Thorne leaned back against the wall, his eyes scanning the room as pandemonium erupted. Gasps and cries of outrage filled the air, the scandalous declaration sending shockwaves through the gathered nobles. Conversations erupted in hushed, urgent whispers as the ramifications of the challenge began to settle in.

  Thorne’s mind raced, dissecting the possible outcomes. He didn’t care much whether Kellan Thornfield lived or died; the boy was a weak link in their grand scheme. Removing him could rid them of a potential scandal that would jeopardize everything they had worked for. With Kellan out of the picture, that damning secret would die with him, ensuring Lord Thornfield’s silence. They could still use the threat of exposure to control the man, but without Kellan, their leverage would weaken.

  But there were other consequences to consider. Without an heir, the Thornfield family would be left vulnerable. Sympathy would likely shift to the elder Thornfield, especially if his son fell victim to Alaric Ravencourt’s rage. That, too, could be useful. Alaric’s reckless challenge had painted his family in a poor light. Thorne could see it in the room’s atmosphere, the way the nobles recoiled from Alaric’s aggression. In a single rash moment, he had turned everyone against the Ravencourts, even those who might have sympathized with his grief.

  The elder Ravencourt seemed to recognize this as well. He was desperately trying to rein in his son, his voice rising above the din. But Alaric was beyond reasoning, his eyes locked on Kellan with murderous intent.

  His eyes shifted to Kellan, who looked like he was about to faint. The boy’s face was ghostly pale, his eyes wide and pleading as he looked to his mother for help. His lips moved soundlessly, trying to form words, but nothing seemed to come out. He glanced around the room, his gaze skimming past the other nobles as if searching for a friendly face, for someone to step in and save him. But everyone seemed to turn away, averting their eyes from the pitiful spectacle. Kellan was alone, more isolated than ever.

  Thorne leaned back, folding his arms, his expression calm and composed, but beneath the surface, his mind was a flurry of cold calculations. He noted the reactions of the other nobles—some with shock, others with a glimmer of morbid fascination, and still others who exchanged brief, knowing glances. This was a spectacle none of them would forget.

  The Viremonts stood off to the side, whispering among themselves with smug, self-satisfied smiles. Their eyes glittered with amusement, as if they were watching a particularly entertaining play unfold. They had no love for the Thornfields, and Alaric’s outburst was clearly something they found more than a little gratifying.

  In contrast, the Farroways maintained a cool, disapproving distance. Lord Farroway’s lips were pressed into a thin line, his eyes flicking between Alaric and Kellan with a look of detached judgment. Emilia Farroway, standing beside him, looked equally unimpressed, her gaze steady and calculating. They were clearly weighing the implications of this display, considering how it might affect their own position in Alvar’s delicate political web.

  Meanwhile, the Langstons, once proud and powerful, seemed to be shrinking into the background, their expressions wary and guarded. Lady Rosalind Langston’s eyes darted around the room, taking in every detail, every reaction, as if trying to gauge which way the wind was blowing. Her heir, Sabine, stood beside her, her face carefully blank, though her eyes glittered with a barely concealed interest. They were distancing themselves from the conflict, but they were also watching, waiting to see who would come out on top.

  Thorne’s gaze returned to Kellan, who was now being held up by his mother, the woman’s face twisted with fear and desperation. He was trying to speak, his voice breaking with panic as he stammered out apologies, excuses, anything to placate Alaric’s rage.

  The tension mounted, a thick, suffocating presence that hung over the hall like a storm cloud. Thorne watched as Elena Lockridge, the host of this disastrous event, stepped forward. Her jaw was set, and her eyes burned with a fierce resolve as she placed herself between Alaric and Kellan. Her presence was commanding, and for a moment, it seemed like she might succeed in quelling the storm.

  “Alaric, this is not the time or place for such actions,” she said, her voice firm but measured. “You will not turn this celebration into a bloodbath.”

  But Alaric was deaf to reason, his eyes never leaving Kellan’s. “This has nothing to do with you, Lady Lockridge,” he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “This is between me and him.”

  Elena’s eyes flicked to Lord Ravencourt, but the man looked utterly defeated, his attempts to calm his son having failed completely. She turned back to Alaric, her expression hardening. “You are in my house, Alaric Ravencourt. I will not have this barbarity under my roof.”

  But Alaric seemed set on his course, his rage blinding him to the consequences. “Stay out of this,” he spat, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. “Or I will see to it that you regret it.”

  There were horrified gasps at his words, the shock rippling through the crowd like a wave. Even Thorne felt a twinge of surprise at the raw, unbridled hatred in the young man’s voice. Alaric was beyond reason, beyond control. He was a weapon, one that could either destroy them all or be turned to their advantage.

  Lady Thornfield, tears streaming down her face, stepped forward, her voice breaking as she pleaded for mercy. “Please, Alaric, I beg of you. Show mercy. He’s just a boy. He didn’t mean—”

  “Silence!” Alaric roared, his eyes blazing with fury. “Your words mean nothing to me, woman. Nothing!” He turned back to Kellan, his voice dripping with venom. “You will pay for what your family has done.”

  Elena Lockridge sighed, her shoulders slumping as she realized there would be no reasoning with him. She cast one last, regretful glance at the elder Ravenncourt before she straightened, her voice cold and formal as she spoke.

  “Very well,” she said, her tone carrying the weight of finality. “If there is to be a duel, it will be conducted in the courtyard. I will not have blood spilled in my hall.”

  The room was silent for a moment, the weight of her words settling over them like a shroud. Then, slowly, the crowd began to move, the nobles whispering among themselves as they made their way towards the doors. Thorne remained where he was, his eyes on Alaric’s rigid back as he stalked after Kellan and his mother, a dark smile playing on his lips. This was turning out better than he could have ever hoped.

  Thorne followed the crowd as they poured out of the hall and into the courtyard, the air thick with anticipation. Whispers and murmurs spread like wildfire, noble heads huddled together as they speculated about the upcoming duel. A frigid breeze swept through the open space, tugging at the elaborate dresses and finely tailored coats of Alvar’s elite. The torches lining the courtyard flickered, casting wavering shadows on the stone walls.

  The courtyard itself was spacious, bordered by tall, imposing walls that seemed to loom over the gathered nobles. The ground was packed earth, and at the center was a circular stone platform, typically used for training bouts by the Lockridge soldiers. Tonight, however, it would serve as the stage for a far more dangerous spectacle.

  Thorne maneuvered through the crowd, his eyes scanning the throngs of people until he spotted Devon and Rielle on the periphery, their expressions tense. They met his gaze for a moment, a silent exchange passing between them. Everything was under control—for now. Satisfied, Thorne shifted his attention back to the center of the courtyard.

  Lady Elena Lockridge stepped forward, her commanding presence instantly silencing the crowd. She looked every inch the warrior she was known to be, her posture straight, her gaze hard and unyielding. She stood between Alaric and Kellan, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of the sword at her hip, a reminder to everyone present that she would brook no nonsense here tonight.

  “Lords and ladies of Alvar,” she began, her voice clear and strong. “We are gathered here under unfortunate circumstances. But a challenge has been issued, and we will see it honored, as is our tradition.” Her eyes flicked to Alaric, who stood to her right, the fury still simmering beneath his stoic expression. “This duel is to be conducted fairly, without interference or deceit.”

  Her gaze swept over the crowd, daring anyone to object. No one did. She turned back to the two young men before her. “You are to fight with honor, and you are not to use any active skills.” She spoke directly to Alaric, her tone carrying a subtle warning. “This will be a contest of skill and strength alone.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Alaric’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he gave a curt nod. Kellan, on the other hand, looked as if he might be sick. He glanced over at his father, who was leaning heavily against one of the columns, a smug smile on his face as he watched his son prepare for what could very well be his death.

  Lady Lockridge gestured to one of her soldiers, who stepped forward holding two swords. They were simple, unadorned blades, but the steel gleamed under the torchlight, sharp and deadly. She handed one to Alaric, who took it with a grim expression, testing its weight before nodding in satisfaction.

  When she offered the second sword to Kellan, his hand trembled as he reached for it. He looked at the blade as if it were a viper ready to strike, his knuckles white as he gripped the hilt. He glanced around the courtyard, his eyes flicking to the assembled nobles, all watching him with varying degrees of interest and disdain.

  Thorne caught his eye for a brief moment, and he gave Kellan a small, almost imperceptible nod. It was a gesture of encouragement, though he doubted Kellan would take it as such. The boy looked like a cornered animal, all flight and no fight. Thorne almost pitied him. Almost.

  Lady Lockridge stepped back, giving the two combatants space. “This duel will continue until one of you yields or is unable to fight.” She paused, her eyes lingering on Alaric for a moment longer. “Remember, no active skills. Fight with honor, or not at all.”

  Alaric sneered, his eyes never leaving Kellan. “Oh, I intend to fight with honor, Lady Lockridge. I intend to fight with honor and deliver justice for my family.”

  Kellan swallowed hard, raising his sword into a clumsy guard position. The blade wavered slightly in his grip, his lack of training evident in every movement. Alaric’s smile widened, a predator scenting blood.

  Lady Lockridge stepped back, raising her arm. “Begin!”

  The courtyard fell deathly silent, all eyes on the two young men as they began to circle each other. Thorne leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as he watched Kellan’s every move, every twitch of his muscles. He would need to find a way to turn this around if he wanted to survive. And if he didn’t...

  Well, Thorne thought as he took a slow sip from his wine, he would just have to find another way to salvage the Thornfields’ crumbling facade.

  Alaric launched himself at Kellan with a ferocity that bordered on madness. His strikes were wild, powerful, each one driven by a rage that seemed to burn through him like wildfire. His sword sang through the air, crashing against Kellan’s blade with brutal force. Kellan struggled to keep up, his movements awkward and uncoordinated as he backpedaled desperately, his sword raised more in defense than attack.

  “You think you’re better than me, Thornfield?” Alaric snarled, his voice a harsh growl as he swung his sword in a wide arc. Kellan barely managed to deflect the blow, his feet stumbling over the uneven ground as he tried to find his balance. “You think your family can just do whatever they want and get away with it?”

  Kellan’s eyes were wide with fear, his breaths coming in short, panicked gasps. He tried to speak, tried to explain, but his words were lost in the clash of steel and the roar of Alaric’s rage. “Alaric, please—” He didn’t even get the chance to finish as Alaric’s sword slammed into his, the force of the blow nearly knocking the weapon from his hands.

  “You’re nothing!” Alaric shouted, his voice echoing across the courtyard. He drove Kellan back, his strikes relentless, each one more vicious than the last. “Your family is nothing! Murderers and liars, all of you!”

  The crowd watched in horrified fascination, their murmurs growing louder with each brutal strike. Alaric wasn’t just trying to win; he was trying to destroy Kellan, to humiliate him in front of everyone. The young Thornfield’s desperate attempts to defend himself were pathetic in comparison, his movements slow and clumsy as he tried to fend off Alaric’s onslaught.

  Alaric lunged forward, his sword aimed at Kellan’s chest. Kellan barely managed to twist out of the way, the blade slicing through his sleeve and drawing a thin line of blood. He staggered back, his eyes wide with pain and fear as he clutched his arm. “Please, Alaric, listen to me! We don’t have to do this!”

  But Alaric didn’t hear him. He was beyond reason, his eyes blazing with fury as he swung his sword again, the blade catching Kellan across the shoulder. Kellan cried out, stumbling back as blood seeped through his tunic, staining the fabric a dark red. He tried to raise his sword, tried to defend himself, but his movements were sluggish, his strength failing him as he struggled to stay upright.

  Thorne could hear the whispers in the crowd turned to gasps of outrage, the spectators exchanging glances of horror and disgust. This wasn’t a duel anymore; it was a massacre. Even those who had initially sided with the Ravencourts were beginning to look uneasy, their faces pale as they watched Alaric tear into Kellan with unrestrained brutality.

  It was working. The scene unfolding before them was turning the tide of opinion, casting Alaric as the aggressor and Kellan as the victim.

  But it wouldn’t matter if Kellan died here.

  Thorne’s mind raced as he weighed his options. He needed to end this, now, before Alaric did something that couldn’t be undone. He scanned the courtyard, his eyes flitting over the crowd until they landed on the flickering torches lining the edge of the courtyard. An idea sparked in his mind, a plan forming in the space of a heartbeat.

  He scanned the faces in the crowd and found Rielle and Devon standing where they had been earlier, eyes fixed on the unfolding duel. Thorne pushed his way through the crowd, shoving people aside as he rushed towards them, urgency driving his movements.

  When he reached them, he spoke quickly, his voice low and intense. “We need to stop the duel. There’s no time. I need you to set fire to the barracks, make it look like an accident. It needs to be big enough to disrupt everything but not too dangerous. Do you understand?”

  Rielle and Devon exchanged a glance, their expressions hardening as they nodded. There was no hesitation, no questions. They turned and disappeared into the shadows, moving with the silent efficiency of seasoned operatives.

  Thorne took a deep breath, his eyes darting back to the duel as he made his way closer to the fighting pair. Kellan was in bad shape, blood covering his face and clothes. A deep cut ran from the top of his head to his ear, the crimson staining his pale skin. He looked like he was on the verge of collapse, his legs trembling as he tried to stay upright.

  Alaric, on the other hand, seemed almost at ease, a cruel smile playing on his lips as he toyed with his opponent, his movements controlled and precise. He was enjoying this, savoring every moment, like a cat playing with a dying mouse. He circled Kellan, taunting him with vicious jabs and slashes, each strike drawing blood and pained gasps.

  Thorne’s heart pounded in his chest, his eyes flicking between the duel and the edge of the courtyard, waiting for the signal. The seconds stretched into agonizing minutes, each one feeling like an eternity. He was ready to intervene if he had to.

  Alaric’s sword swept in a wide arc, catching Kellan on the back as he tried to retreat. The force of the blow sent Kellan sprawling to the ground, his sword clattering uselessly next to him. He lay there, gasping for breath, his face twisted in pain as he struggled to push himself up on his hands and knees.

  Alaric stood over him, a look of triumph on his face as he raised his sword high. “This is your end, Thornfield,” he sneered, his voice dripping with malice. “You and your family—”

  Just as the blade was about to connect, a sudden explosion rocked the courtyard, the ground shaking beneath their feet as a burst of crimson light filled the night sky.

  Screams erupted from the crowd as everyone turned to see the source of the commotion. Flames licked the sky, the barracks at the edge of the courtyard engulfed in fire, the heat from the blaze washing over the assembled nobles. Panic rippled through the crowd as people began to scatter, their shouts of fear and confusion filling the air.

  Lady Lockridge’s eyes widened in shock, her composure slipping for the first time as she turned to Alaric, her voice sharp with anger. “Stop this at once!”

  Thorne felt a surge of satisfaction as he watched the scene descend into chaos. The duel was forgotten, the crowd scattering in all directions as servants and guards rushed to contain the blaze. Alaric hesitated, his eyes widening as he glanced at the fire, the distraction breaking through his murderous focus.

  But then Alaric’s eyes fixed on Kellan, his chest heaving with rage. He took a step forward, his grip tightening on his sword as he prepared to deliver the final blow, the fire and chaos around them forgotten in his single-minded fury.

  Thorne watched, his heart pounding as he realized what was about to happen. Alaric wasn’t going to stop. He was going to kill Kellan, right here, in front of everyone. And if that happened, all of Thorne’s careful planning would be for nothing.

  He moved without thinking, his hand flicking out as he used his Invisible Threads skill. The spectral lines of aether wrapped around Alaric’s sword, tugging it just enough to throw off his aim. The blade missed Kellan’s neck by inches, slicing through the air with a hiss as it struck the ground beside him.

  Alaric stumbled, his eyes widening in surprise as he looked down at the blade embedded in the dirt, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He seemed to realize, for the first time, where he was, what he was doing. He looked up, his gaze flicking to Kellan’s bloodied, terrified face, then to the horrified faces of the onlookers.

  Lord Ravencourt was there in an instant, grabbing his son’s arm and pulling him back, his voice low and urgent. “That’s enough, Alaric. It’s over. Come with me, now.”

  Alaric resisted for a moment, his body tense with lingering fury, but then he let out a shuddering breath and allowed himself to be led away, the fire in his eyes dimming as the reality of what he had done seemed to sink in. The Ravencourt guards closed in around them, forming a protective barrier as they guided the shaken heir away from the scene, their faces grim.

  Kellan lay on the ground, his chest heaving as he tried to push himself up, his eyes dazed and unfocused. Lady Thornfield rushed to his side, her hands fluttering uselessly around him as she whispered frantic reassurances, her face pale with fear.

  Thorne watched it all unfold, a sense of satisfaction curling in his chest as he leaned against a pillar, his hand still tingling with the lingering sensation of his aetheric manipulation. The duel was over, but the night’s events had set in motion something much larger, a shift in power.

  He had played his part well, and now, it was time to see how the pieces would fall.

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