Dawn in the Ashworth estate was a crisp, clean affair. The sun had not yet crested the eastern mountains, and the air in the main training yard carried a sharp, cold bite. A thin layer of mist clung to the packed earth of the dueling circle, stirred into lazy swirls by the handful of guards who had gathered to watch the impromptu spectacle.
They weren't the only ones. From a stone balcony overlooking the yard, my father stood with his arms crossed, a silent, granite gargoyle judging the proceedings. Beside him, Lord Valerius watched with what appeared to be a gentle, supportive smile. My mother and Seraphina stood near the entrance to the keep, their anxious expressions partially hidden by the morning shadows.
In the center of the circle, Elias was already waiting. He was dressed in light training leathers, a pair of heavy, rune-etched gauntlets covering his hands and forearms. The Aether around him was a visible, agitated shimmer—the mark of an Artisan confidently displaying his power. He looked every bit the part of the superior older brother, ready to administer a harsh but necessary lesson.
I walked into the circle, clad in simple training trousers and a loose-fitting tunic. I was unarmed. I looked, I knew, like a lamb being led to slaughter.
"Finally decided to show up?" Elias sneered, cracking his knuckles. The gauntlets made a sharp, metallic sound. "Don't worry, little brother. I'll try not to break you too badly. Father wouldn't approve of damaged goods."
"Just try not to exhaust yourself, Elias," I said, my voice calm and carrying easily in the quiet morning. "I hear the capital's tournaments are quite grueling. You'll need your strength."
A low chuckle rippled through the watching guards. Elias's face tightened, his condescending smirk vanishing. I had, once again, refused to play my part.
Garrick stepped forward, his expression grim. "The terms are for a spar, my lords. First to be disarmed, disabled, or to yield. The Count will be the final judge. Begin."
Elias didn't wait. He exploded into motion, closing the ten paces between us in a single, powerful lunge. His right fist, wreathed in the thick, churning aura of an Artisan, came straight for my head. It was a crude, overwhelming attack, designed to end the fight in a single, humiliating blow.
The old Lancelot would have frozen. He would have tried to raise a pathetic, Tier 1 block and been sent flying.
I, however, had the Two-Heart Cadence.
I took a sharp breath in on the thump of my Dragon Heart and let my body flow with the exhale on the THUMP. It wasn't a panicked dodge. It was a smooth, effortless pivot. The air stirred by Elias's punch brushed past my ear as I flowed around him like water around a stone. He stumbled, his momentum carrying him past where I had been a second before.
He recovered quickly, spinning with a backhand strike. Again, I moved with the rhythm, a half-step back, just enough for his knuckles to skim the air in front of my chest. I wasn't just reacting; I was moving with the steady, powerful beat inside me, my Rhythmic Circulation making my movements preternaturally efficient and fluid.
"Stand still and fight!" he roared, his frustration mounting.
He launched into a furious barrage of attacks. Heavy, powerful blows that whistled through the air, each one strong enough to shatter stone. To the onlookers, it must have looked like a desperate defense on my part, a flurry of last-ditch evasions. But for me, it was a dance. His attacks were the storm, and I was the leaf, never resisting, simply moving with the currents. I could feel the crudeness of his power, the wasted energy in every swing. He was fighting with rage. I was moving with a rhythm.
The guards were no longer laughing. They were watching with wide, disbelieving eyes. Garrick's jaw was tight, his professional gaze sharp and analytical. Up on the balcony, Valerius's smile had become a fraction tighter. My father had not moved a muscle.
After nearly a full minute of this relentless, fruitless assault, Elias was breathing heavily, his face flushed with exertion and fury. He had expected a knockout. Instead, he was punching air, and his 'weak' little brother was making him look like a clumsy amateur. He overcommitted, lunging with a powerful right cross that left his left side exposed for a fraction of a second.
It was the opening I had been waiting for.
I didn't try to match his power. I didn't need to. As he lunged, I stepped inside his guard, my own movement a quiet whisper against his roar. I focused on the cadence, drawing the mana from my heart, a smooth, focused river of power. I gathered the energy in my fist on the deep thump...
And released it on the sharp THUMP.
My open palm didn't strike his body. It tapped, almost gently, against the side of his left gauntlet. It was a precise, controlled application of Rhythmic Infusion.
The sound was not a heavy crunch, but a high-pitched, resonant PING that cut through the morning air like shattering glass.
Elias froze. He looked down at his gauntlet. A spiderweb of cracks had appeared on the hardened, rune-etched steel. The resonant shockwave, the true damage of the infusion, traveled up his arm. His eyes went wide as the limb went momentarily numb, the power he was channeling sputtering out. He stumbled back, clutching his arm, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated shock.
He had been tagged. Injured, in a way. Not by a powerful blow, but by a technique so sophisticated he couldn't even comprehend it.
The humiliation was absolute. A guttural roar of pure rage was torn from his throat.
"You—!"
All technique, all discipline, vanished. He abandoned his stance, his face contorted in fury, and began to gather all the Aether he could command. His power swirled around him in a visible, chaotic vortex. He was preparing one final, overwhelming attack, a haymaker of pure, uncontrolled force meant to obliterate me entirely.
I saw it coming. The attack was too wide to dodge, too powerful to block. My brief moment of triumph curdled into the cold realization that I had pushed him too far.
But before the attack could be launched, before I had to make a desperate choice, a figure moved with impossible speed. Garrick was suddenly between us, his hand clamped around Elias's wrist like a vise of iron.
"The spar is over, my lord," Garrick said, his voice hard.
From the balcony, a single word boomed across the yard, carrying the undeniable weight of a Grandmaster's command.
"Enough."
Garrick released him. Elias stood there, breathing in ragged gasps, his face a mask of shame and fury. He couldn't meet my father's gaze.
I, on the other hand, stood calmly, my breathing barely disturbed. I hadn't won. But I hadn't lost.
My father descended the steps from the balcony, his boots silent on the stone. He walked onto the training ground, his gaze sweeping over a fuming Elias, then to the cracked gauntlet, and finally, to me. He looked at my calm expression, my relaxed stance. He saw not the result of a lucky shot, but the outcome of controlled, deliberate skill.
He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. Then he turned and walked away without another word.
It was all I needed.
I looked around the yard. The guards were no longer looking at me with pity, but with a new, cautious respect. I saw my mother pressing a hand to her heart, her fear replaced by stunned disbelief. And I saw Seraphina, a brilliant, hopeful smile lighting up her entire face.
The spar was over. I had lost. But as I walked out of the circle, I knew, with absolute certainty, that I had won.