The princess —Ella, addressed the nobles on matters I wasn't really paying attention to not that they concerned me much.
When the princess was done talking we all proceeded to garden.
The garden's restless murmur swelled until it became thunder. What began as a handful of whispers spread like wildfire—low voices turning into shouts, then into cheers, and finally into full-throated chanting that shook the palace walls.
"Duel! Duel! Duel!"
The word rattled in my skull like a war drum, each echo pounding harder than the last.
Liora looked utterly at home in the chaos. Her spear gleamed like a sliver of lightning, balanced so effortlessly in her hand it seemed an extension of her very body. She didn't stand so much as prowl, her weight shifting with casual precision, predatory—like a wolf surrounded by sheep too slow to realize they had already been claimed for slaughter. Her lips curved in a satisfied half-smile as she watched me squirm.
Meanwhile, my body betrayed me. My legs couldn't decide whether to seize up entirely or carry me screaming back to my chambers. Either option seemed noble compared to the absurdity of stepping into a duel against her. Unfortunately, the princess's arm—still looped tightly through mine—meant flight wasn't even an option.
She leaned in, the picture of poise for the crowd: serene, radiant, untouchable. To them, she was all charm and confidence. To me, her whispered words were molten iron poured directly into my ear.
"Don't falter, Carl. Show them."
Her nails grazed my wrist with deliberate slowness before she added, quieter still, "Show me."
Shivers tore through me, instant and uncontrollable. Was she encouraging me… or savoring the thought of watching me get broken? With Liora, it was impossible to tell. Her affection and cruelty wore the same face, and both made my pulse stutter.
The system chose that exact moment to chime in, cheerful as a children's toy, cutting through the tension like a badly timed laugh:
> [Tutorial Tip: Combat in Public Duels increases Fame by 200%.
Increases swordplay and footing by 70%
Side Effect: All defeats are permanent in reputation.]
Great. Absolutely perfect. No pressure at all.
---
The palace officials moved with unnerving efficiency. With only a few clipped orders, the guards cleared the courtyard and formed a perfect ring. Nobles crowded around the edges, jostling for position, eyes glittering with a hunger for scandal and spectacle. I could hear their murmurs—bets whispered, reputations weighed, fortunes prepared to be won or lost on the outcome of my humiliation.
At the far edge of the courtyard, Kaela leaned against a column, arms crossed. Even in the dimming evening light, her posture was sharp enough to cut. She caught my gaze and mouthed two words:
Don't die.
Super helpful. Really. Thanks, Kaela.
At the center, Liora gave her spear a single spin. It cut through the air with a note so clean and precise it silenced the courtyard as if on command. Even her warm-up looked like a threat, a promise, a warning wrapped into one fluid motion.
She leveled the point at me, her expression unreadable. "Step forward."
My body balked. My brain screamed, Nope, nope, absolutely not, try again later.
But the princess's grip tightened, firm and commanding. "Go."
And my feet—traitorous, obedient feet—moved.
---
The polished stones of the open courtyard in the middle of the garden reflected torchlight, each step ringing like a countdown to execution. I felt every eye on me: nobles perched like vultures, guards pretending indifference but leaning in, servants whispering behind their hands. My shame was already being written, word by word, in their expressions.
Liora, in contrast, thrived in the silence. She radiated control, her spear poised with casual deadliness. Her gaze never left me, and I wondered if she even saw the crowd at all—or if, for her, this was nothing more than another game to be played, another pawn to test.
"Pick up your weapon," an official called, his voice carrying over the hush.
A guard approached with a practice blade. At least, they called it a practice blade. It looked far too sharp to be anything but lethal in the wrong hands. My wrong hands, specifically.
I accepted it reluctantly, the weight foreign, my grip awkward. The crowd's excitement wavered into a ripple of laughter. They already knew how this story would end.
I wanted to hurl the sword away, shout that I was no warrior, no duelist, no part of their cruel sport. But Liora's eyes pinned me in place. That look—equal parts command and curiosity—burned hotter than shame.
"You're trembling," she observed. Not mockery, not yet. Simply fact, stated with the same detachment she might use to describe the weather.
"I'm not—" My voice cracked. I swallowed. "I'm not trembling."
Her smile deepened, feline. "Good. Then you're ready."
Ready. The word carried no comfort, no safety. It only made my stomach twist tighter.
---
The official raised his hand, signaling the start. A heartbeat of silence stretched across the courtyard.
Then—
"Begin!"
Liora moved first, of course she did. A blur of motion, spear sweeping low then high, the sound of steel slicing through air far too close to my chest. Instinct screamed and I staggered back, blade flailing up in a half-formed defense. Sparks flared as her weapon met mine, the jolt rattling my arms to the bone.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Not because of my skill—I had none—but because I was still standing after her opening strike.
Her eyes gleamed. "Interesting."
I didn't feel interesting. I felt like prey surviving the first swipe of a predator's claws—only to realize the predator was amused enough to keep playing.
She pressed forward again, each strike a lesson in control, each step shrinking the space between us. I stumbled, barely managing to parry, my blade clumsy against the elegance of her spear. Sweat stung my eyes, my arms screamed, and still she advanced.
The chants had quieted. Nobles leaned forward, caught between disbelief and anticipation.
Liora's voice cut through the clash of steel. Low, intimate, meant for me alone: "Don't run. Don't hide. Fight."
Her words struck harder than her weapon. My pulse hammered. For a fleeting moment, I wanted to. Not because I thought I could win, but because her gaze demanded it—because to fail her here would be worse than losing before the crowd.
So I raised the blade again.