Count Pherrin Blackbough gulped down the wine. The bitter tang slid down his throat, leaving a faint burn in its wake, and when it reached his stomach, some of the fog in his head began to lift. The reasoning that returned wasn’t much, but it was enough to remind him of the hour, and of the meeting he had nearly missed.

Ever since the banquet had ended, his mind had been pulled in too many directions at once. He had spent the better part of the night and half the morning darting from one conversation to another, relaying fragments of what had happened to those within his circle. It had been a flurry of hurried explanations, so much so that the thought of meeting the second prince had nearly slipped away entirely.

Now, seated in Prince Aldrin’s private chamber, he realized the prince had yet to say a single word. He didn’t greet when he walked inside, just slid the goblet smoothly across the table while his own untouched goblet was right beside him.

Pherrin Blackbough took the silence for what it was and observed.

The man in front of him looked as far from a prince as one could be. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in weeks. His eyes were reddened and undereyes were bruised. His dark hair fell to one side, but the contrast between its luster and the bloodless tone of his face only made him look like a blood drinker. The Alparca royal blood—his mother’s blood—had long been whispered to carry the taint of blood drinkers. Aldrin’s complexion, drained of color to the point of near translucence, didn’t help quiet such talk. Denials from the throne had done little over the years, and in moments like this, Blackbough understood why.

The prince’s gaze was fixed, unblinking, as if he could strip the layers from a man without lifting a finger. There was no malice in it, only an intensity that made the air feel tighter, as though the room itself leaned in to hear what would come next.

Finally, Aldrin spoke calmly, almost too calmly that it carried an edge that made it difficult to breathe through.

“Tell me everything you saw at the banquet,” he had said. “Even a fly that caught your eye, I want to know about everything.” Discover more novels at novelꞁire.net

Blackbough inclined his head, swallowing the faint prickle of unease that rose at the demand. He had long since learned to push such feelings aside. After all, a Count was not a royal, and respect in such company was a coin earned over years, not a courtesy given freely.

Blackbough began to speak, choosing his words carefully at first but soon finding the rhythm of recollection.

He spoke of his arrival at the banquet, of the heavy air that had lingered just beneath the politeness, and of Arzan moving through the crowd like a seasoned courtier—one moment he was laughing at a joke, a jest made and then moving from that to another conversation with a well-known Baron. Count Blackbough emphasized on how every single gesture had a purpose. Though some people couldn’t see it, for Count Blackbough, it wasn’t the issue. He had always been someone who could read nobles.

Then he took a long sip of his wine, knowing the interesting part was next.

The moment Magus Veridia entered the hall.

He tried his best to retell the details as exactly as he saw; the way certain conversations hushed, even how some nobles practically gawked at her. It was comical, but Count Blackbough didn’t miss a beat. He then followed to explain how Arzan had excused himself without hesitation, following her toward the balcony.

Blackbough admitted he’d tried to follow. He could almost taste the conversation that had been waiting there for him. But the Knight—Arzan’s Knight—had planted himself in the doorway with a look that brooked no argument. A wall in armor.

So instead, he had settled for shadows and half-heard fragments. He recounted everything he’d glimpsed after Veridia’s return to the hall—how Arzan had deftly avoided any probing questions, how the undercurrent of speculation had swelled in the absence of answers. And how he had heard of the duel only the next morning.

When he finished, Aldrin sat back in his chair, fingers tapping once against the stem of his untouched goblet. His expression was pensive, eyes half-lidded, as if weighing each piece of the recounting against some private ledger.

“It seems,” he said at last, a wry curl touching his lips, “that my dear stepmother has finally decided to burn down the mosquito that keeps biting her and giving her itches.”

“You believe she arranged the duel?”

“Veridia is famously more loyal to her than to my father. She does nothing without being asked. And Arzan…” His gaze sharpened, losing any trace of languor. “Arzan is no pawn, he is no fortunate fool who stumbled into power. His achievements are genuine. Whatever their quarrel before the assembly, there is no world where he’d agree to something this foolish—not now, when he’s gaining support. It’s the worst time to split his focus.”

Blackbough nodded, agreeing with what the prince said. But he had a question: “Then why would she do it?”

“Well, Count Blackbough. There are many reasons. According to my informers, Regina has been trying to kill Arzan for some time. But perhaps now she’s lifted her aim. If she can’t end him outright, she’ll beat him so thoroughly that he ends up losing everything that matters to him. You name it. His momentum, his support… his future. Everything.”

Aldrin paused his words as he looked at the side table. Blackbough watched his brain shift. The prince drew a roll of parchment toward him and uncapped a small vial of ink. His ink moved against the surface in quick strokes.

Blackbough didn’t interrupt, not even when the man shook his head alone and continued his scribbling. The prince had a habit of recording everything he deemed worth remembering. Be it political intrigue, gossip, or any kind of private detail that most men would never commit to paper. Because according to him, everything was a potential lever, given enough time.

So, he wrote, wrote and wrote for ten more minutes.

Blackbough patiently waited until the scratching finally ceased and the parchment was set aside to dry. He leaned forward. “What are we going to do now, Prince Aldrin? Arzan already rejected our offer.”

“Hah, I never expected him to agree,” Aldrin replied without even looking up, eyes still on the drying parchment.

Blackbough’s chin dipped low, eyes glancing up from under the brow. “What? What do you mean?”

“Oh, didn’t you realise? If he had any intention of joining my faction—or anyone’s—he wouldn’t have bothered courting so much support on his own. I only sent you to him so he’d know I’m interested.”

Blackbough frowned. “And what will that do, my prince?”

“It plants a seed. Even if he’s rude enough to reject meeting a prince, the knowledge lingers. When you’re eyeing the throne, you have to think beyond the present. The kingdom is cracking, Blackbough—you know it. If not for the plague, Vanderfall would already be assembling their armies.” He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “I need to consider what happens when a successor is finally named, and Arzan will be an important piece of that future. Even if he refuses me now, time has a way of bending men’s stances. Some people… must be subdued slowly, over years.”

Blackbough studied him in silence, trying to decide whether that was patience or a threat dressed as one.

“My original plan,” Aldrin continued, “was for Arzan to win the Assembly. My father seems to like him—more than most—and we could have supported him there, offering a rope of trust. Later, when my moment came, he could have chosen to aid me… or at least stay out of my way. But now…” A flicker of irritation passed over his face. “My stepmother has ruined it. Again.”

Blackbough scratched the side of his head, his gaze sliding toward the parchment the prince had just set aside. He knew Aldrin well enough to recognize this rhythm—the long chains of contingencies, the branching paths of what-ifs that he mapped in his mind. No matter how much peace he liked, the prince thrived on possibilities. But as Blackbough listened, a part of him couldn’t shake the feeling that Aldrin was missing something vital.

Not that he’d ever dare say it aloud.

“So… what are we going to do?” he asked instead. “Magus Veridia is the strongest Mage in the kingdom. I doubt Arzan will come out of that duel with all his limbs intact.”

“I don’t think he’ll die,” Aldrin said at once. “He won’t go out easy. Which means there’s always something we can do. We can adjust our strategy for the Assembly based on his performance. It’s not just about win or loss—presentation matters. For now, we need to make it clear that I, Aldrin, am supporting him rather than Magus Veridia. That might be enough to earn a meeting with him after the Assembly.”

Aldrin’s lips curved, slowly, into a grin. It was the kind of expression that carried the air of a private joke, one that the rest of the room wasn’t sure they wanted to hear.

“Things are getting interesting,” he murmured. “For the first time in years, I believe the moment we’ve been waiting for is finally here. Veridia, Regina, Arzan, my two brothers, my father, and every noble in the kingdom… Do you know what this means?”

Blackbough hesitated, mind turning over the possibilities. At first, the answer seemed obvious enough—the Assembly itself was rare, an event not held in decades. But there was more behind Aldrin’s words, something heavier. The realization settled in his gut like a stone. His eyes widened ever so slightly.

“You think King Sullivan will talk about the succession,” he said at last.

Aldrin’s grin widened. “Precisely. You’re catching on. The Assembly gathers everyone in one place. My father will see exactly who belongs to which faction… and what better stage to announce the kingdom’s future than a hall filled with every noble in the realm?”

Blackbough nodded slowly, the pieces fitting together in his mind. “So… who do you think he’ll choose?”

Aldrin exhaled through his nose, the faintest shrug lifting one shoulder. “I don’t know. I wish it would be me, but I haven’t had a proper conversation with him in the last two years. Granted, I spent a year and a half in Alparca Kingdom, but still… My brothers doesn’t have good relations with him either. That’s why I’m thinking he’ll choose the one with the most support in the assembly.” He paused, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Though you know what would be far more interesting?”

Blackbough shook his head, wary. “What?”

“If my father didn’t choose a successor at all.” The grin that followed was too sharp to be casual. “With all the nobles gathered, he’d have to endure a storm of complaints. I’m… curious to see what would happen if he does that.”

Blackbough gave a short, almost incredulous laugh. “You already know, right, Prince Aldrin?”

“Yes. A war. Patience has already worn thin. It won’t be long before it bursts.”

Blackbough’s mouth opened, then closed again. He wanted to press for more, to draw out the shape of the war Aldrin was envisioning, but the prince was already leaning forward, dismissing the subject as if it were no more than a card placed back in the deck.

“Either way,” Aldrin said, “about Arzan, I want you to do something…”

***

If the rumors about the duel had been a steady downpour before, they became a full-blown storm within a single day. No one seemed to know the exact reason it was happening—at least, no reason that could be confirmed—but everyone knew it was happening. Especially the commoners. Once the news escaped the banquet hall and drifted into the streets, it spread faster than wildfire, becoming the most talked-about event in the capital alongside the upcoming assembly.

Killian, moving through the city, returned with the same report from every district—every shop, every tavern corner, every street-side gathering was buzzing about it. Magus Veridia, the strongest Mage in the kingdom, was a name spoken with reverence. And Kai, now burdened with titles earned from the beast wave, the fief war, and most recently the plague, had carved himself into the public’s imagination. Together, they made the duel feel like an event of the decade.

The arena was already groaning under the strain of too many names on its spectator lists. If Veridia’s aim had been to make this a grand spectacle, she had succeeded brilliantly. But in doing so, she had also wrecked much of what Kai had been working toward.

The day after the banquet, his desk was buried in letters—some from nobles who had attended, others from those who hadn’t. A few were mere confirmations that they would be in the stands, dressed up as words of encouragement. Others were heavy with unease, warning him not to die subtly before keeping the promises he had made.

A surprising number of gifts arrived as well—armor and weapons from those who disliked Veridia enough to offer aid. But genuine concern was rare. Only a few letters carried it, and among them, Princess Amara’s stood out. She had sent Anya in person, insisting on hearing from Kai’s own mouth whether the duel was truly happening. Of all of them, it was easy to see, she was the one who cared most.

More than his subordinates, who had taken the news in stride. By now, they had seen enough of what he could do to know he wasn’t walking blindly into slaughter. And truth be told, Kai couldn’t muster much worry either. Not against a Magus, not with the strength he currently wielded.

He had stepped into the Fourth Circle, and his spell structures were sharper, faster, more efficient than ever before. The awakening method he’d gone through had given him mana regeneration to match Veridia’s, at least by his estimates. She might have larger reserves, yes—but with the ambient mana in the air, that edge would count for little. Mage duels were short, brutal affairs—minutes at most—where the goal was to incapacitate, not to trade blows until exhaustion.

Still, confidence wasn’t an excuse for complacency. Even if power-leveling wasn’t an option now, knowledge was. And knowledge was a weapon he could sharpen indefinitely.

The Watchers in the capital had already been digging into every notable figure’s past—potential enemies included. With a single command, Kai had their findings on Veridia laid out before him. Tomes from the Archine Tower’s library, dusty records hoarded by nobles, anecdotes whispered among the common folk, even half-forgotten ballads sung by bards in her younger years.

A picture began to form.

Veridia had once been a war Mage—her name stitched into the kingdom’s military history under several titles, though the most enduring among them was Witch of the Night Sky. She had carved her path upward through sheer force, subjugating dangerous beasts, winning duels against any who dared challenge her, and leaving a trail of both admirers and enemies in her wake.

She had experience—mountains of it. Mage duels were as familiar to her as breathing, and perhaps that was why she had the confidence to call him out.

But she hadn’t fought one in years.

Kai doubted that meant she was rusty. A Magus didn’t rust—they adapted, they learned, and the dangerous ones never forgot. So he kept reading, turning page after page, memorizing tactics, taking note of her favored spells and her victories.

The duel was almost upon him, and when the moment came, he intended to be ready.

***

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