Vireon's Great Arena was carved from obsidian and ashglass, rising like a black crown above the city's western cliffs. At its center stood the Thorn Ring, a dueling circle of ancient tradition, flanked by enchanted statues of former kings and queens—each watching from their stone thrones with unblinking, accusing eyes.
This place was not meant for sport.
It was meant for blood.
And now, it was where Caelan Aurelian would either rise—or die.
The day of the duel began with gray clouds and the taste of iron on the wind. A storm threatened in the distance, its thunder low and rolling like the breath of some distant beast. It mirrored the unease that had settled over the city.
Everyone had heard of the challenge.
House Fenlaeth had issued it with calculated cruelty. Their champion, Lord Kael Fenlaeth, was a legend of brutality—twice blooded in war, rumored to have murdered his twin brother in a duel for inheritance, and known for using experimental alchemicals to push his body beyond human limits.
And Caelan?
To the world, he was still just a masked heir with no proven battlefield record. A shadow with no legacy.
But that, he intended to change.
"Your armor's not reinforced," Lys Verenne said sharply, pulling at the dark pauldrons strapped over Caelan's tunic. "He'll try to crush your ribs first chance he gets."
"Which is why I won't give him a chance," Caelan replied, cinching the final strap of his right vambrace.
"You should have named a champion."
"I need to be seen."
Lys exhaled through her teeth. "And if you die?"
Caelan met her gaze, expression calm.
"Then make sure the letter exposing House Tharn reaches the Tribunal."
She froze.
"You still plan to drop that before the duel?"
"Yes. If Kael is using banned enhancements, it won't stop the fight—but it'll strip House Fenlaeth of political protection. If I win, they'll bleed. If I die, they'll still burn."
He adjusted his gloves.
"I'm not just playing to survive anymore."
Lys stared at him.
And then, without a word, handed him a black silk ribbon.
"For your hair," she said.
He tied it back with practiced ease.
"You look the part now," she murmured. "Try not to die like a fool."
When Caelan entered the Thorn Ring, the noise was deafening.
The stands were filled with nobles, courtiers, and spectators from across the provinces. Each wore their house colors, each waited for blood. Nobility thrived on spectacle—and there was no greater drama than a duel of life and death.
Across the ring, Kael Fenlaeth stood already armored in jagged plate lacquered in midnight green. His greatsword was nearly as tall as Caelan himself, forged with wyrmsteel and lined with blood channels.
He smiled as Caelan entered.
It was not a kind smile.
"I expected a champion," Kael said, voice echoing across the ring.
"You got one," Caelan answered.
The Arbiter stepped into the circle between them—an old priest in silver robes, blindfolded, wielding a bell of judgment.
"Combatants," the Arbiter intoned, "do you recognize the challenge of blood and flame?"
"I do," Kael said.
"I do," Caelan echoed.
"Do you acknowledge death as the price of failure?"
"I do," they answered in unison.
The bell rang.
And the world fell silent.
Kael struck first.
A roaring charge, greatsword cleaving through the air like a thunderclap. Caelan spun aside, narrowly avoiding the downward swing that shattered the stone where he'd just stood.
Kael pressed forward, swinging again and again with monstrous strength—more like a battering ram than a swordsman.
Caelan didn't block.
He evaded.
The first rule of surviving a duel against a brute: Don't meet power with power. Use it against them.
Caelan ducked under a wild sweep and lashed out with his dagger, slashing across Kael's ribs—but the blade barely scraped the armor.
Still, the blow was intentional.
He needed a sample.
He retreated, circling.
Kael grinned.
"You bleed well for a rat."
"You talk big for a corpse," Caelan shot back.
The taunt worked. Kael snarled and lunged—an overcommitted strike.
Caelan rolled beneath the swing, planted his foot, and drove a short sword straight into Kael's knee joint—right between the armor plates.
Kael screamed, staggering.
But instead of collapsing, he twisted and slammed the hilt of his sword into Caelan's shoulder, sending him skidding across the ring.
The crowd gasped.
Blood slicked Caelan's teeth. He coughed, tasted copper, and pushed himself to his feet.
Kael was already moving again—too fast.
Caelan's eyes narrowed.
So it's true. He's dosed.
The veins in Kael's neck pulsed dark. His muscles twitched unnaturally. His pupils were dilated even in the midday light.
He was on Shiverthorn extract—a rare alchemical stimulant banned for its side effects. It could double a man's strength and dull pain.
But it also corroded focus and increased aggression.
Caelan could use that.
He shifted tactics.
Instead of full engagements, he baited Kael with feints and slashes—small cuts to wear him down. Kael's rage built with every miss, every dodge, every bruise he couldn't answer with bone-breaking strikes.
Caelan let the momentum shift.
Let Kael think he was in control.
And then—
He struck.
A feint left, a pivot, and Caelan swept Kael's injured leg, sending the giant stumbling.
Before Kael could rise, Caelan drove his blade into the exposed side of his neck—not deep enough to kill, but enough to draw blood and alchemical residue.
The Arbiter's voice rang out.
"Step back! Blood drawn!"
Caelan sheathed his sword and knelt, reaching into a pouch. From it, he pulled a vial of silver powder—and dropped a sample of Kael's blood into it.
The vial hissed.
The powder turned black.
The crowd reacted instantly.
Whispers rippled. Then shouts.
"Blood-sickness!"
"Alchemicals—!"
"The bastard's dosed!"
Kael rose to his feet, roaring. "You tricked me!"
Caelan held the vial up high.
"This is evidence. You've tainted the sacred rite of duel."
The Arbiter hesitated.
But then, reluctantly, raised his bell again.
"Combatants—do you wish to suspend the duel pending Tribunal inquiry?"
"No!" Kael bellowed. "I'll kill him now!"
Caelan smiled grimly.
"So be it."
The final clash was brutal.
Kael no longer fought with strategy—just rage. He threw his full weight behind each attack, leaving himself wide open in places he didn't care about protecting.
Caelan cut those places.
Shoulder. Rib. Inner thigh. Palm.
Not deep enough to kill. But deep enough to cripple.
He was dismantling Kael.
Piece by piece.
By the end of the duel, Kael was bleeding from eight wounds, his breath ragged, his stance faltering.
Caelan stood tall, bloodied but focused.
He looked at the Arbiter.
"Final strike," he said. "Witness it."
And then, in a single motion, he dropped to one knee, swept Kael's legs—and drove his dagger into the side of Kael's throat, just above the collarbone.
Not fatal.
But final.
Kael collapsed.
Unmoving.
The silence in the arena lasted several long seconds.
And then—
It erupted.
Cheers. Screams. Outrage. Applause.
Caelan stood in the center of it all, chest heaving, blood on his blade and fury in his veins.
He turned to the stands.
To the queen's box.
Queen Elaria sat in her throne, expression unreadable.
But her eyes—her cold, calculating eyes—were locked on him.
And for the first time in eighteen years—
She looked uncertain.
Hours later, Caelan limped into the estate with Lys flanking him, bruised and smirking.
"You should be dead," she said, dropping a bottle of tonic into his hands.
"I'm too stubborn."
"You also just pissed off half the high council. House Fenlaeth's screaming for retribution."
"Let them scream."
She looked at him for a long moment.
"You're not afraid anymore, are you?"
"No," Caelan said.
"I'm remembering."
That night, the missives went out.
One to the Tribunal, with Kael's alchemical test results enclosed.
One to the Whisper Guild, commissioning a quiet investigation into House Tharn's supplier chain.
And one to a name not spoken in years.
General Lysandros Veyne.
The exiled commander of the Ironblood Legion. Once loyal to Caelan's father.
Now, a potential ally.
If he could be found.
Caelan sat in the dark of his study, fingers stained with dried blood, listening to the city breathe beyond the balcony.
He didn't flinch when the shadow entered the room behind him.
"You were seen today," came Dareth's voice.
"I wanted to be."
"Then prepare. The court knows your name now. But they don't know the storm behind it."
Caelan looked out over the city.
"They will."