The hall remained hushed, as if the very walls leaned in to witness.
Two figures stood at the center—opposites in posture and presence.
Alric DuVaine gripped a gleaming spear, its long shaft carved with ornate sigils, the tip sharp and ceremonial. His stance was wide, confident, dramatic—like he expected applause before the strike.
Elric Ashborne, in contrast, stood still. No aura flared. No unnecessary movement. His sword hung relaxed at his side—quiet, but not passive.
The silk ribbon connecting their wrists swayed gently.
"Begin," the steward called.
Alric lunged.
A textbook thrust. Fast. Straight. A clean opener meant to take advantage of his reach.
Elric shifted—not back, but to the side. A half-step, just enough. The spear missed cleanly.
He didn't retreat. He moved forward.
His sword flicked up—tight and precise, not for damage, but for measure.
A test.
Alric parried in time, sweeping his spear to the side, but the silk fluttered ominously.
From the far side of the room, I stood still, wine untouched.
Spear's the right tool. Gives Alric control of the mid-range… if he knew what to do with it. But he's following a rhythm he memorized—not the one playing out in front of him.
Elric, though... he's not just dodging. He's controlling the tempo.
Alric stepped back and reset.
Then came a sweeping arc—an attempt to reestablish distance and regain initiative.
Elric ducked under it with no wasted movement. No flashy rolls. Just a smooth dip and pivot.
He stepped inside again.
A short cut—not to injure, but to touch.
Alric pulled back just in time.
The ribbon strained but held.
Then Alric thrust again—this time with a feint upward, switching into a lower jab at Elric's leg.
Smart. But Elric didn't bite.
He didn't block.
He read it.
His foot slid back, just out of reach, and his sword lashed out—not at the spear, but at the pivot in Alric's grip.
The shaft rattled in Alric's hands. His balance wavered.
There it is. That's the flow being taken away.
Elric wasn't overpowering him.
He was interrupting.
Every time Alric tried to build momentum, Elric made him stop and rethink. A half-feint here. A quiet reposition there.
It wasn't a fight.It was dismantling.
Alric's frustration showed.
He swept hard—too hard. Overextended.
Elric didn't slash the body.Didn't even touch the arm.
Just a flick—angled precisely—at the stretched silk.
Snap.
The ribbon fell in two halves.
Silence.
The steward raised a hand.
"Match complete. Winner—Lord Elric Ashborne."
No cheers. Just a ripple in the air, like the room had been holding its breath.
Alric stared at the ribbon.
"That… wasn't a real duel," he muttered. "You didn't even fight."
Elric met his eyes.
"You set the terms. I followed them."
Alric's grip faltered.
The steward stepped forward, voice crisp:
"The duel is concluded. Lord Alric, your conduct is noted."
Alric turned and left, jaw tight.
Among the nobles, nothing was said aloud—but gestures spoke volumes.
Nods. Glances. Quiet recalibrations.
And then I saw it.
My father—Baron Valemont—stoic and immovable as always.
He gave a nod. Just one.
Small. Deliberate.
He nodded? For Elric?
I blinked. Something inside clenched—tight, reflexive.
He never did that for me. Not once. Even when I won.
I looked away before I could register my own reaction. But my jaw was already tight. My fingers already curled around nothing.
Tch. Why does it even matter? That's not my father. That's Brandy's father.
But... then why did it hit like that?
I didn't have an answer.
Only the growing pressure behind my eyes.
The gathering dispersed. The Count had vanished like mist. The nobles murmured like diplomats choosing which rising star to orbit.
Elric said nothing.
Just returned to his place, silent and still.
But everyone noticed.
They didn't praise him.They adjusted to him.
He didn't just win. He controlled everything.From timing to pressure. From posture to finish.He didn't fight Alric. He taught him.
I exhaled slowly.
He's not the Elric I remember from the novel.He's ahead. Focused. Like he already knows the outcome.
This isn't a story anymore.
I'm not reading it. I'm in it.
And if I want to survive—if I want to matter—
I'll need to carve my place into this world before someone else writes it over me.