One by one, they stepped forward.
A procession of polished pride and calculated stories—each speaker hoping to impress, to secure favor, to win a seat among the chosen few who might rise with the princess.
More came and recounted duels. Others spoke of magical research or military feats. There was confidence, yes—but also fear, masked behind sharp smiles and proud stances.
Then came him.
The shift was subtle but immediate.
A ripple moved through the hall as the next figure strode forward—not hurriedly, but with the steps of someone used to being watched, someone who believed he had already won.
His sword, a masterwork of blackened steel and violet runes, rested at his hip. His uniform was tailored to perfection, every clasp gleaming under the chandeliers.
Eyes of molten gold swept the room without hesitation, and his dark blond hair had been brushed back with just enough care to seem effortless.
He walked like authority.
"General Corvin Gallingher," he announced, with no need to raise his voice.
Lan's eyes narrowed immediately. He knew the name. His brother had spoken of him.
And Lan had researched him in kind.
Corvin's tone was even, practiced.
"I finished ranked twenty-fifth in the Imperial Mage Academy's graduating class. At sixteen, I was assigned my first independent command and led a squad through a classified B-rank mission in the Ashains Wilds. We were to dismantle a rogue blood cult that had set up a ley siphon near the village of Oran."
He let the words hang as if expecting applause.
"My squad completed the operation in thirty-six hours with no casualties. We neutralized the siphon, destroyed the cult's altar, and retrieved four prisoners for imperial interrogation."
Some murmurs of approval echoed.
"After that, I was assigned to the eastern front, where I participated in the Goraiz Rebellion Conflict. My men if sixty held the Gholan Bridge against three days of siege without reinforcement. For this, I was awarded the Empire's Medal of Honor."
He paused here—long enough to let the words settle, but not so long as to appear arrogant.
"And last spring, I was promoted to General of the 31st Imperial Battalion. The youngest in the empire to hold such a rank."
He finished. Chin slightly lifted. No smirk, no boast. Just certainty.
The room was silent.
Then—a voice, dry and soft, floated from the high table.
"Do you think you deserve it?"
Heads turned.
Lan hadn't moved much from his reclined posture. One hand tapped rhythmically on the lacquered table. The other still cradled his wineglass. But the tone… it was surgical.
Corvin blinked. "I… I'm not sure I understand the question."
Lan placed the glass down gently, leaned forward just a little.
"To be made General at such a young age," he clarified. "Do you believe you deserved it?"
The question struck harder than it should have.
Even Corvin hesitated—just long enough for everyone to feel the break in his rhythm.
"Yes," he said eventually. "Like I said, I've made significant accomplishments—"
"Significant?" Lan interrupted, his voice almost bored. "One completed mission and a couple of kills in a rebellion led by suicidal peasants? Against enemies who'd fall to a drunken Circle One mage and a bucket of mud?"
Gasps prickled through the room like static.
Corvin's lips parted, stunned silent.
"Oh, and forgive me," Lan continued. "You said you were what… top forty in the academy?"
"Top twenty-five," Corvin corrected, the words clipped.
"Ah, yes," Lan said, sarcasm dripping like oil, "so much more impressive."
His smile was small. Cruel.
The hall was stunned. No one had dared speak to Corvin this way. No one could. He was a general. He was nobility. He was dangerous.
Lan didn't seem to care.
"Her Highness gathered each of you here in search of strength," he said. "Not resumes. And definitely not inherited titles in polished boots. So let's speak plainly, shall we?"
He tilted his head, studying Corvin like an insect under glass.
"Do you know what I think, General Gallingher?"
Corvin's jaw tightened. "What is that… Prince?"
"I think you're in that position because of one reason only—daddy's influence."
Lan leaned forward, his voice dropping, intimate and sharp.
"I'm sure Duke Gallingher had to pull quite a few strings to get his mediocre son a shiny title and a desk with a flag on it."
The hall erupted—not in noise, but in tension. Audible inhalations. Stiffened backs. Some even shifted their chairs as if distance could shield them from the fallout.
"I think," Corvin said slowly, fists clenched, "you are in no position to speak on my achievements, Prince."
Lan blinked.
"Oh? And why is that?"
Corvin's jaw twitched.
"Because you have none yourself."
This time, the murmurs were loud. The tension had snapped into open conflict. Many nodded, silently agreeing. Others simply watched, spellbound.
"Ah," Lan said. "So I'm beneath you because I never chased meaningless trophies. Because I didn't care to make top forty in an academy. Because I didn't beg to fight the weakest excuse of a rebellion this empire's seen in half a century."
Corvin's teeth gnashed. "No. I think myself better than you because you are weak."
The words landed like a thrown gauntlet.
The smile slid from Lan's face.
"Ah… how insulting. That you think I am weaker than someone like you."
There was a flicker of heat behind his eyes now. Something darker than pride. Something hungry.
Corvin, no longer able to restrain himself, erupted.
"THEN COME DOWN HERE AND PROVE OTHERWISE!" he shouted, voice thunder across the banquet. He drew his blade in a single flourish, its violet runes flaring with mana.
"I, Corvin Gallingher, put my life on the line and invoke the Trial of the Vanquished against Prince Lanard Solaris!"
The words echoed like a hammer blow.
The hall exploded into chaos. Gasps. Shouts. Even Iris turned her head sharply, eyes wide.
Only Lan… chuckled.
"Took you long enough."
A panel blinked softly behind his vision:
> [Duel Initiated]
Opponent: Corvin Gallingher
Rank: B+ (4th Circle Mage)
Estimated Odds of Survival: 18%
Lan sighed.
He rose from his seat slowly, brushing invisible dust from his shoulder.
"What a buzzkill," he muttered to himself staring at the survival odds. "I just got comfortable."