The banners of three kingdoms fluttered in the crisp morning wind above the grand arena of Eldenmark, the neutral city chosen by the Union of Kingdoms. Tens of thousands had gathered—nobles, merchants, soldiers, and citizens—every seat filled, every alleyway packed, every rooftop occupied by those desperate to witness history.
The duel that would decide the fate of a queen.
At the center of the arena, two armored figures stood opposite one another, steel gleaming under the pale sunlight.
On the right—
Sir Daren Vale, the Empress's personal knight of Valenfirth.
Tall, disciplined, steady as a mountain. His armor carried no gold or jewels, only the engraved crest of Valenfirth: a rising sun over a silver plain. His breathing was calm, almost unnervingly so, as if he were crafted for this moment.
On the left—
Sir Ronard Halbrecht, champion of the kingdom of Asterfell, wielding a heavy glaive rumored to cut through shields like fabric.
He stood with the arrogance of a man promised victory long before he fought for it.
And watching above all, on a raised dais draped in white and gold, sat the woman whose future hinged on the outcome.
Her Imperial Majesty, Empress Lysandra of Valenfirth.
Her poise was immaculate, her beauty sharp as the edge of a sword, her golden eyes never leaving the arena. Beside her sat her younger sister, Lady Serene, leaning forward with unfiltered excitement.
And on the opposite dais, wearing an expression of bored certainty, sat King Mavren of Asterfell, the man who demanded Lysandra's hand in marriage—and who now hoped his knight would force her into it.
The horn sounded.
The world held its breath.
---
The Duel Begins
Ronard surged first, sweeping his glaive in a deadly arc aimed at Daren's neck. The crowd gasped; the strike could've decapitated a horse.
But Daren lowered his stance, sliding beneath the blade and stepping inward—far too close for Ronard's weapon to be effective.
Clang—!
His sword met the shaft of the glaive with precise force, knocking it off course. He moved with discipline, every step measured, every breath controlled. Not flashy. Not loud.
Just devastatingly efficient.
Ronard snarled.
"You think you can best me with footwork alone, boy?"
Daren didn't answer. He circled, forcing Ronard to readjust his hold.
Up on the dais, Serene whispered loudly,
"He's making him angry on purpose, sister."
Lysandra didn't turn.
"He fights like a man who knows the weight of consequence," she murmured.
Serene blinked.
"That is… oddly poetic for you."
Lysandra ignored her.
Back in the arena, Ronard thrust forward. Daren twisted aside, using the momentum to strike Ronard's exposed ribs with the pommel of his sword.
The thud echoed.
Ronard stumbled.
"You—filthy—!" Ronard spat and swung again, but this time the movement was sloppy, driven by fury, not skill.
Daren caught the shaft, stepped in, and slammed his elbow into Ronard's throat.
The giant knight choked, dropping to one knee.
The crowd roared.
Lysandra's fingers tightened around the edge of her seat.
Ronard staggered up, face red, eyes wild. He roared and lifted the glaive overhead for a killing blow—
—and Daren moved.
A blur of steel.
A sidestep.
A strike to the wrist.
Ronard's grip shattered.
The glaive fell.
Before it touched the ground, Daren's blade was already at his throat.
A perfect, silent finishing stance.
The horn blew.
The duel was over.
Victory belonged to Valenfirth.
---
The Arena Erupts
The citizens of Eldenmark cheered until the stone stands trembled. Flowers were thrown into the arena. Heralds declared the decision:
"Asterfell has lost the duel. The Empress retains her sovereignty. The marriage demand is nullified."
Lysandra exhaled a breath she didn't realize she was holding.
Serene grabbed her arm.
"He did it! He truly did it!"
"He upheld our honor," Lysandra said softly.
But her voice betrayed something deeper—something warm, fragile, dangerous.
Serene noticed immediately.
"Don't do anything rash," she warned teasingly.
Too late.
Daren walked toward the dais to kneel before his Empress, but Lysandra—overcome with relief—stood from her throne. Her steps quickened. Her eyes shone.
For a heartbeat, she nearly embraced him.
The entire court froze.
Daren blinked—caught off guard for the first time in the entire duel.
"My Empress…?"
Serene coughed exaggeratedly and grabbed her sister's sleeve.
"Composure, Your Majesty. Everyone is staring."
Lysandra stopped, color rising in her cheeks. She drew herself back to imperial dignity.
"You fought with honor, Sir Daren Vale," she said, voice formal but trembling at the edges. "You have preserved my sovereignty. Valenfirth owes you a debt beyond gold."
Daren bowed his head deeply.
"It is my duty—and my privilege—Your Majesty."
Behind them, King Mavren's jaw clenched with venomous rage. His knight humiliated, his proposal rejected, his pride shattered.
He turned to leave, but not before murmuring to his advisor:
"This is not the end. She will regret humiliating me."
---
A New Tension Begins
As Daren escorted the Empress out of the arena, the whispers began.
"Did you see how she rushed to him?"
"She almost embraced her knight!"
"Is there something between the Empress and her champion?"
"Impossible—she's too proud for that."
"Or perhaps that's exactly why it's real."
Rumors spread like sparks across dry grass.
Lysandra heard them.
And—for reasons she refused to examine—she did not silence them.
Serene smirked at her sister as they walked.
"You know, if you don't deny these rumors soon, they'll become legends."
Lysandra kept her gaze forward.
"Let them say what they wish."
"Oh my," Serene whispered. "You really aren't denying it."
---
The Shadow of Retaliation
That night, as the torches burned low in the corridors of The Crest, reports arrived.
Strange movements near the borders.
Suspicious riders on the old northern pass.
Rumors of gold moving quietly through Asterfell's lesser ports.
Serene read the reports, brow furrowed.
"He wouldn't dare attempt assassination, would he?"
Lysandra's expression hardened.
"With a man like King Mavren," she said, "humiliation invites vengeance."
She turned to her knight.
"Sir Daren Vale… keep your sword ready."
Daren bowed.
"For you, Your Majesty, always."