Chapter 104: The Weight of a Duel

  The tension that had been growing throughout the night reached a fever pitch as Thalron, Marcus, and Arixa retreated from the ballroom to a more secluded chamber. The walls of the room were lined with elegant elven tapestries, each depicting scenes of noble duels, grand victories, and the ascension of powerful houses. The irony wasn’t lost on Marcus. This was where they would plan how to disrupt everything these nobles held sacred.

  Thalron paced near the center of the room, his expression unreadable. Arixa leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, still in her gown but radiating impatience. Marcus sat comfortably in a plush chair, one leg crossed over the other, rubbing his chin in thought.

  “The White Blade,” Marcus started, breaking the silence. “Vaelis Il’Theron. I’ve heard the name before, but now I need to know everything. How does he fight?”

  Thalron exhaled slowly. “He’s fast. Precise. He fights like a duelist trained since birth, because that’s exactly what he is. He doesn’t waste movements, doesn’t take unnecessary risks. He dictates the fight before his opponent even realizes what’s happening.”

  Arixa grunted. “So, he’s a dancing peacock with a blade.”

  Thalron shook his head. “No. He’s a peacock that can kill you in two strikes.”

  Marcus tilted his head. “Ki user?”

  “Yes,” Thalron confirmed. “And a damned good one. He enhances his footwork, reflexes, and blade speed with Ki. He’s mastered the art of minimal effort, maximum result.”

  “That’s bad,” Marcus muttered, running a hand through his hair. “A technique like that means he doesn’t just win duels—he destroys his opponents.”

  “Exactly,” Vira’s voice cut in from the doorway.

  They all turned to see her stepping into the room, shedding the playful smirk she often wore. Her golden eyes were sharp, her usual mischief replaced by something heavier.

  “Vaelis Il’Theron isn’t just a skilled warrior,” Vira continued. “He’s a symbol. A walking, talking embodiment of everything these nobles believe in. He’s the reason House Ulthar doesn’t even consider the idea of losing.”

  Marcus leaned back in his chair. “You’re saying it’s not just about the fight?”

  “It never was,” Vira said. “Ulthar is already preparing the narrative. They don’t just expect him to win—they’re betting on it. Wagers, favor exchanges, political deals… They’re setting up this duel to be a public execution of your reputation.”

  Thalron clenched his fists. “So if I lose, I don’t just lose the duel. I lose everything.”

  Vira nodded. “And they’ll make sure the whole city watches.”

  Silence settled over the group for a moment, the weight of what she said pressing down on them. It wasn’t just about Thalron proving himself worthy anymore. The duel had been rigged before it had even begun. Even winning might not be enough if House Ulthar controlled the story.

  Marcus tapped his fingers against his knee. His mind was already working, piecing together a plan. “Alright,” he said finally. “If they’re going to turn this into a spectacle, then so are we.”

  Thalron raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  Marcus smirked. “I mean, we’re going to flip their game against them. They want everyone watching? Then let’s make sure everyone is watching.”

  Arixa frowned. “You’re talking about making this bigger. But how?”

  Marcus leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “We control the story before Ulthar does. We turn this duel into something they can’t sweep under the rug, something that forces the entire noble class to take notice, we make it happen tonight.”

  Thalron folded his arms. “And how do you propose we do that?”

  Marcus grinned. “A press conference.”

  Thalron blinked. “A what?”

  Marcus sighed, rubbing his temples. Right, no newspapers, no modern media. He needed to translate this into something that made sense in this world.

  “A staged event,” he explained. “We go back in there and get everyone excited for the duel. We make a public declaration, invite witnesses, force the nobility to see what’s really at stake. We challenge Ulthar’s narrative before they can cement it.”

  Vira nodded slowly. “You’re saying we make this a political event instead of just a fight.”

  “Exactly,” Marcus said. “We take control of the narrative. We get House Veylan to back us openly, and we make sure there are enough powerful people watching that Ulthar can’t just erase Thalron if he wins.”

  Thalron exhaled. “That’s bold.”

  “It’s necessary,” Marcus said firmly. “You winning the fight won’t be enough. We need to make sure the right people see it, so that even if Ulthar tries to spin the loss, it won’t matter.”

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  Arixa smirked. “I like it. It’s risky, but it sounds like fun.”

  Thalron nodded, slowly at first, then with more certainty. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

  Vira grinned. “Then we’d better start making noise.”

  The plan was set. The game had changed. And if House Ulthar wanted to turn this duel into a public spectacle?

  Then Thalron would make sure they never forgot it.

  The moment Marcus and Thalron stepped back into the ballroom, a shift rippled through the gathering. Nobles who had been locked in quiet murmurs suddenly found their attention drawn to the center of the room. The air, thick with the usual rigidity of elven tradition, held a new kind of energy—one Marcus intended to exploit.

  He didn’t hesitate.

  Raising his voice with the charisma of a seasoned performer, Marcus strode forward and clapped his hands once, the sharp sound cutting through the noble chatter.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of Nireen!” His voice rang out, smooth yet commanding. Heads turned, fans lowered, goblets stilled. “A challenge has been issued, a duel declared! But tell me, what is a battle without spectacle? Without proper stakes? Without a story?”

  Murmurs spread like wildfire. The press conference had begun.

  Marcus, energized by the attention, stepped onto an elevated dais near the ballroom’s center, taking the stance of a man who was born for this. He was feeling it now. His blood pulsed with excitement—this was his arena, the place where words could shape reality.

  Thalron moved to his side, composed but watchful, allowing Marcus to set the stage.

  A hush fell as another presence emerged.

  The crowd parted in reverence as Vaelis Il’Theron, the White Blade, stepped forward. He moved like a specter of perfection, his platinum hair gleaming under the ballroom’s soft lights, his noble attire pristine, tailored to the impossible standard of elven elegance. His icy silver-blue eyes swept across the crowd, then settled on Thalron with the weight of a blade being drawn.

  His voice, when it came, was like steel wrapped in silk.

  “I see the 'half-blood' of the defunct—Kelcrest enjoys theatrics,” Vaelis remarked, his lips curving into something that might have been amusement—or condescension.

  Marcus, without missing a beat, grinned. “Oh, we love theatrics, White Blade. But let’s be real—you enjoy it too.” He gestured broadly. “All this? The grand halls, the whispered wagers, the noble court poised for a duel? This is what you live for, isn’t it? Why else would you show up now, You attention hungry, Debutant?”

  A few nobles chuckled softly—something they rarely did. Marcus noted it with satisfaction.

  Vaelis merely inclined his head. “I live for honor.”

  Marcus leaned forward, dropping his voice into something conspiratorial. “no...it would seem you only "live", to lick your Master's boot.”

  The nobles oohed at that. Some covered their lips in mock scandal, while others whispered excitedly. House Veylan’s representatives smirked, delighted by the disruption.

  Thalron finally spoke, his voice steady. “Honor is tested in battle, Vaelis. Not in expectations.”

  The White Blade’s eyes flickered with something sharper. “You suggest our traditions are lacking?”

  “I suggest,” Thalron replied, stepping forward, “that we ensure the world understands exactly how these traditions play out.”

  Another murmur ran through the crowd. Nobles were beginning to lean in, their carefully constructed facades slipping, if only slightly.

  A noblewoman in a violet silk gown tilted her head, curious. “How will the duel be fought?” she asked, her voice carrying over the hushed gathering.

  Marcus, ever the showman, inhaled sharply. Here’s my chance.

  Internally, he pinged Stem. Yo, what’s the best way to structure this fight so we don’t get completely railroaded, take into account their customs, I want this to play out as close to a boxing match as possible.

  Stem responded in a clipped tone. A structured format with multiple rounds. The more rounds, the better Thalron’s chances of adapting. Traditional duels are one-strike affairs—change the rules and they won’t have the advantage of immediate victory.

  Marcus smiled broadly. “Excellent question, my lady!” He turned, dramatically spreading his arms. “A duel of this magnitude demands structure! A mere single exchange of blows? No, no, no! That’s too de rigueur, too predictable!” He shook his head as if scandalized. “I propose something far grander.”

  The elves were listening now, their intrigue outweighing their elitism.

  Marcus continued, pacing with the deliberate energy of a seasoned performer. “Best of five rounds! Three minutes per round!” He paused for effect. “Three judges shall score the fight based on strategy, technique, and dominance!”

  Gasps echoed through the ballroom. Scored duels? Multiple rounds? What was this madness?

  Marcus could see it—the stiffness of the nobles, their practiced detachment, starting to melt. Even Vaelis’ brow twitched slightly, though he quickly composed himself.

  Thalron, standing beside him, whispered, “They don’t understand what you just did.”

  Marcus smirked. “That’s the point.”

  The noblewoman who had asked the question blinked. “Three rounds… with judges?”

  Marcus nodded solemnly. “Indeed, my lady. We must honor the duel properly, mustn’t we?” He gestured broadly. “With rules that give the best warrior a chance to showcase not just a single strike, but the full breadth of their mastery.”

  Vaelis finally spoke, voice as smooth as polished marble. “An interesting format.” His gaze met Marcus’. “Unorthodox.”

  Marcus smirked. “Innovative.”

  Vaelis studied him for a moment longer, then turned to Thalron. “And you agree to this?”

  Thalron gave a curt nod. “I do.”

  A ripple of excitement passed through the crowd. The duel had just transformed from a ceremonial put-down to something new, something that had never been done before. The rigid expectations of elven dueling tradition had been challenged—and the nobility, for all their stuffiness, loved anything that disrupted monotony.

  House Ulthar’s representatives, however, were not pleased.

  A sharp voice cut through the rising chatter. “This is preposterous!” A noble clad in Ulthar’s colors stepped forward, glaring. “A duel is a sacred affair! Not… entertainment!”

  Marcus turned smoothly. “And yet, my lord, you and your house have spent the entire evening ensuring everyone watches this duel.” His smile widened, lethal. “Surely, if House Ulthar is as confident as it claims, a few additional rounds won’t change the outcome?”

  Laughter—actual laughter—rose from parts of the crowd. More nobles were engaged now, their rigid decorum slipping in the wake of something new, something exciting.

  House Veylan, meanwhile, looked utterly delighted.

  Vaelis remained silent for a long moment, then gave a small nod. “Very well. Best of five rounds. Three minutes per round. And judges.” His lips curved faintly. “I look forward to this.”

  Marcus clapped his hands together. “Wonderful! Then it’s official! The duel of the century has been set!”

  More laughter, more murmurs. The shift had happened. The social gathering was no longer the sterile, controlled event House Ulthar had wanted. It had energy now. Life. And that was dangerous.

  Marcus leaned slightly toward Thalron. “They’re eating this up.”

  Thalron exhaled, watching as the nobles’ controlled facades cracked, their interest overriding their usual restraint. Even those who despised the disruption wanted to see how it would play out.

  House Ulthar had come into this evening intending to crush House Kelcrest under the weight of tradition.

  Instead, they had been dragged into Marcus’ arena.

  And now, the entire city would be watching.

  The ruckus had begun.