Chapter 192: Never underestimate Elizabeth.

Elizabeth maintained her smile for a few more seconds before finally moving.

She took a step forward, her heels echoing in the devastated courtyard, and cast a quick glance around: knights groaning as they tried to rise, others aided by companions, armor crumpled, pride in tatters. Then, she turned her attention to Damon.

“It’s all right,” she said, with an almost offensive nonchalance. “They asked for it.”

Damon raised an eyebrow slightly, but didn’t object.

Elizabeth then turned to the Duke of Arven, the smile still present, now sharp enough to cut.

“They didn’t ask for it?” she questioned, too politely. “My men were training in their own home. They were provoked. They were attacked. My knight reacted.”

She tilted her head, as if truly expecting a reasonable answer.

The Duke of Arven took a moment to respond.

He maintained his impeccable posture, hands clasped behind his back, chin held high. A nobleman to the last detail. But his eyes betrayed discomfort—not fear, exactly, but something far rarer for someone like him: disbelief.

“I…” he began, then stopped.

His gaze slid across the courtyard again.

Thirty men.

Or what remained of their dignity.

Some knights managed to rise with difficulty, supporting themselves on one another. Others remained seated on the ground, breathing heavily, avoiding direct eye contact with Damon. None seemed willing to take another step in his direction.

The duke sighed.

A long, heavy, sincere sigh.

“I confess that…” he said finally, choosing his words with extreme care, “…this is not a situation I expected to find upon arrival.”

Elizabeth opened her arms in an almost theatrical gesture.

“Wykes Manor tends to be… surprising.”

The duke looked away from her and fixed his gaze on Damon again. This time, without arrogance. Without disdain.

Just assessment.

“Thirty knights,” he said, more to himself than to the others. “Trained men. Veterans. Some with decades of campaigning experience.”

He shook his head slowly.

“And yet… a single man.”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

Damon crossed his arms, his body still tense, but now fully aware of every gaze upon him.

“They didn’t lose because they were weak,” he said, without raising his voice. “They lost because they relied too much on numbers. And because they thought brute force substitutes for individual discipline.”

The duke pressed his lips together.

“Even so…” he murmured. “It’s hard to accept.”

Elizabeth smiled once more, now clearly pleased.

“Politics is often hard to accept when it meets reality,” she replied. “Consider this… a practical lesson.”

The duke took a deep breath, composing himself.

“I will make no demands,” he said finally. “Nor requests for compensation.”

Some of the knights looked up, surprised.

“What happened here…” he continued, “…was the consequence of bad decisions. Not your hospitality.”

He paused briefly and then inclined his head slightly toward Damon. It wasn’t an apology. But it wasn’t a challenge either.

“Still,” he finished, “I hope we can converse in more… civilized terms from now on.”

Damon held his gaze for a moment before replying.

“It depends on who starts the conversation.”

For a second, Elizabeth almost laughed aloud.

She clapped once, the sound echoing through the courtyard.

“Very well,” she said. “I think we’ve had enough entertainment for one day.”

Her gaze swept over the knights.

“Take your wounded. Get organized.” And please… — she inclined her head, smiling — …don’t confuse appearance with weakness again.

The duke nodded silently.

Damon turned, picked up his spear from the ground and rested it on his shoulder, his body finally beginning to relax — not because the day was over, but because the warning had been given.

Elizabeth waited until the courtyard began to truly empty before approaching Damon. The sound of hurried footsteps, of the wounded being carried away, and of murmured orders gradually gave way to a more controlled silence — the kind of silence that only comes after a successful display of strength.

She stopped beside him, her hands clasped behind her back, observing the ground scarred by the fighting.

“You did a great job,” she said casually, as if commenting on the weather.

Damon looked away from the courtyard and glanced at her sideways.

“I was just training,” he replied. “They decided to turn this into an ego contest.”

Elizabeth smiled slightly.

“That’s exactly why it was such a great job.”

She then turned to him, her gaze sharp and assessing—not like a noblewoman analyzing a subordinate, but like someone reviewing a well-executed move.

“You know…” she continued, “I’m starting to think sending you to Arven was a better idea than I expected.”

Damon frowned.

“Arven?” he repeated. “I haven’t done anything to deserve all this.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she replied calmly.

Elizabeth took a few slow steps across the courtyard, stepping around a fallen sword, as if organizing her thoughts.

“My original intention was simple,” she explained. “To create a future connection with Arven. Nothing immediate. Something political, discreet. Their academy would be… a long-term investment. An exchange. A symbol of goodwill.”

She stopped and looked at him again.

“You would be there as part of that. A well-trained knight, yes, but still just one piece among many.”

Damon crossed his arms.

“And now?”

Her smile widened, satisfied.

“Now…” she said, “Arven no longer sees just an allied house. It sees a warning.”

She gestured vaguely toward the courtyard, toward the wounded knights, toward the recent chaos.

“A duke has just witnessed, inside my own mansion, that there is a knight trained under my banner capable of handling thirty veterans without needing an army, titles, or spectacle.”

Her gaze became more serious.

“When you step into Arven’s academy, you will not be seen as an ordinary student. Nor as a political favor.”

She tilted her head slightly.

“You will be seen as living proof that Wykes Manor does not invest in weakness.”

Damon let out a low sigh, running his hand through his hair.

“That was never my goal.”

“I know,” Elizabeth replied without hesitation. “And that’s exactly why it works.”

She moved a little closer.

“Politics is full of men who try to appear strong,” she said calmly. “Very few actually are. Today, Arven learned the difference.”

She then stepped back, resuming her usual elegant posture.

“Rest easy,” she concluded. “You’ve just secured something that would have taken me years to build with words.”

Damon looked at the courtyard once more, feeling the weight of it fall on his shoulders.

“Great…” he muttered. “I can’t wait to see what complications this will cause later.”

Elizabeth smiled, satisfied.

“Trust me,” she said, already walking away. “It will complicate everything in just the right way.”

…

The carriage moved along the cobblestone streets with a gentle but steady sway, the rhythmic sound of the wheels contrasting with the heavy silence inside. Thick curtains isolated the outside world, leaving only filtered light to illuminate the Duke of Arven, sitting upright with his gaze fixed on an invisible point ahead.

He broke the silence.

“Thirty horsemen,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “Men who passed through my academy. Some since their youth. Veterans of actual campaigning.”

He slowly closed his gloved hand.

“And yet… defeated. One dead.”

Sitting respectfully before him was the butler. A thin man with impeccably combed gray hair, his expression was too serene for someone who had just witnessed a political humiliation.

“Yes, my lord,” he replied calmly. “The preliminary report indicates exactly that.”

The duke exhaled through his nose.

“Preliminary report…” he repeated, with restrained irony. “I never thought I’d hear those words associated with my own escort.”

The butler bowed his head slightly.

“With all due respect, Duke… Countess Elizabeth is not someone to be underestimated.”

Arven slowly turned his face toward him.

“I never underestimated her,” he said. “I just… classified her as predictable.”

“A common mistake,” replied the butler, without sarcasm. “And understandable. She has cultivated that impression for years.”

There was a brief pause before he continued:

“Besides… that man who defeated your horsemen… technically, he was one of ours.”

The duke frowned.

“Explain.”

“He was trained under the methods of the Arven academy,” said the butler. “Or, at least, exposed to them. His posture, his control of distance, the way he broke the formation… everything points to a solid foundation that could only have come from there.”

The silence deepened.

“So…” murmured the duke, “I just watched my own teachings being used against me.”

“In essence, yes.”

Arven rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and brought his fingers to his temple.

“Elizabeth mentioned his name,” he said after a few seconds. “Damon.”

The butler raised his eyebrows slightly.

“Damon…” he repeated, thoughtfully. “An unusual name.”

“That’s what caught my attention,” agreed the duke. “I don’t remember any recent students with that name.”

“Nor any former ones,” added the butler. “At least not offhand.”

He paused briefly, evaluating.

“Precisely for that reason, it shouldn’t be difficult to find him. A unique name tends to leave traces. Enrollment records, transfers, recommendations… something will be left behind.”

The duke nodded slowly.

“I want a thorough search,” he ordered. “Nothing superficial.”

The butler immediately straightened up.

“As you wish, my lord.”

“I want to know when he entered the academy. Who trained him. How long he stayed.” Arven spoke methodically, each word carefully chosen. “I want to know why I don’t remember him… and why someone like Elizabeth has him under her banner now.”

“I will personally investigate the main archives,” replied the butler. “And the secondary ones as well.”

The duke narrowed his eyes.

“Secondary ones?”

“Students dismissed too early. Discreet transfers. Cases considered ’inappropriate’ for public record.” He hesitated for a moment before adding, “Talents that didn’t fit in.”

Arven let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Of course…” he murmured. “The most dangerous ones rarely fit in.”

The carriage made a slight turn, and the swaying changed for a moment. The duke watched his reflection in the tinted glass.

“Elizabeth didn’t do that by accident,” he said.

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