Prince Eldric walked down the stairs towards the arena. Two new Knights flanked him, their armors moving with a metallic sound that made his jaw tighten every time they moved. His mother’s doing, of course. Word of the incident with the previous pair had reached her ears faster than he had thought would be possible, and his mother—she’d wasted no time in replacing them.

The entire ordeal was annoying as it is, and to make things worse, the two men were the hardened kind. Showed no emotions, and their voices were reduced to curt nods of “yes” and “no”. They had quite the attitude, but not to sneer or roll their eyes when they thought he wasn’t looking. Not the type to give him the excuse he craved.

It irked him. He wanted the chance to make someone pay, to lash out, to feel the burn of his own anger validated. Instead, he was left with silence, and silence was boring.

He turned his attention outward, to the swell of sound that rose from the arena. Even this early, the stands groaned under the weight of bodies. And it all blended together into a ceaseless roar that made his ribs vibrate.

Eldric had heard they’d opened the gates to the commoners today, giving them space in the lower rows. The noise alone confirmed it.

He didn’t mind them much. Commoners were harmless, poor and pliant things who gawked at royalty as though gods had deigned to walk among them. That part, he enjoyed. He could almost forgive their smell and their lack of manners for the way their eyes shone with awe when they looked at him. Almost.

Step by step, he climbed higher. At the first balcony he slowed, the air thick with perfume and the rustle of fine silks. The lower nobles were already packed into their section, voices dropping to hushes as he appeared. One by one they rose. Eldric didn’t spare them more than a glance. Let them stand, let them bow—he moved past without acknowledgment.

He moved to the next floor where his seat was. A relic of his father’s decree. He remembered once coming here often, sitting under his mother’s sharp gaze as Knights clashed and mages unleashed their fury on the sand below. She had wanted him to be one of them—a warrior Mage, a champion for the house. But when it became clear he would never be, other lessons swallowed his days, and the arena faded into a memory.

Yet no one used the seat. It was something no one could claim.

But as he reached the top floor, everything else blurred inside his mind because of the sharp stab of irritation that seized him. His eyes narrowed.

Someone was sitting in his seat.

He wrinkled his nose, clicking his tongue.

Few would dare such a thing. Only blood of the royal line had the right, and of them all, only one had the gall to make it a deliberate insult.

Thalric.

His brother lounged across the carved chair as though it were his throne already, his bulk filling the space in a way that Eldric did not remember. The boy he had once known had been short and wimpy, but now he seemed to have been replaced by a man gone broad in shoulder and thick in arm. How? Eldric had no idea.

Thalric’s grin split his face the instant their eyes met, a grin wide enough to show teeth, ugly enough to make him look orc-blooded. He didn’t rise. He didn’t even incline his head. Instead, his voice boomed with mocking warmth:

“Brother, how pleasant to see you. I see your mother has permitted you a taste of today’s entertainment.” ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ Novᴇl_Fire(.)net

Eldric’s frown deepened, his words making his stomach clench with anger.

“You will refer to her as Queen Regina, nothing less. And I have not come here for entertainment. My subject is fighting today.”

Thalric’s brow arched, and that toothy grin stretched wider. “Your subject? Ah, You mean Magus Veridia? Strange. I had thought she was your master once. And isn’t she far too old to be claimed as anyone’s subject now?”

A flicker of heat rose to Eldric’s cheeks, though he smothered it beneath practiced disdain.

“That is none of your concern. Return to your own place. I sit at the center as the eldest.”

Thalric leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “No. You don’t. That seat is not for the eldest, Eldric. It is for the successor. And you—” his eyes gleamed with challenge, “—are not one.”

Eldric’s lip curled, anger rolling through him like a slow, venomous tide. “And you are?”

“For now?” Thalric’s chuckle was low, rumbling, and far too confident. “No. But the army is restless. The kingdom’s generals are whispering. And soon, the commander himself will meet with Father. When he does, a crown prince will be chosen.”

Eldric almost scoffed.

“So,” he said coolly, “your little affair with the commander is finally bearing fruit. Personally, I’ve never understood what he sees in you. You’re too burly, but—” his eyes flicked down Thalric’s frame, “—some men do enjoy boring muscle.”

The effect was immediate. Thalric’s grin cracked, his jaw tightening as though it had been struck with a hammer. The snarl twisting his features melted into raw fury, his nostrils flaring like a beast ready to charge. Eldric savored the transformation, a smirk tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth. His brother had never learned the art of absorbing an insult, only of throwing them. One might have thought his years in the army would have toughened his skin. Instead, Eldric could see now, the soldiers must have coddled him like the pampered prince he was.

The tension snapped taut between them, one heartbeat away from a blow or a public spectacle, when the rhythm of booted steps echoed across the landing. Both princes turned in unison.

From the opposite stairwell, their last brother Aldrin emerged. And beside him, to Eldric’s surprise, was someone he had not anticipated at all.

Amara.

Two Knights followed close behind, their armor clinking in dull counterpoint to the hush that seemed to fall over the space. Amara’s face, framed by the sheen of her hair, held a faint stiffness. She looked uncomfortable, her eyes cast low even as she walked beside Aldrin in what had clearly been an earnest conversation. The words between them hushed the instant they reached the top tier.

Aldrin’s gaze swept over his two brothers, his expression caught between amusement and irony. “It seems,” he said, the corners of his lips quirking upward, “another battle is about to take place here. A shame the spectators can’t see it.”

Thalric bristled, his voice coming out in a bark. “Shut up, Aldrin. Eldric and I were merely discussing matters.”

“Of course you were.” Aldrin’s smile never wavered. He turned smoothly, dismissing the flare of Thalric’s anger as if it were nothing more than smoke, and inclined his head toward Amara. “It was truly a pleasure to speak with you, sister. Please, give thought to what I said, after the duel.”

Amara hesitated, the weight of three princes’ eyes tugging at her, before she gave the smallest, sheepish nod. She moved quickly then, retreating to the seat next to his, her posture shrinking in on itself, avoiding further attention.

Eldric’s fingers twitched at the arm of his chair. The urge to rise and demand an answer from her simmered hot beneath his skin. What had that slippery fox Aldrin been whispering to her? What schemes was he weaving, dragging her into the web of it?

Eldric didn’t do anything, didn’t ask a single question. He simply turned the weight of his glare back onto Thalric. It was enough. His brother’s grin faltered, his brow creasing into the first honest frown of the morning. With a grunt, Thalric shifted his heavy frame to the side, relinquishing the center seat with all the grace of a beaten hound.

Only when the space was clear did Eldric lower himself onto the chair. The carved arms felt reassuring beneath his hands, solid, unmoving—a claim that was his by right. Let the others glare or whisper, let them seethe with their own ambitions. He was here now, and that was enough.

The ring of seats around him still held gaps. One was reserved for the Archine Tower Mages, but the stronger ones would be around the arena maintaining the wards. His mother had also refused to attend—thank the heavens. At least he wouldn’t have to endure her sharp tongue cutting him in front of his brothers. His father, as always, remained cloistered in the palace, as though walls could shield him from the kingdom’s unrest.

But Eldric still had his brothers. Unfortunately.

Even Amara, vexing as she was, sat in silence, her head bowed. That he could tolerate. But Thalric and Aldrin? They never seemed to understand, or worse, they pretended not to.

“It is so nice to be together again after so many years,” Aldrin said lightly, his voice smooth, the smile on his lips meant for both of them yet aimed at neither. “It seems it takes two of the kingdom’s greatest Mages crossing spells to finally gather us in one place.”

Thalric snorted. “Greatest? Hardly. Veridia, perhaps. The other is nothing more than an upstart. The army has far better Mages than him.”

Eldric’s eyes slid to his brother. His voice came soft, but each word was a strike. “Then why don’t we see them facing the plague instead of hiding behind excuses?”

Thalric’s jaw tightened, but Aldrin interjected before he could bite back. “The army has already suffered. Too many injuries against the barbarian clans and other beasts.”

Eldric gave a sharp laugh, stripped of humor. “Mortal barbarians. You boast of losses against farmers with spears and call them victories. And still you claim your Mages as the best?” His words rang louder now, drawing the ears of the servants nearby, though he hardly cared.

Aldrin’s smile lingered. “When did you start defending Arzan, brother? I was under the impression he had humiliated you not long ago.”

Thalric chuckled at that. “Uncouth words, Aldrin. You always were the sly one. Still—” his head turned, those orcish features narrowing on Eldric, “—I find myself curious as well. Last I heard, you and Arzan had quite the… trifle.”

Eldric’s brows drew together, his voice dropping into something quieter, but edged like a knife.

“I hate him,” he said flatly.

For a moment, silence stretched. He felt it then—Amara’s gaze brushing against him. He ignored it, pressing on, his eyes still locked on his brothers.

“But I am not a man who allows his plans to be foiled by incompetence. Arzan is as competent as one could be.” His lip curled, though the words came out begrudgingly. “I will give him that much, even if I wish his head would roll before the day is done.”

Thalric’s grin returned and the bastard looked satisfied for some reason. “I don’t think you’ll have that wish granted. Not today. Veridia won’t kill him. I doubt she’ll even cripple him.”

“That would be dreadfully boring. But then, he is a Duke’s son, isn’t he? Kin killer or not, the Assembly will decide his fate soon enough. He won’t escape that judgment.” Aldrin leaned back in his chair.

Eldric felt some of the weight slide off his chest. The conversation was shifting, veering away from him and toward the Assembly. Let them talk of it. As long as neither turned to demand his opinion, he could endure their prattle.

He settled back, but his eyes betrayed him, flicking toward Amara. She sat stiffly, staring out into nothing, her hands folded in her lap. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he broke the quiet.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a whisper, “your little lover won’t be able to walk after today. Mother never did approve of him doing anything, even walking.”

He expected her head to dip, her shoulders to draw in, the pained look she always wore when cornered. Instead, she turned. Her eyes met his, steady and unflinching.

“I don’t think that will happen,” she said simply.

Eldric’s smirk faltered. “What?”

“I believe he will win.”

***

Kai sat cross-legged in the quiet chamber the arena had granted him, the same chamber he had once occupied before his duel with Reyk. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady, mana flowing in slow, full circuits through his body. It looked like meditation to an outsider, but to Kai, it was preparation—a stillness that sharpened the storm inside him.

The memory of Reyk drifted through his mind, faint as smoke. That had barely been a duel. More spectacle than fight. Reyk had strutted into the arena with bravado, only to crumble when faced with what a true Battle Mage was supposed to look like. Kai hadn’t fought him—he had taught him. A lesson written in fire and humiliation.

But today… today was different.

Even here, in the stillness of the chamber, the vibrations reached him. The roars of the crowd, the endless chattering that rose and fell like the tide, the restless energy of thousands waiting above.

He had seen their faces earlier, when his carriage rolled through the streets. They had swarmed him—hands reaching, voices crying his name, a tide of bodies that seemed eager to glimpse him if only for a moment. By now, his name was on every tongue in the kingdom. They all wanted to see him.

He didn’t mind. Attention was something he had learned long ago to let wash over him like rain. What unsettled him wasn’t their gazes, but their fragility. He hoped, faintly, that when the duel began the crowd would not pay the price for what was about to happen.

Mana swirled within him, coiling through his heart, burning with a rhythm that steadied his mind. In the darkness behind his eyes, he imagined the great duels he had seen in his other life and some he had participated in. Magus against Magus. Life and death measured in fire and stone. It had been a crime to kill one another in those days, with the end of times gnawing at humanity’s throat, but still, he had watched some of them descend into mortal struggle.

And he remembered what it meant.

Every spell cast had been meant to kill. Every movement, every surge of power was final. No mercy. Mercy meant weakness. Weakness meant death.

He was not a Magus now, but the weight of his strength pressed close to that boundary. And he intended to wield it without restraint.

This duel would not be a polite display for nobles to gossip over.

Veridia. Regina. Their games had run long enough. They had played with him, underestimated him, shuffled pieces on their board as if he were another pawn to be moved or discarded. Perhaps that had been useful until now. Being underestimated and letting them do their bit.

But some truths couldn’t be hidden forever. His lips curved, not in a smile, but in something sharper. It was time to break their expectations. To burn through the masks and lies.

It was time to show them what he was.

The silence of the chamber fractured at the sound of a voice.

“Lord Arzan.”

Kai’s eyes snapped open. Killian stood at the threshold of the room. His posture was straight, though his hands gripped a chest.

Kai studied it, gaze lingering on the box before shifting back to his knight. “Is it starting? And what’s that?”

Killian nodded and stepped closer. “They’ve called you in ten minutes. Magus Veridia is already waiting. I saw the princes in their seats, and every noble below them. Every rich and influential person is there. Malden even marched in with banners bearing your name.” He hesitated, eyes flicking to the chest as if it might bite. “This… was sent by the second prince, Aldrin.”

Kai raised a brow. “Aldrin?”

At his gesture, Killian lifted the lid. Inside, resting on dark velvet, lay a sword that shimmered faintly with an inner gleam. Its edge looked sharp enough to split stone.

“I think it’s forged from black iron,” Killian said quietly, reverence in his tone. “That’s no common weapon. I saw a note as well—wishing you luck for the duel.”

Instead of gratitude, Kai’s face hardened, a frown tugging at his mouth. “Another political ploy.”

Killian inclined his head, resigned. “It seems so. But I thought it best to bring it to you regardless.”

“You did well.” Kai nodded at him. “But I won’t be using it. My armour, robes and magic are enough.”

His gaze dropped to himself, reassessing. The robes of Valkyrie’s Tower draped his frame, layered over the best armour Balen’s forge had produced. His belt clinked faintly with the weight of potions and alchemical reagents, the best he’d managed to make and would be extremely useful. After all, they were permitted to use anything on their person, and Kai had come prepared for nothing less than war.

He closed his eyes for one more breath, drawing mana into his heart until it thrummed with power, then exhaled. Opening them again, he gave Killian a short nod. “Let’s go.”

His Knight took the lead. Together they walked up the steps, the air thickening with every step downward.

Then the sound hit him.

The moment he stepped into the light of the arena, the cheers surged like a tidal wave crashing against stone. It was deafening. The roar of thousands—stamping, clapping, shouting his name—so loud he had to stop mid-stride as though struck. His ears rang, his chest vibrated with the force of it.

Every seat was packed. Nobles glimmered in silks, their jewels flashing in the sun, while the common folk pressed shoulder to shoulder in the higher rows. Pennants fluttered. Banners with his name rippled through the stands like waves of color.

Slowly, he forced his legs forward, one step after another, until he reached the center of the vast sand circle.

And there she stood.

Veridia.

Her purple robes shimmered faintly with protective enchantments and…. she was smiling.

***

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