Arno barely managed to block it, but the strain was clear on his face. "This isn't a traditional style... it's fluid, unpredictable, like water flowing around obstacles," he thought, trying to make sense of Ezra's strange, graceful movements.
Ezra's posture remained low and balanced, his center of gravity steady. He never overcommitted, conserving his strength while forcing Arno to exhaust himself chasing shadows.
Another strike came, fast and furious. Ezra's blade was a silver streak in the sunlight, slicing through the air with purpose.
Clang!
The blade slammed into Arno's shoulder guard, jolting him with a shock of pain. His muscles screamed in protest, but he forced himself to stay upright.
From the sidelines, Benedict's fingers tightened around his cloak's edge. "This is no fluke," he thought. "This is true mastery."
Ezra shifted again, pivoting his hips to generate power as he swung his sword in a diagonal arc. This was a classic finishing move, designed to disarm or incapacitate.
Arno barely raised his sword in time. The force of the blow knocked it from his hands. It clattered against the dirt and came to a rest several feet away.
A hush fell over the training ground.
Ezra stepped back respectfully and lowered his blade in a salute. "It was an honor."
Arno's chest heaved. Sweat dripped down his temple. He looked at his empty hands, then back up at the young man who had bested him with calm precision.
"I… lost!..."
Kaisel folded his arms, satisfied.
Benedict remained silent, processing what he had just witnessed.
Ezra Valtieri—the young knight's captain—had not only won, but dismantled his opponent's confidence without so much as a drop of sweat.
And in that moment, the image of Ezra in Benedict's mind shifted.
This was no longer the fallen house of the past.
This was something else entirely.
Arno retrieved his sword with a quiet sigh. A storm of frustration and admiration swirled within him.
If I had used mana, could I have won? No… no excuses. I lost a fair duel. That's all there is to it. He's strong.
Both knights approached the onlookers and stopped before the two nobles. They lowered themselves into a bow. No matter the outcome, it was customary to honor both lords.
Straightening up, Arno looked at Ezra, his pride swallowed by something deeper—respect.
"Thank you," he said, voice steady. "Today I learned something new. Your movements… your clarity of mind… I see now you're not lacking in experience. I admit, I misjudged you. Please forgive my earlier doubts, Sir Ezra."
Ezra gave a slight shake of his head, a faint smile on his lips. "No need to ask forgiveness. You were simply doing what any knight would—testing the worth of another. In truth, I gained much from our exchange."
Benedict's gaze softened slightly. It wasn't often he witnessed such humility from the victor and grace from the defeated.
Arno moved to his lord's side, shoulders straight despite the defeat. "My lord… forgive me. I've let you down."
Benedict chuckled gently, placing a hand on Arno's shoulder. "Don't be so stiff. It was a friendly duel, after all. And quite an enlightening one. Experience is the best teacher, no?"
Then, with a sidelong glance, he added, "So… what do you think of Knight Captain Ezra?"
Arno's response was immediate. "His posture is impeccable. Calm and observant. He never made the first move, instead analyzing my rhythm. His swordplay… it felt like I was fighting a river—ungraspable, bending and flowing. It was like his straight sword curved through space. I've never seen anything like it. A formidable knight."
Benedict nodded thoughtfully.
Kaisel, watching them, finally spoke. "He's a capable captain. I trust you understand now."
Benedict turned to the duke, nodding politely. "Yes… I understand, Your Grace. Fully."
The sun had begun its descent, painting the sky in hues of amber and rose. Benedict looked up briefly before sighing. "Then… I will be taking my leave."
Benedict arrived at the Ravengard Duchy at the stroke of noon, the sun casting a stark brilliance over the stone walls and steel-clad guards that stood watch. His journey had begun the morning prior, departing from his own territory nestled in the northeastern reaches of the Empire — a rugged land that lay right at the Empire's edge, where civilization met the raw desolation of the Dunes of Gorrath.
The Dunes of Gorrath — a vast, sun-scorched desert riddled with skeletal rock formations and ancient bones buried beneath endless sand — marked the border between the Empire and the distant Kar'duun Kingdom. It was a place few dared to traverse, a natural bastion that kept the two great powers apart. The name "Dunes of Gorrath" came from the monstrous scorpions that once prowled beneath its sands — creatures of immense size, armed with deadly venom and an uncanny ability to remain hidden until it was too late. Long ago, the desert tribes that called this inhospitable land home named these beasts "Gorrath," and their memory lingers still in the scorched silence. Benedict's lands stood just before this barrier, making his domain one of the last imperial strongholds before the empire's reach gave way to wilderness and foreign soil.
Fortunately, the distance between the Benedict and Ravengard territories was short compared to most noble holdings. Even so, the journey took a full day, and the return would demand another. Travel by night was considered folly — too many dangers lurked in the dark: rogue spirits, nocturnal beasts, and worse. Only a few were gifted with rare spatial attributes like Kaisel — the ability to teleport wherever he wished — a power so uncommon that most would never witness it in their lifetime. The rest, like Benedict's entourage, made camp beneath the stars, torches and magical wards fending off the threats that prowled just beyond the firelight.
Yet for all the effort, Benedict had come without hesitation. He could have simply penned a letter, summoned a report, or sent a retainer in his stead. But that was not his way. He had always chosen to come himself. To him, the state of the Ravengard Duchy could not be understood from ink and paper alone. It had to be seen — felt — with one's own eyes and instincts. As someone who frequently visited to assess the duchy's condition, he carried the weight of familiarity, of a bond rooted in duty and observation. Today was no different. He came not as a guest, but as a vigilant neighbor — one whose eyes missed nothing and whose presence, silent as it may be, carried the echo of authority.
Kaisel inclined his head. "Very well. I'll see you out."
As the knights turned to prepare the carriage, the two nobles walked through the wide corridors of the manor. Their boots echoed lightly on the marble floor.
Halfway through the hallway, they encountered a small figure—light-footed and radiant.
A young girl in a soft yellow dress embroidered with white and gold flower motifs stood before them. Her silver-white hair shimmered under the glow of the chandeliers, cascading to her shoulders in soft waves. Her emerald eyes sparkled with curiosity and warmth. A sky-blue pendant hung from her neck, and delicate white leather shoes peeked from beneath her gown's hem. She was no more than 14, but she held herself like a proper young noble.
With a surprised expression, she said, "Uncle Marquis? When did you get here...?"
The Marquis offered a courteous smile and replied, "Young Lady Nerrisa, I arrived at noon. I was engaged in discussions with the Duke, which regrettably kept me from greeting you sooner." His tone was gentle, almost apologetic, as if to reassure her that his absence had not been intentional. "But now, I must take my leave."
She pouted slightly, then brightened. "You're leaving already?"
"I must," he said gently. "It's a long road back to my territory."
Nerrisa lowered her gaze for a moment, then curtsied. "Then I hope you have a safe journey, Uncle Marquis."
"Thank you, little lady. We shall meet again soon—at the Imperial Capital, in two months' time."
Nerrisa tilted her head. "Empire? Two months?"
Kaisel interjected smoothly, "I'll explain later. For now, let the Marquis take his leave."
They continued their walk to the front courtyard where the carriage awaited. The sky above was now tinged with gold, with streaks of violet creeping in at the edges.
As the horses neighed and the servants began fastening the final straps, Kaisel remarked, almost idly, "I wonder… who will succeed that sly bastard of an emperor."
Benedict froze for a heartbeat. He turned slowly, unsure if he had heard correctly.
He said it so casually… like talking about the weather. Doesn't he fear the Emperor's wrath?
There were rumors—whispers in noble halls—that the Emperor had poisoned his own brother, the original crown prince, and declared his own daughter a traitor. She had vanished not long after. No proof had ever surfaced, but even whispers carried weight in the Empire. Yet, because the rumors touched the Emperor himself, they were swiftly silenced—choked out before they could catch fire. In time, the whispers died, buried beneath fear and the passage of years.
Benedict said nothing. He boarded his carriage with a composed face and a heart full of questions.
The carriage pulled away slowly, the wheels creaking as it left the manor behind, leaving Kaisel standing alone in the waning light—unfazed, unreadable, and dangerous.
To be continued.