The rumors spread faster than rot in summer rain.
"Did you hear? A professional's been sighted east of the city—in the Cayas hills."
"No—really? Who?"
"My brother's a guard for one of the merchant caravans. Says they passed by the Cerberic hunting grounds a few nights ago. One of the outer dens was completely wiped out. Burnt clean. Even the blood was gone."
"You're serious?"
"As frost on a maiden's brow. Says there's a new trail opening. Might even be safe for a southern trade route now."
"Spirits bless that blade, whoever it is…"
The chatter died the moment a cloaked figure passed through the city gates.
Listern Merrick dismounted slowly, leading his weary horse with the quiet calm of someone who'd seen too much blood. His leathers were covered—wrapped in fresh cloth to hide the worst of the gore—but the stench lingered. Old, coppery, violent.
Even the gate guards tensed. Hands went to hilts.
Civilians stepped aside without needing to be told. A few of them recognized the scent, the gait, the coiled energy beneath the stranger's stillness.
No one realized they were staring at the very man whose blade had cleared half a Cerberic infestation.
Listern didn't care for recognition. He headed home.
"The Lady Anna has not seen Lord Quent since the day of the challenge," Ancor reported as he poured a dark, steaming broth into Listern's bowl.
"She hasn't left the estate either, from what our runners say. Apparently she's taken up painting."
"Painting," Listern muttered, sipping the broth.
"Indeed. Her father even hired a full-time master from Gylesport to tutor her in oils and inks."
Listern didn't answer.
He wasn't asking for news on Anna because he cared. That was the old Listern. The one who had looked at her and seen gold-rimmed futures in her smile.
No—this was strategic.
This was about Quent.
The man he was going to fight.
"Did Quent call on her? Or send letters?"
"None. Not since the duel was set."
Listern narrowed his eyes. "Odd."
"What is, my lord?"
Listern leaned back in the chair. "If a man challenges another to win a woman's hand, then disappears for days without seeing her… was it really about her?"
Ancor tilted his head thoughtfully. "I hadn't considered that."
Neither had Listern—until now.
Five days had passed since the duel was arranged. And not a single report of Quent visiting Anna. No parading, no gifts, no public declarations.
Just silence.
"Have you learned anything new?" Listern asked. "Anything useful about Quent's skill, his standing inside the ducal house?"
Ancor grimaced. "Little, I'm afraid. Accessing internal information on the ducal family is… difficult. Especially with our current staffing."
Listern grunted, unsurprised.
"Still," the old steward added hesitantly, "there is gossip. The kind that floats between kitchens and alleys. Nothing you'd find in parchment. But well-known, all the same."
Listern gestured for him to continue.
Ancor set down the carafe and lowered his voice, even though they were alone.
"Quent is the youngest of the Duke's sons. The least favored. Rumor has it his mother wasn't noble at all—just a maid from within the ducal keep."
Listern stilled.
Behind Ancor, a serving girl stumbled and nearly dropped a tray of plates. She froze, pale as snow, when Listern's gaze met hers.
But he said nothing. Just turned back to Ancor.
"The rumors are common enough," the steward continued. "But never confirmed. Still, when the Duke appears at official ceremonies, Quent is never present. Not once in twenty years. Never acknowledged publicly. Never dressed in house colors."
"And yet," Listern said slowly, "he's allowed to challenge me to a duel over a noble's daughter. With the Duke himself witnessing."
Ancor nodded. "The very oddity of it has people whispering again."
Listern leaned forward, elbows on the table. His mind was spinning.
He knew—knew—that Quent would become Duke Will III. That fact was carved into the lore of Godwake. His name was attached to treaties, uprisings, legendary duels.
And yet… here he was, a ghost within his own house. A son in shadow.
Something didn't add up.
"Why would a man so disregarded be given permission for a public duel that involves nobility?"
"Unless…" Listern whispered to himself, "it was never about Anna at all."
The girl had handed him the duel challenge with a calmness that didn't fit the moment. Her eyes had been watchful, not pleading. He'd assumed she was a pawn.
But what if she was in on it?
What if they both were?
"Ancor."
"My lord?"
"Do you still believe the Viscount of Anbeth favors me?"
The steward hesitated. "He gave you the Verdant Elixir, my lord. That is not a cheap gesture. I believe his intentions toward you are genuine."
"So does he hate the ducal house? Or just doubt their favor toward his daughter?"
"I couldn't say."
Listern stared at the hearth as flames danced in silence. His thoughts were tangled.
If the Duke's son was truly unwanted, marrying his daughter into that house would gain the Viscount nothing—and possibly risk scandal. But giving her to Listern, heir to a noble line with ancient combat arts?
That was a strategic move.
And yet…
Why Quent? Why now?
Why a public duel?
Why was the Duke—the very man who'd spent two decades pretending Quent didn't exist—suddenly willing to stand as witness to his bastard son's duel over a minor Viscount's daughter?
None of it aligned.
None of it felt real.
It felt orchestrated.
Listern's fingers flexed unconsciously on the table. A dozen different angles swirled in his head, but none of them ended in certainty.
Only questions.
And the strange, growing sense… that he was being drawn into something far larger than a petty noble feud.
That the duel was just the match.
And someone—somewhere—was holding the torch.