Quent Wilthorne stood in the center of the Melric family training yard, not a single ounce of apology on his face for climbing the estate wall like a common thief.
He didn't need to explain himself. Not in his mind.
Instead, his eyes calmly roamed over Lyst, as if evaluating a prized horse at auction.
And then, as if granting approval, he nodded faintly. "You've surprised me," he said. "Didn't think you'd be smart enough to avoid chasing Anna around like a dog in heat all month. Even more shocking, you actually spent the time practicing your family's blade art."
He smirked. "But the real shock? You found out about Anna and her little painter, and sent that rumor straight to my ears."
Lyst said nothing.
Quent continued. "What was it? The day after the duel was set? Did reality finally snap you out of your love-sick delusions?"
Every move. Every choice. Quent had been watching him.
Not surprising. Lyst had done the same.
But it was the tone—Quent's air of condescension, his smug posture—that dug under Lyst's skin. As if he was still some pampered prince looking down on a broken noble.
That might've been true once.
Not anymore.
"So you already knew?" Lyst asked quietly. "About Anna. And the painter."
Quent smiled like a tutor pleased with his student. "Of course I knew. You think I'd ever take a lowborn treasury girl seriously? Please."
He scoffed.
"She tried to use me to distract you. She thought she was clever. Honestly, the only reason I even played along was because she was… convenient."
There was a flicker of disdain in his eyes. A subtle shift. Just enough for Lyst to realize something:
Quent didn't care about Anna. Not at all.
He never had.
That meant only one thing.
"So," Lyst said slowly, eyes narrowing, "this wasn't about her at all. You were never here for Anna."
Quent's smile widened.
"Exactly. But it wasn't my idea, either."
He took a step forward, voice low.
"This duel, this whole situation? It was orchestrated by my father—Duke Wilthorne II."
Lyst felt a chill settle behind his ribcage.
He had theorized many possible motivations behind the duel. Anna's politics. Jealousy. The usual noble games.
But this?
This was the worst-case scenario.
"Your father wants me dead?"
Quent shrugged. "Not necessarily. Whether you live or die is irrelevant. What matters is the message."
"To who?"
"To the other noble families."
Lyst's mind clicked into place.
The Wilthorne Duchy wasn't just a tangle of power-hungry houses. It was a powder keg. At the top sat Duke Wilthorne II, a man who had grown tired of the seven old bloodlines that once helped found the duchy—Lyst's own family among them.
Under the first Duke, there had been a balance. Tradition. Cooperation between the founding noble lines and the central authority.
But the second Duke?
He wanted control.
"So this isn't just about Melric," Lyst said. "We're the first cut. A warning to the others."
Quent didn't deny it.
"Your family was the weakest of the old bloodlines. No heirs. No power. The perfect place to start." He said it plainly, like a farmer explaining which calf to slaughter first. "My father plans to use your defeat to shake the rest into submission."
Lyst clenched his jaw.
He'd seen this coming. The signs. The subtle changes in how the old families were treated. The way the Duke centralized everything.
But now it was confirmed.
War—whether open or cold—was coming.
"So why are you telling me this now?" Lyst asked, voice flat. "Trying to buy my silence?"
Quent smirked. "Hardly. I'm telling you because I don't agree with my father. Never have."
"How noble."
"Hardly. It's strategy." Quent's tone sharpened. "He hates me. I'm the least favored of his heirs. My two older brothers have armies, estates, titles. I have this."
He gestured around. "A duel. A disgrace. A way to humiliate me while using me."
"Then you're planning something."
"Obviously."
Quent stepped forward, his violet cloak fluttering behind him.
"When I become Duke—Wilthorne the Third—I'll need allies. And if I'm going to oppose my father's tyranny, I need people who can act outside the bounds of his court."
"People like you."
There it was.
The offer.
Lyst stared at him. "You want an alliance."
Quent didn't blink.
"I want you to become my vassal. Swear your blade to me, and I promise tomorrow's duel will be... theatrical."
He smiled like a dealmaker.
"A few bruises. A show for the crowd. But no permanent harm. And after? I'll make sure the Melric name rises again. You'll have lands. Power. Legacy."
And truth be told, if Lyst had been the same man from a month ago—desperate, weak, without options—he might've accepted.
Might've bowed his head and clung to the future Quent was dangling in front of him.
But he wasn't that man anymore.
He had power.
He had his panel.
And more than that—he had ambition.
"No."
Quent blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"I won't serve anyone," Lyst said coldly. "Not your father. Not you."
A long silence stretched between them.
Quent's expression shifted from amused, to offended, to angry.
"You'd rather die?"
"You'll find out tomorrow," Lyst said, stepping closer. "And I hope your shield is stronger than your arrogance."
There was no more diplomacy in Quent's face.
Only cold, noble disdain.
"Then don't expect mercy."
"Wouldn't dream of it."