Chapter 27

The banesilver blade felt comfortably cold underneath Arne’s fingers. The spectators’ auras were muted and dull now, a far cry from the chaotic onslaught he was subjected to moments before.

It made everything so much easier.

The damnable silklings wanted a fight? They would get a fight. Arne was beyond done with this foolishness. Stupid schemes were expected. Even forcing him into a meaningless duel was… perhaps not acceptable, but tolerable.

Questioning House Hohenfels’ honor in front of a huge audience? That was a problem. It showed that Hohenfels was not respected in the slightest.

A was needed.

It was more than obvious that Leonhardt was not the true culprit. Still, he was the one who had spoken the insult, so he would answer for it. Whatever Ludwig and Maximilian had bribed or threatened him with, Arne had to make sure that it would not be worth it in the end.

He watched as Leonhardt solemnly strode down the stairs into the arena, already unfastening his jacket in preparation for the impromptu duel. It was not exactly in good taste to hold a duel on the same day as the offense had taken place – but in this case, it would be seen as weakness from either side to not draw steel on the spot.

When Leonhardt stepped onto the sand, the intensity of the audience’s auras redoubled.

They wanted to see blood, and they did not care whom it belonged to. It was decadent. Shameful.

Friedrich’s rage was a beacon of sanity next to him. And… there was something else. A familiar sliver of fear, anxiety, and deep concern. He looked up in its general direction, and found Katharina staring at him with a complicated expression.

He blinked deliberately, hoping to wordlessly convey reassurance. Her aura did not change much, but she gave him a strained smile in what he supposed was an attempt at encouragement. To his surprise, he found that he really appreciated the gesture.

He moved into position, facing Leonhardt, whose aura radiated uneasiness, reluctance, and shame in stark contrast to his serene posture.

Arne removed his left hand from the blank blade, and regretted it immediately. The protection the banesilver allowed without direct contact was instantly overwhelmed.

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Their gazes were like boulders on his chest.

This time, he could not simply flee. He had no choice but to endure.

But how? He could barely think straight. Fighting in this condition would not end well for him.

In a last-ditch effort, he mustered his remaining faculties. With every ounce of willpower at his disposal, he forced himself to take a shallow breath. Then, Arne closed his eyes.

He imagined himself standing in Father’s study, watching over the wide bogland beyond the castle walls. The fireplace crackled peacefully, the scent of paper and old parchment mixed with the faint aroma of herbal tea.

Down in the bailey stood a large crowd. Indistinct figures were screaming up at him, but the noise was dulled by the thick Logrian glass.

They could not touch him. Not here. Not now.

Arnold opened his eyes again.

As he looked around the colosseum, everything seemed so… comfortably distant. They were nothing but rabid, bloodthirsty animals. He was them.

Friedrich flinched away when he met his gaze. he thought idly, but it did not matter right now. What did matter was the priest who was currently reciting nonsense in ecclesiastical Latin. His continued presence meant Sonnenfeld or Altengau had paid for rounds of blessings beforehand.

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Again, the holy ritual barely found purchase on his magic, a major downside of his . Leonhardt did not have that problem, the blessing sinking deep into his skin and muscles. Arnold supposed it would make up for the difference in weaponry – Leonhardt’s saber was undoubtedly enchanted, but it could not possibly measure up to a banesilver alloy.



The priest all but fled the arena, and the two men raised their weapons. Arnold took stock of his reserves. The duel with Ludwig had been negligible, but he had spent about a fifth of his magic on the aura burst. Leonhardt had most likely used a similar amount for his own display, which meant they were on roughly equal footing.

This fight would be difficult. The heir of Westmark was an experienced warrior who had earned his spurs in the drawn-out war against Gallovia. Arnold could not afford to underestimate his opponent. He would have to go all out, immediately.

This time, there was no announcement, no grand sign for the duel to begin. There was only the tip of Leonhardt’s saber racing towards his sternum. Arnold parried it with a controlled surge of magic in his sword arm, batting away the weapon and executing a quick riposte.

Leonhardt pulled back in a burst of motion, sand and dust forming a cloud where he had stood. They circled each other for a few heartbeats, waiting for the other to show an opening. The sandy ground made every application of magic horrendously inefficient, so Arnold would have to keep his movement to a minimum while trying to force his opponent into rapid dodges. Heavy hits would be much more sustainable than magic-fuelled lunges. Leonhardt would know that as well, of course.

They slowly closed in again, probing each other’s defenses with careful feints. After getting a sense for his opponent’s style, Arnold decided to risk an attack.

He stepped within cutting range, pretending to go for Leonhardt’s right arm. The moment Leonhardt changed his guard, Arnold blasted him with a wave of aura.

The Wessen heir had expected that – it was not exactly an uncommon maneuver. However, he was not prepared for the sheer intensity of Arnold’s magic.

He flinched.

It was a tiny movement, barely noticeable. But it was enough.

Burning hot power raced through Arnold’s veins as he abruptly changed the angle of his attack. The banesilver blade flashed towards his opponent’s torso with deadly intent.

Leonhardt twisted his body in a desperate attempt to dodge the strike, but he could not avoid it entirely. The front of his shirt was cut apart, and a bloody gash formed from his lower abdomen all the way up to his collarbone. He stumbled a few steps back, trying to regain his balance.

The wound looked terrible, but Arnold knew that it would not be enough to disable a fighter of his caliber, especially not with the Christian blessing in effect. That assessment was confirmed when Leonhardt settled into his stance again, ignoring the constant stream of blood dripping into the sand.

Cries of surprise and excitement washed over the fighters. Arnold barely noticed them. The crescendo of auras weighed heavily on his mind, though – he knew he would not have much time left before it caught up to him.

His reserves were still well above half, so he could afford some inefficiency if it meant ending the fight sooner. He lunged at the wounded man, aiming for his lower torso with the tip of his saber. Leonhardt’s muscles tensed as he prepared to dodge–

And then he didn’t. He shoved his left arm in the way of the stab, intercepting the saber with his flesh. The madman locked the blade in place with his bones, and Arnold caught a flash of steel from the corner of his eye. He reflexively dodged the worst of it, but the left side of his face suddenly felt like it was on fire. Hot blood flowed down his chin and onto his chest.

Before Leonhardt could strike again, Arnold caught his sword arm with his free hand and let go of his immobilized saber. He grabbed Leonhardt’s shoulder, pulled it down with an immense expenditure of magic, and mercilessly drove his knee into his opponent’s stomach.

The young man toppled over with a pained groan, and Arnold freed his sword in a swift motion. Then, he sent another wave of magic through the colosseum, instantly silencing the clamorous spectators.

His voice was raspy and strained as he addressed the fallen warrior.

“Do you yield?”

Leonhardt coughed for a while, then shakily rose to his feet.

“I yield,” he wheezed. “I humbly–” a coughing fit interrupted him, “I humbly apologize for the ill-conceived insult. The honor of House Hohenfels is beyond doubt and reproach.”

This was as good of an apology as Arnold could possibly hope for. Not that it meant that the issue was concluded – he would make sure to squeeze every last drop of restitution out of the Houses Sonnenstein and Wessen. However, that was best handled behind closed doors, and without blood rushing down his face like a grisly waterfall.



“I accept,” he stated matter-of-factly.

Then, the spectator’s whirling emotions crashed into his mind like a storm, shattering his fragile illusion of serenity. The mental image of the study faded away, leaving Arne exposed once more.

With a supreme effort of will, he managed to stride out of the colosseum with dignity, the saber still in his hand. He barely noticed Friedrich walking next to him as he crossed the plaza.

Would the result of today’s duels help Hohenfels’ standing in the long term? Arne was not sure. He did know one thing, though.

He was done being a chess piece in silkling games.