The silence in the training yard was a vacuum, swallowing the sound of the wind. Caelen stood with his boots planted firm, the tip of his Solmire steel pressing into the hollow of Soren's throat.
He was gasping, his chest heaving with the exertion of a man who had just climbed a mountain, but a jagged, bitter spark of victory flared in his eyes.
"You said you didn't need magic to beat me," Caelen rasped, his voice raw and serrated.
He took a half-step closer, the blade dimpling Soren's skin. He let a smirk, victorious and sharp, pull at his mouth. "Looks like you were wrong, Emperor."
The crowd murmured, a low, rolling tide of disbelief. Men leaned over the ramparts, their breaths hitching. Had the King of Solmire just won? Had the magicless underdog actually toppled the Frost King?
