Lord Fenrir Montfort, our family's beast-folk guardian head of security, bowed low. His golden tail swished behind him. Katarina's scowl deepened. Typical. Predictable. Fun.
He admired my sister a lot, despite the very obvious age difference. I mean, the guy wasn't any younger than forty. He still showed deep love towards my twin sister. And I always found it funny, still do. Especially since Kat absolutely despised his attempts and proposals.
He called for her with the most solemn dignity imaginable, and I slowly turned to see why. I bit my cheek to contain my laughter.
"…Lord Montfort," Katarina said, dripping with fake politeness and barely restrained irritation.
You'd think he called out for my sister to check on her safety or something along those lines. However, that was not the case.
Muscular, terrifying…absolutely smitten with golden hair that had wolf-like ears sticking out through, and green eyes glimmering with every bit of admiration in existence, he bowed low—too low like he was worshipping the very ground she stood on. His golden tail swished around like some overgrown happy puppy.
He asked her to a dance, and I snorted so loud the guy even asked me if I was sick.
Katarina didn't like that. Not at all. She shot me a glare sharp enough to cut me in half out of the corner of her eye. The vein on her temple popped enough to warn the world of her imminent rage. She even kicked me, and getting kicked by an irritated woman in heels hurts. But still... It was funny.
I thought life was sweet, perfect, amazing. I had the largest, most smug, most confident grin etched on my face. Life was simple, really. I just got knighted, everyone loves me, and everything was great.
Well, now, an hour later. I ask myself.
What life?
A ceremonial hall meant to welcome the newest generation of knights. A ceremonial hall meant to welcome me. And yet, I alone stood. Unable to understand the world my family comes from. The civilians and nobles of Vangardia never cared for how their knights fought. I mean, it was to protect them at the end of the day.
But the royal family from which I hail, and the knights themselves, speak of honor as if it were an unbreakable code.
Well, guess what? I broke it.
I broke it, and now I wonder if this is my punishment for doing so.
Then there was Iliam Aureviel Lacklan. Perfect hair, perfect posture, perfect everything. Knighted minutes before me, top of the academy, two years older, and irritatingly composed. He dipped into a bow meant to convey respect, but it was a mere insult wrapped in courtesy, and so I smirked instead. Greeting him through clenched teeth.
I hated him. He hated me. Rivalry had defined us since childhood, from sparring in the courtyards to wooden swords splintering. Once, we were inseparable. Then he joined the academy. Discipline. Prestige. Structure.
I chose… to do nothing.
I was Sora De Astra Knight. Son of Pierro, nephew to the Queen, youngest Imperial Knight ever without academy training. Talent, not discipline, carried me.
And that drove Iliam mad.
Do I blame him? Not particularly.
But at the end of the day.
...I was simply better.
He came to share his disapproval; he hated that I was knighted, too. He hated that I—despite being younger—was able to be knighted at sixteen, the youngest in history. And the first to do so without the tutelage of the famous knight academy.
He challenged me to a duel in the middle of the ceremony hall. And I can't forget this. The icy, unmistakable gaze that sliced into my back. When I turned, the entire hall had fallen silent, eyes locked on us. And standing at the center of the attention was Auntie, her stare colder than winter steel. Her posture loomed with intimidating status.
After a long, dreadful pause… she nodded once and placed a singular gloved arm on the pommel of her blade that was sheathed at her hip.
"I will allow this," she announced.
Suddenly, I began to regret my decision. Not because I was gonna lose or anything, no. Definitely not.
But I was running late on a date with a hot brunette. Really hot.
Iliam mocked me, "I'm curious how far natural talent can take someone without training."
The words stung. I'd been told I was arrogant. I'd been called reckless. But talent? That was mine. Pure, unyielding, undeniable.
I drew my sword in one fluid motion, steel singing as it cut the air in a sharp upward arc.
He stepped aside with effortless ease before unsheathing his own blade with perfect, ceremonious precision.
"How disgraceful. How do you dare call yourself a knight when you attack before your opponent even draws? Do you lack honor entirely?" He lifted his sword, posture immaculate, and leveled the point at my chest.
We began to slowly circle one another in deliberate motion, with my blade hanging loosely at my side, ready to be used however I pleased. His stance, meanwhile, was straight out of the academy textbook—shoulders aligned, feet steady, point aimed directly at my heart.
It was textbook; he was textbook. From his silky straight jet-black hair that sat in a perfect side-part oozing discipline, because of course, even his hair had it. To his coffee-brown eyes that chastised me as if I were some child.
I grinned. Perfectly disciplined, perfectly boring. Let's fix that.
I tried to bait him low, swinging in wide arcs, but he anticipated everything. Every movement. Every feint. Every thought I didn't even know I'd had. My first attempt to strike his legs ended with my blade trapped under his boot—steel shrieking against steel, the shock of it driving me forward to the floor.
It was rather humiliating.
And to shake off that humiliation, I muttered, "Calor."
Channeling heat into the blade beneath his foot. A faint red glow spread across the metal, deepening, brightening, until it burned like forged iron fresh from the furnace.
Despite the leather of his boot melting and curling away, despite the metal glowing hot beneath him, his foot stayed firmly planted on my sword, steady as a rooted pillar. I was positive that I heard the searing noise of hot steel against bare skin. But nope, he didn't budge. Not even a wince.
What kind of monster stands on a burning blade?!
Iliam's voice cut through the tension, calm as ever. "Resorting to cheap tricks now? Fulgur percutiens!"
Lightning lanced from his blade, and I barely managed to roll away. A blinding blue bolt exploded from Iliam's blade, cracking against the marble floor with a deafening snap. Scorch marks spread across the tiles in a perfect line, smoke curling lazily upward. The hall erupted with gasps. My eyes widened. He wasn't just disciplined. He was dangerous.
And because apparently humiliating me wasn't enough, Iliam lowered his blade, extended his free hand outright, and muttered, "Flante Vento."
The air responded instantly. A violent gust surged outward, obeying his command like a loyal hound. Even indoors, the wind caught me like a kicked ragdoll.
My feet left the ground. There was a full half-second of weightlessness where I questioned if I was really the better fighter between the two of us. Then—BAM!
My back slammed into a pillar, and pain flared through my spine. Ugh, who put that pillar there?! Seriously?!
I forced myself up, I taunted him, then.
"Augendae Celeritatem."
The incantation for enhancing one's speed. It's one of Dad's favorites.
The words ignited something inside me. A hot rush surged through my veins. My heartbeat quickened. My legs tightened. The world sharpened. I felt my very blood flow down to every muscle and sinew in my legs. Then—BOOM!
I launched forward with a burst that cracked the air, moving faster than sound itself. Time slowed at my mercy. Every detail became painfully clear. The widening of Iliam's eyes. The subtle shift in his shoulders. The momentary slack in his grip as he realized he'd misjudged my speed. That single heartbeat of hesitation? That was all I needed.
His lips parted. "Fulg—"
Nope.
My fist crashed into his jaw with enough force to snap his head to the side, the impact echoing through the hall. Shock rippled through the onlookers like a wave.
And for the first time today—
Iliam staggered.
He hit the ground with a graceless thud, landing flat on his ass. A sharp hiss slipped from his lips as he clutched the left side of his jaw, fingers digging into the bruise I'd just gifted him. His sword lay on the floor beside him, barely hanging on to the hilt by a pathetic excuse of a grip.
"Too slow, jackass," I laughed, leaning forward so he could fully appreciate my expression.
After that, everything blurred. We picked up our blades, trading blows at breakneck speed, Augendae Celeritatem fueling every strike. Sparks flew. Steel clashed. Breath tasted of metal.
My muscles tightened. Sweat clung to my forehead. Each breath tasted like metal. We were both too fast. Too trained. Too stubborn. This wasn't going anywhere.
Then I shouted, "CAECUS!"
The blinding spell.
Instantly, thick black smoke exploded outward from thin air, blooming into a suffocating cloud that swallowed the room whole. Gasps erupted. Chairs scraped. Someone shouted. The entire audience disappeared behind a choking curtain of darkness. Blinded by smoke. Excluding me.
I moved through the veil like it was clear air.
I ducked low—so low my knee nearly skimmed the floor... then I burst upward with all the strength I could gather, blade angled toward Iliam's face. His eyes widened by only a fraction when he noticed, but there couldn't possibly be enough time for him to react.
It's over.
At the final moment, I tilted my wrist deliberately and let the blade veer off-target.
A thin crimson line bloomed across his cheek. Barely a cut. A reminder that I could have ended him right there, had I wished.
Shock rippled through him. Real shock. His fingers slackened, and for the first time today, Iliam Aureviel Lacklan failed to maintain his perfect composure.
His sword slipped from his grasp...
CLATTER!
I won the duel.
The sound echoed through the hall like a final bell signaling defeat. The smoke parted as if bowing to the moment. The audience who sat rose to their feet. The audience who stood remained standing, but nobody clapped. Nobody celebrated, because Auntie did not. Auntie was very pissed off. The queen of Vangardia was quite disappointed. My father's jaw was squared tight. Even Katarina, who had been practically vibrating with entertainment earlier, now wore a look that bordered on disappointment. A silent reprimand, heavy as a scolding.
But the duel was done.
"It's over, Iliam," I said, breath shaky but words steady.
I sheathed my sword with a soft click. My body flinched involuntarily as the adrenaline faded, replaced by the throbbing sting of every blow I'd taken. My arm trembled. My ribs pulsed with aches. My back protested every movement.
"I'm just better than you."
I pity you, Iliam, for you will never catch up to me.
Iliam didn't utter a single syllable in return. Instead, he knelt. Not in defeat, but in rigid dignity. He picked up his fallen blade, and even in humiliation, he moved with that picture-perfect posture of his.
He sheathed his sword without once meeting my eyes.
Then he turned on his heel, cape swirling behind him in a smooth arc, and walked away without an outward sign that I had shaken him. But deep down, I knew the truth.
And the fresh blood trailing down his cheek told the real story.
Leaving a smirk on my face that wouldn't leave.
Illyana's eyes shunned me as she exited the hall. Boots echoed. The hall emptied in silence—Dad, Lord Fenrir, everyone following.
And the duel… was over.