The duelling grounds were alive with steel and screaming.
Damian stood among the, maybe twenty of them, watching as match after match unfolded. The king sat at the edge of the arena, flanked by his elite guards, his face carved from stone. He said nothing. But Damian felt his presence like a weight.
As the battles went on,
There was one guard no one challenged.
Arthur.
The only one of the kings guard that has remained undefeated for the past 3 years.
He stood taller than the rest, his Gold armour, trimmed in red went well with his daring blonde hair and sea blue eyes. His blade was Rich, dazzled across the spine. A weapon built to crush and dance.
The other guards moved like men.
Arthur stood like a God. His presence alone was enough reason to not challenge him
Damian watched his opponents carefully, memorizing stances, styles, strikes. He was searching for something — a rhythm, a movement, a hint of the sword style that had overwhelmed him that dark night that he had lost his master. He hadn't forgotten the way Death moved — elegant, practiced, impossibly calm.
Whoever wore the mask… they were beyond ordinary skill. So Damian watched for cracks. For moments. Anything that would resemble his short encounter with death. None of them did.
Ultimately he was here to get closer to uncovering the truth behind the masked killer. Damian's late master, Rhys, had once said,
"Damian, If you want answers in this kingdom, you get close to the ones with swords. Or you become one."
When Damian's name was called, the king's voice carried over the arena like thunder. Not a herald, not a soldier — the king himself spoke.
"Damian of the Forge. Step forward."
Damian stood surprised, shocked even, that king knew his name, he had not introduced himself to anyone. And prior to this the king had not said a word.
He stepped into the arena, heart steady.
"Choose your opponent," the king said. "If you win, you join my guard. If you fall…" he paused, his gaze cold and unreadable, "...you fall."
Eyes turned. The crowd hushed.
Damian's eyes went to Arthur. but only for a moment.
Arthur hadn't stepped forward this whole trial.
He stood off to the side, arms folded, a titan at rest.
If he's Death, Damian thought, I'll know the moment he draws his blade. That fighting style—patient, elegant, it wasn't meant for duelling. It was meant for killing.
He flexed his fingers against the hilt of his sword.
But if it's him… I'll lose. And if it's not, I'll have thrown away my only shot for nothing.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed Arthur shift, just slightly. Their eyes didn't meet, but for a breath, Damian felt the weight of Arthur's awareness settle on him.
Then something else.
Up on the throne, the king's gaze locked on Damian. He sat straight in his throne, expressionless. But there was a glint behind those eyes. Like he was listening to something no one else could hear.
Damian turned his attention back to the sparring grounds.
Play it smart. Choose someone beatable. Get in first. Get close.
He glanced at the others, weighing his options.
Better to face someone weaker. Secure my place. Then watch. Then learn. The mask will slip eventually.
He looked back at Arthur one last time.
There'll be other chances. I just need to advance far enough to take them.
Instead, he pointed to a guard he had studied. Not the strongest, but aggressive. Predictable.
The duel began.
At first, Damian stumbled, nerves clashing with instinct. But as the blades sang, something shifted. Years at the forge had carved power into his arms. Years under Rhys had carved skill into his stance. Every parry, every strike — he adapted. He flowed. He fought.
He won.
With a clean disarm and a blade pointed at his opponent's throat, Damian stood panting, victorious.
The crowd erupted.
He had done it.
The king smiled. Just barely.
But he said nothing.
Damian was a royal guard now.
But he didn't care for titles.
He never did
Not the applause that echoed behind him. Not the sigil they pinned to his chest. Not the murmurs of nobles whispering his name like he'd done something divine.
He only cared about one thing.
Finding the masked killer.
The phantom that haunted Elaria's nights — swift, silent, and merciless.
The one who spared him…
And now, with a blade at his side and a foot inside the palace walls, he was closer than ever.