Word traveled quickly through the estate. By dawn, servants were already whispering in corners, and by midday, half the city knew: the Vaelith heir would face a duel.
It wasn't just about skill. It was about status.
Eryndor stood at the edge of the courtyard where the duel would take place. A wide stone arena had been cleared, banners of the Vaelith crest fluttering overhead. Rows of nobles filled the seats, their eyes sharp, their mouths ready to spread whatever rumor they could seize.
Across the arena stood Malrik. His cousin wore a smirk that didn't waver even as the crowd quieted. He looked confident, maybe too confident, as if he already saw Eryndor bleeding at his feet.
"Try not to embarrass yourself, cousin," Malrik called, voice loud enough for the crowd. "Or the council might think the wrong boy survived."
Murmurs rippled through the spectators.
Eryndor adjusted his cuffs, every movement calm, deliberate. He didn't need to boast. He'd let his fists—and maybe more—speak for him.
The council's voice boomed across the arena. "This duel will be fought to submission. No killing. The one who yields, or can no longer stand, loses. Begin."
Malrik wasted no time. He surged forward, blade flashing in the sun. His movements were sharp, drilled, and backed by a current of magic that shimmered faintly around him. Each strike had weight, meant to overwhelm quickly.
But Eryndor had no sword. He didn't need one.
He sidestepped the first swing, his breathing steady, letting his body flow with practiced rhythm. When Malrik thrust, Eryndor twisted just enough, parrying the blade with the side of his arm, redirecting the force harmlessly away.
A gasp ran through the crowd.
They're used to heirs swinging weapons like toys, Eryndor thought, eyes locked on his cousin. They've never seen someone fight to survive.
Malrik snarled and pushed harder, magic flaring as sparks of lightning danced along his blade. "Stop dodging and fight!"
Eryndor smirked. "You call this fighting?"
With one swift motion, he closed the gap. His palm struck Malrik's chest, forcing him back a step. Another strike to the wrist sent the blade clattering across the stone. The crowd roared.
Malrik staggered, fury burning in his eyes. He thrust his hand out, raw magic surging forward in a crackling bolt.
Eryndor inhaled sharply, focusing. His grandfather's breathing drills steadied his core, let him anchor his body. He swept his hand through the air, shaping the faint current of energy he'd begun to grasp.
A shimmer of light rippled in front of him, thin but solid enough. The bolt struck, splitting across the barrier before fading into sparks.
The arena went silent.
Eryndor lowered his hand, his breathing calm. His first true defense—a fusion of martial discipline and the faintest hint of magic—had just saved him.
Malrik was panting now, glaring, humiliated. He stumbled forward again, but before he could strike, the council's voice rang out:
"Enough."
The crowd erupted, half in cheers, half in outrage.
Malrik froze, his chest heaving, rage barely contained. Eryndor simply stood straight, smoothing his sleeve, his calm composure a sharper victory than any strike.
From the high balcony, Lord Vaelith watched, arms crossed. His expression gave nothing away, but his eyes lingered on Eryndor longer than on anyone else.
The duel was over. But the whispers, the rumors, the new weight of expectation—those were only beginning.