Lyra didn't leave her room for the rest of the day. Klen watched her disappear inside, shoulders shaking, eyes red, the door shutting quietly behind her like she was sealing herself away from the world. Marna slipped in after her with a soft glance toward him, and then the hallway fell silent. Klen stood there a moment longer, bandaged and hurting, alone in the dim corridor with no idea what words might comfort her, or if any words even could.
Morning arrived cold and gray. When Klen woke, his body felt like it had been left under a collapsed wall—aching, stiff, the bite on his arm throbbing with a deep, bruised pulse while the slashes across his chest burned every time he inhaled. He rose slowly, bracing one arm against the wall as he dressed and forced himself into the hallway. No servants approached. No one spoke to him. The entire mansion seemed to have pulled back, as if mourning him before the duel even began.
The training grounds were cloaked in a thin layer of mist, giving the air a damp heaviness that clung to his lungs. Fole waited near the edge of the courtyard, expression unreadable. A servant approached and set down a crate at Klen's feet without making eye contact. Inside lay a set of plain training clothes—dark, form-fitting garments meant to hide but not protect. The long-sleeved top pressed against his bandaged ribs, making him grit his teeth at the renewed sting. The pants were flexible, tucked into light boots, and cloth wraps were given for his hands and forearms. Nothing special. Nothing forgiving. Enough to hide the wounds, not enough to ease them.
Another crate held the weapons. Wooden. Blunted. Non-lethal. There were staves and clubs, daggers and swords. Klen reached for the kodachi first, feeling the familiar balance settle into his hand. Then he took a wooden longsword and looped it at his side—something for later, if he lived long enough to need it.
Fole approached, his tone low and firm. "You'll announce your weapons. Lord Leor will announce his."
The murmurs of servants and guards quieted when Leor stepped into the courtyard. He wore simple dark-gray training armor—light chestplate, flexible arm guards, and reinforced leggings. Nothing ornamental. Nothing wasted. Just efficient, silent readiness. In his hand he carried a real steel longsword, the kind that reflected light with sharp, merciless angles. Klen felt his throat tighten.
The two stepped into the ring. Fole moved to the center, raising his voice. "The duel consists of two rounds. First: weapons. Second: bare-handed." His eyes passed over Klen before settling on Leor. "Victory is achieved only by landing a clean blow that draws blood from the lord. Losing condition is death."
The crowd fell into a tense hush. The weight of the words pressed against Klen's ribs almost as much as the bruises beneath.
Leor lifted his sword with one hand, as casual as if he were holding a quill. "Do your best."
Klen tightened his grip on the kodachi, sweat already forming along his palms. The world narrowed to the ring, the cold air, and the man built like an unmovable wall standing across from him.
Fole raised a hand. "Begin."
The moment the signal dropped, Leor moved. It wasn't just fast—it was instantaneous. A blur of motion, a shift in air, and then pain slammed into Klen's chest before he understood what had happened. The hilt of Leor's sword drove into him with crushing force, launching him backward. He hit the ground hard, skidding across the dirt and rolling twice before coming to a painful stop.
Breath fled his lungs. For a moment he couldn't even breathe in; his chest spasmed like it had collapsed inward. He coughed, choking, and something warm splattered against his hand. Blood. He stared at the smear of red on his palm, vision pulsing as he forced himself upright, ribs screaming in protest.
Leor didn't pursue. He simply watched, expression blank, waiting for Klen to stand—an expectation, not a courtesy.
Klen pushed himself up on trembling legs, lifted the kodachi, and steadied his breath despite the burning in his lungs. His vision drifted in and out of clarity, edges blurring before snapping back into harsh focus. He blinked hard. It didn't help.
He attacked first this time, launching himself forward with the kodachi drawn back for a strike. Leor shifted slightly—just enough—and the blade missed. Klen tried again. Blocked. Again. Dodged. Each swing grew more desperate, each movement slower as pain spread deeper through his body.
But eventually, he found something that looked like an opening—a small shift in Leor's stance, a fractional lift of the elbow. Klen feinted left, slipped behind him, and brought the kodachi down in a committed strike meant for the shoulder.
Leor read it like an open page.
Before the blade reached him, he pivoted and slammed the hilt of his sword directly into Klen's stomach. The force folded him in half. Breath fled his lungs with an ugly, choking gasp. Pain crawled up his chest like fire beneath his skin. His legs gave out and he staggered back, clutching his abdomen as blood spilled from his mouth in thin threads.
Leor stepped forward without hesitation. There was nothing personal in his movement—no malice, no anger. Just decisive efficiency. A strike to the ribs. Another to the shoulder. A crack against his forearm that sent numbness shooting down his fingers. Klen blocked when he could, dodged when his sluggish feet obeyed, but most of the blows still found him. Each hit jolted through his injuries with a sickening combination of shock and agony.
The ringing in his ears drowned out the voices around him. His knees buckled again, and he dropped to one knee, the kodachi nearly sliding from his weakened grip. More blood trickled from his nose. His breathing turned shallow and ragged, every inhale shivering across broken pain.
Leor stood over him, cold and unflinching, sword lowered but ready.
Klen raised his head, vision flickering, determination barely holding his body together. The round wasn't over. Leor wasn't done. And he was still alive.
For now.