.

  A small boy—smaller than Notch expected, maybe a year or two younger—danced across the sand with a wooden sword. Grey hair like Notch's own. He carried the blade as if it were an extension of his body: turns, parries, a flick of footwork that cruelly displayed both youth and refinement.

  Movements were neat. Economical. Practiced down to muscle memory.

  The boy's face was a mask—calm, unreadable. But his feet told another story: this one had been trained since he could walk.

  Notch traced the boy's arc with lazy, half-resentful admiration. A child that young shouldn't be carrying a weapon, and yet he was. And he owned every step.

  *That must be Malric. Roger's younger brother.*

  The realization settled like ice in his stomach. If Roger had arranged this as his "little get-together," what exactly had he arranged?

  Notch watched until his eyes prickled with exhaustion. The room felt warmer than moments ago. The hum of expectation made his lids droop. He'd been awake for too long—adrenaline and worry mixing into a fog that finally invited sleep.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  He fell asleep with the image of the swordsman spinning through his mind.

  ---

  A soft knock pulled him back.

  "Sir Notch, the duel is to start in less than a minute. You are running late."

  Svenn's voice carried efficient urgency through the door.

  "Crap," Notch hissed under his breath.

  He tossed Sly over his shoulders—the serpent uncoiling with sleepy grace, settling back as if she'd been waiting for exactly this moment. He grabbed a cloak, shoved feet into boots, and practically stumbled into the corridor.

  ---

  The arena was larger than it had looked through glass.

  Broader. More public. An open stage designed so everyone could see everything and nothing could hide.

  The sand smelled faintly of citrus cleaning oils and spilled wax. Someone had scrubbed it this morning to make the space ready for display.

  The trainees from Draymoor sat clustered in the nearest stand, chattering down into nervous silence as the moment approached. Faces he recognized from tests and late-night whispers looked smaller in the arena's light. Some fiddled with gloves or sleeves. Others watched with wide, pale eyes.

  Notch threaded through them, shoulders tight.

  There were more people than he'd expected.

  Men in crisp uniforms. Women encased in embroidered gowns. Young nobles who glided rather than walked. The crowd's murmur had its own rhythm—an expectant low that rose and fell like tide. Soldiers stationed at the perimeter scanned faces, bored and efficient.

  Roger sat apart in a raised section cordoned from general stands. His chair was simple but placed so he could see everything with the untroubled gaze of a predator at a feeding ground. He lounged with practiced ease, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded.

  The full weight of his attention rested on the sand below.

  Beside him, the grey-haired swordsman sat, blade still at his knee, face expressionless. Up close, the boy's skin was pale and unblemished, but his posture radiated the kind of confidence that had nothing to do with age. He gave no sign of being impressed by gathered nobility. His attention was all on the arena—like a musician waiting for a cue.

  Notch felt, with a strike of irony, that the boy was more weapon than child. A living, breathing instrument sharpened to a particular pitch.

  Roger's smile found him as Notch passed.

  It was the same smile from the road and the massacre: patient, almost pleased. It made the skin at the back of Notch's neck prickle.

  "Well, come then," Roger called, voice carrying easily over the sand. "Show us what you're worth."

  Notch's throat went suddenly dry. He swallowed and walked to the arena's edge. Sly's weight was a small, familiar burden. The stands around him blurred: Svenn's set jaw, Aelira's unreadable face on the opposite side, Crystal clenching her hands until knuckles shone white.

  This was a test of showmanship—a display for a bored noble's amusement. He could tell himself it meant nothing.

  The truth refused the lie: this would be watched, recorded in memory, measured in ways small minds would later argue over.

  As Notch was about to take his place, Svenn's voice cut across the murmur.

  "Sorry—the snake can't go in with you. Outside interference isn't permitted. Even weapons are banned. It'll be magic and bare hands only."

  The rule landed heavier than it should have.

  Notch's chest tightened. He hadn't planned on Sly doing anything overt, but she'd been his constant since she shrank to his shoulder. This was the first time anything this significant would happen without her at his side.

  He uncoiled her gently and held her for a moment, letting the last of her body heat sink into his palm. Sly's forked tongue flicked out, tasting air.

  She made no protest. Only a soft, almost imperceptible rasp.

  Svenn extended a steady hand. "I'll keep her safe." His voice had no judgment—only calm efficiency of someone used to holding what others couldn't.

  Notch forced a smile that felt thin and far too practiced. "I'll be right back," he told Sly—more a promise to himself than anyone watching.

  Svenn set Sly on a low bench in the nearest stand. The serpent coiled, head high, and watched with unblinking attention.

  Notch stared at her a breath longer, then drew it in like armor and turned.

  The sand felt strange under his boots—cool, gritty, utterly real. The stands pressed in on every side. Faces blurred into a single, expectant hum.

  Sly's gaze found his one last time.

  He nodded, small and private, and stepped into the light.

  ---

  Aelira was already there.

  She stood in the center of the arena, arms at her sides, posture relaxed but ready. Auburn hair pulled back in its practical braid. Simple training clothes that allowed movement. No jewelry, no adornment.

  Nothing but focus.

  Her eyes tracked him as he approached—cold, calculating, measuring him like she'd measured the bandits. Like she was deciding where to cut first.

  The crowd's murmur rose, then fell to expectant silence.

  Roger stood, and the movement commanded attention. He raised one hand, and the arena went utterly still.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," his voice carried, polished and theatrical. "Today we have the privilege of witnessing something rare—two high-grade prospects testing their mettle. From Draymoor village, I present Aelira Greystone and Notch Dryk."

  Polite applause rippled through the noble section. The trainees were silent, watching with the intensity of those seeing their own potential futures.

  "The rules are simple," Roger continued. "Magic and bare hands only. No weapons. No outside assistance. First to yield or become incapacitated loses." He paused, smile widening. "Try not to kill each other. Healing is expensive."

  Nervous laughter from the crowd.

  Roger sat, gesturing lazily. "Begin."

  For a moment, neither moved.

  Aelira and Notch stood twenty paces apart, sand between them, the weight of dozens of eyes pressing down.

  Then Aelira raised her hand.

  Hot silver light erupted from her palm—bright, concentrated, beautiful in its lethality. The air around her hand shimmered with heat.

  Notch's enhanced perception caught the mana flow before she released it. He saw the spell forming, saw the attack vector, saw the precise moment she would fire.

  The silver lance screamed toward him.