Chapter Thirty-One: Torin Silverblood

  His veins turned glacial as Ash stood and turned. An elven man with a mane of black hair touched with a single silver lock stood in front of Ash, a mocking grin on his handsome face. His dark eyes held a depth of intelligence and a blade's edge of malevolence that made Ash's skin crawl. The way he carried himself spoke of privilege and wealth; every movement calculated and precise, as if he had been trained from birth to appear superior.

  He wore a duelist's coat of exquisite cut, the fabric clearly imported from some distant part of Dominion. Fine black and silver silk clothes underneath emphasized his slender physique, the quality of the material catching the light as he shifted his weight. His bearing was straight and confident, one hand resting casually on the pommel of an ornate sword at his hip. The weapon wasn't just for show; there were subtle nicks on the scabbard that spoke of actual use.

  Noble. The word floated through Ash's mind as he took in the elf's appearance. There was no mistaking his status or breeding.

  Maybe Ash should have cared about that. Perhaps, if he had, it would have saved him some trouble. But in that moment, all he could think about was the insult this pompous elf had hurled at Rosalia. The casual cruelty of it, the blatant prejudice wrapped in a cultured voice. His uncle had once told him that a man's true character showed in how he treated those he considered beneath him.

  Instead of backing down, Ash gripped his sword, the familiar sensation of cold anger flooding his system. Unlike the heat of rage that blinded, this was a focused, numbing fury that sharpened his senses.

  "What did you just say to her?" Ash's voice was low, dangerous, the sound of ice cracking on a frozen lake.

  The elf's eyes slid lazily over to Rosalia before returning to Ash, his smile widening to show perfect, white teeth. "Can the trash not defend herself? Typical of a shashti whore." He pronounced the slur with relish, clearly enjoying the reaction it provoked.

  The tavern had gone quiet. Conversations died mid-sentence, and Ash could feel the weight of dozens of eyes on them. Some patrons were already backing away, anticipating trouble. A server froze in the act of delivering drinks, her expression torn between fear and fascination.

  Ash's sword was drawn from his sheath in a flash, the wooden practice blade pointing directly at the elf's throat. The movement was so fluid, so natural, that several onlookers gasped. What Ash lacked in a proper weapon, he made up for in speed and precision.

  "State your name. I'd like to know who I'm about to beat, black and blue." Ash's fingers tightened around the hilt of his practice sword, the wood warm against his palm.

  The elf laughed, the sound dripping with condescension. His eyes flicked to Ash's weapon, his lip curling in disdain. "Is that a wooden sword? Typical. Couldn't afford a real blade, eh peasant? Why should I duel one such as you? You're not worth the time." He examined his fingernails as if bored by the entire exchange.

  The insult stung, but Ash refused to let it show. Instead, his mouth twitched into a slight grin, the cold in his veins spreading to his expression. "Scared to lose to a peasant?" The question was deliberate, calculated to provoke.

  That did it. The elf's dark eyes became hard, obsidian chips in his perfectly composed face. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, fingers tightening. Ash noted the slight tremor there, a tell that the elf's composure wasn't as perfect as he wanted people to believe.

  "Fine then, peasant. If you want to defend a shashti's honor, I'll oblige and put you down. Meet me outside." His voice had lost its mocking lilt, replaced by something colder and more dangerous. "Perhaps watching you bleed will teach both of you your proper place."

  With that, he turned and stalked out with a predator's easy grace, the crowd parting before him like water around a stone. Several of his companions, who had been watching from nearby tables, followed him out, exchanging gleeful glances. They clearly anticipated entertainment.

  As soon as the elf left, the tavern erupted in whispers. Ash caught fragments of conversation, most expressing disbelief at his audacity. A few patrons slipped out, likely to spread word of the impending duel.

  Rosalia was beside him instantly, pulling at his arm, her green eyes wide with worry. "Ash! You can't! He has elar, and you..." Her fingers dug into his sleeve, her normally musical voice strained with fear.

  "Do," Ash cut her off, his own voice firm. He met her eyes, trying to convey confidence he wasn't entirely sure he felt.

  Her eyes widened further, mouth falling open in shock. "What? How?" Her gaze searched his face, looking for signs of a jest or lie. Finding none, confusion replaced her disbelief. "When did this happen?"

  "Who was that guy?" Ash asked instead of answering, glancing toward the door. He needed information more than he needed to explain himself right now.

  "Torin Silverblood," Amalia mused aloud from where she stood nearby, her violet eyes following the path the elf had taken.

  Ash and Rosalia turned to her simultaneously, the sudden knowledge of the elf's identity hanging between them.

  "You know him?" Rosalia asked, her voice hushed, as if speaking of something forbidden.

  Amalia's expression remained neutral, but her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around her staff. "Of him. The Silverbloods are very influential in Elendari, and it would not surprise me if they had some pull here." Her tone was matter-of-fact, but there was something in her eyes, a flicker of knowledge perhaps, that suggested she knew more than she was saying.

  Ash set his jaw, determination hardening his features. "I'm going to smash his face in." The declaration was simple, devoid of bravado or uncertainty.

  Rosalia's brow furrowed, her concern evident. "With what weapon? You have a wooden sword." She looked dubious, glancing at the practice blade at his side. It was well-crafted for what it was, but hardly a match for real steel.

  "It's a matter of perspective," Ash said, crossing his arms. The corner of his mouth quirked upward, confidence radiating from him. He didn't elaborate further, but there was a surety in his stance that hadn't been there before.

  "My perspective is that you're going to get killed. Besides, I can fight my own battles," Rosalia said, her pride flaring. She stood straighter, chin lifting defiantly. "I don't need you to defend me against some stuck-up noble."

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  "I know you can; this isn't about defending your honor. I just don't like him." Ash's voice softened slightly. "Some people, I'm beginning to learn, need a good kick in the teeth." The coldness in his veins hadn't abated, but it was controlled now, channeled into purpose rather than raw anger.

  Rosalia rolled her eyes, the gesture so familiar it almost made him smile. "Boys. But, with Torin, I think you might be right this once." Her initial resistance faded, replaced by grudging agreement.

  She lowered her head, firming her lips into a line. "Torin is the one who killed Sally. I'm sure of it."

  Ash didn't think his blood could get any colder. He was wrong. The revelation hit him like a physical blow, everything suddenly clicking into place. The casual cruelty, the disdain for half-elves, the sense of entitlement that allowed someone to take a life merely because they considered it beneath them.

  Lilith sent him a questioning thought, her mental voice tinged with confusion. He sent her back images of the monster they had fought and the conversation they had with the Bells. The heartbroken parents, the lost daughter, the senseless death that had created a vengeful spirit.

  Lilith's adorable face scrunched like she had bitten into something gross. Her disgust was apparent, mirroring his own feelings.

  "I don't suppose you have a real blade I could use?" Ash asked Amalia, knowing even as he said it that the request was futile.

  "Oh no, Master Lorcan. You picked this fight. You should have picked it when more prepared." There was no sympathy in her voice, but neither was there disapproval. She was simply stating a fact, leaving him to deal with the consequences of his actions.

  Ash shrugged, accepting her response. "I'll beat him without it, then." The declaration was simple, confident. Despite the apparent disadvantage, there wasn't a trace of doubt in his voice.

  With one last glance at Rosalia and Amalia, he strode out of the adventurers guild. The air outside was crisp, carrying the scent of pine from the nearby forest. A small crowd had already gathered, forming a loose circle in the open area just off the main road.

  Torin awaited him outside, not quite on the road but a little ways away from the building. He stood with his back to Ash, conversing quietly with his companions. When he sensed Ash's approach, he turned slowly, theatrical in his movements.

  "The peasant arrives. I thought for a moment you had decided to flee. It would make you a coward but a sensible one." His voice carried easily to the gathering crowd, several of whom laughed appreciatively.

  Ash curled his fingers into a fist, then deliberately relaxed them. He blew out a calming breath, centering himself. Without fanfare, he drew his wooden blade, assuming a ready stance. The sword felt right in his hand, an extension of his arm rather than a separate implement.

  Torin sneered, looking at the practice sword with exaggerated contempt. "You still intend to fight with that stick? Fine then, but don't expect me to hold back. I don't mind killing you." His attention shifted briefly. "You there, woman. Will you serve as a witness?"

  Something ugly rose in Amalia's eyes as she approached the edge of the impromptu dueling area, but it was gone as quickly as it had come, her expression smoothing into impassivity. She nodded once. "I shall."

  "A witness?" Ash asked, unfamiliar with formal dueling protocols.

  "I am the one who will report that you both agreed to this foolishness, Master Lorcan. This way, no one believes you were simply murdered in the street." Her tone was dry, but there was a warning in her words.

  "Ah." Ash absorbed this, understanding the implication. This wasn't just a fight; it was a potentially lethal encounter with legal ramifications.

  Truthfully, he was a bit worried about the fight. He knew his own abilities but not Torin's. The elf likely had both training and experience, and possibly techniques Ash had never seen before. He banished the anxiety from his mind, calling upon the focus, the clarity that came to him when he held a blade. It was like slipping into a different state of consciousness, one where everything nonessential fell away.

  Torin drew his own blade, the metal glinting wickedly in the light. It was a fine weapon, well-balanced and clearly expensive. Another display of his status and wealth.

  A breeze picked up some dirt, pushing it an inch or two as a hush fell over the area. The crowd drew back slightly, giving the two combatants space. Ash studied his opponent's stance with a critical eye.

  Judging by the set of Torin's shoulders and the placement of his feet, he was going for full offense, all power. More than that, Ash just had a feeling that was what Torin would do. He liked to feel powerful; he wanted to be above others. That desire would drive his strategy, pushing him to dominate rather than adapt.

  "Begin," Amalia said.

  She didn't raise her voice, but her words carried, and Torin kicked off towards Ash, sword flashing in an arc, bearing down on him with obvious intent to end the duel quickly. The metal blade whistled through the air, aimed directly at Ash's neck in a kill stroke.

  Ash knew his wooden blade wouldn't last long in a direct exchange, so instead, he wove around the attacks, avoiding them with fluid movements. He found it easier than expected because Torin was remarkably easy to read. Each swing was telegraphed, each step predictable.

  He was all aggression, and while he did it well, the lack of subtlety made his patterns obvious. Ash saw openings he could have exploited, but he bided his time, learning his opponent's rhythm.

  "Stand and fight!" Torin growled as Ash ducked smoothly under another blow, frustration evident in his voice. Sweat had begun to bead on his forehead, his attacks growing wilder with each miss.

  I'll pass, Ash thought, sidestepping another swing. His sword would be reduced to splinters if he attempted to parry those powerful strikes head-on. No, it was best to be like his uncle here, like water. He just flowed around the attacks, conserving energy while Torin expended his.

  The crowd watched in silence, their expectations of a quick, bloody conclusion giving way to fascination at Ash's defensive prowess. Some began to murmur appreciatively, and Torin's expression darkened further.

  "Fine, be a coward like that." The insult was delivered through gritted teeth, his frustration mounting visibly.

  Torin drew elar from his elan, the change immediately apparent. His attacks increased in speed and ferocity, the blade moving faster than an ordinary human could follow. The crowd gasped as one, several of them backing up further as they sensed the escalation.

  But Ash had elar too, so he sought out his elan as he had so many times before and drew his elar. Numbing cold flushed into him, heightening his senses and reflexes. He didn't use too much, just enough to match Torin's new pace. The cold clarity sharpened further, and he could track Torin's movements with ease, predicting each swing before it began.

  This was how he would win. Not through brute force or superior weaponry, but through patience and understanding.

  Ash understood something fundamental when facing those homunculi: If you ran out of resources, you lost. Plain and simple, you couldn't continue past a certain point, both when your body tired and your elar ran out. Torin was burning through his reserves quickly, while Ash was being economical.

  He could have revealed his technique, his frost dragon wings, but he didn't want to kill Torin by accident, and more importantly, he wanted to keep it to himself. His technique could be a surprise for a time when he truly needed it, and he intended to keep it in reserve.

  Plus, he was making Torin mad, and that sent a little zing of satisfaction through him at making such a person, a person who had caused so much harm, angry. The elf's pointed ears were red, his face a mask of utter fury as his attacks became increasingly desperate.

  "I'm going to kill you, cowardly peasant light-cursed trash." The threat was hissed between ragged breaths, spittle flying from his lips as he swung wildly.

  Torin was quick to anger, but then again, so was Ash. The difference was that when it came to swordplay, Ash gained clarity, a measure of control Torin didn't have. He could see while Torin couldn't.

  From what Ash saw, the noble elf boy lacked true talent with the sword. He had training, certainly, but no innate understanding of the blade. His technique was textbook, lacking the fluidity and adaptation of someone who truly knew their weapon.

  That was probably why Torin unleashed a technique upon him, resorting to elar when skill alone failed. It was a tacit admission of defeat, though Torin would never acknowledge it as such.

  Blades of black shadow lanced towards Ash, emerging from Torin's sword in writhing tendrils. They would have skewered him had he not dove forward, rolling beneath them with barely an inch to spare. The crowd scattered further, cries of alarm rising as the dangerous display of elar power.

  Torin was heaving, chest rising and falling rapidly. "You think you're better than me?!" The question was a roar, his composure completely shattered.

  The shadows followed Ash, twisting and turning as they sought their target. Ash grimaced, recognizing that he needed to end this before someone got hurt or Torin escalated further. The elf was becoming dangerous in his desperation.

  He had been conserving his elar and hadn't drawn much throughout the fight. He drew deeply now, the winter chill flooding his system as he blurred forward with newfound speed. Bypassing the shadows entirely, he struck out in a precise thrust that slammed into Torin's stomach with controlled force.

  Shadows vanished as Torin's mouth opened in shock, his eyes bulging as he bent over double. The impact drove the breath from his lungs, and he staggered back, dropping his sword with a clatter.

  A moment later, he threw up, the contents of his stomach splattering on the dirt. His entire body heaved, the elegant duelist coat now stained and ruined. Lilith let out a triumphant cry as Torin collapsed to the dirt, groaning and clutching his midsection.

  The crowd was silent, stunned by the sudden reversal. Several of Torin's companions stepped forward, unsure whether to intervene, but a look from Amalia held them in place.

  "Be nicer to my friends," Ash said to Torin's writhing form, his voice carrying clearly in the silence.

  He sheathed the practice blade with a smooth motion, the wooden sword sliding home with the same precision as any steel weapon. Without another word or glance at his defeated opponent, he turned and walked away, shoulders relaxed, stride confident.

  Behind him, whispers erupted, the story already taking shape. How a peasant boy with a wooden sword had bested one of the Silverblood heirs. It would spread through Ivalia before sunset, growing with each telling.

  But Ash didn't care about that. All he cared about was that someone who had hurt others, who had taken a life without remorse, had finally faced consequences. It wasn't justice, not truly, but it was something.

  And for now, that would have to be enough.