Tristan stood still, understanding fully well the potential consequences of his actions. Unfortunately, he couldn't care less.
He sheathed his sword with liquid movements that bespoke of years of practice.
His natural state as a left-handed person made him annoying to fight, one of the reasons his fight against people was short and filled with clumsiness from his opponent.
Not many could handle an opponent who was opposite-handed and also highly skilled. His battle with Den was child's play.
"Despite your actions, I'll push forward with this marriage," Lord Ior came closer to the tall young man. He had gained a sudden calm after witnessing Den's defeat.
'Silent anger?' Ior wondered to himself. All he knew at that moment was an unstoppable drive to move on with his plans.
Tristan's blood boiled at those words, but he remained silent. Outdoing himself for the nth time that night.
"You've only managed to gain a young, powerful enemy. I will make sure I and my town aren't caught up in the events to come," Lord Ior explained, his eyes set on his mansion standing a bit elevated compared to the rest of the town.
The orange lights of the flaming torches spewed across the cobblestone streets. The silvery light from the moon draped down unto the world, leaving an air of mystery and magic.
The cold winds of the ocean around that town swept the habitation causing a drop in the ambient temperature.
Medrial was a town set on an island approximately 4km from the huge landmass that was majorly known as their kingdom.
Its sides were surrounded by the vastness of the blue oceans, and only thanks to the bridge built many years prior; but reinforced, could there be communications between them and the rest of the kingdom.
In short, the town was mostly isolated. Directly after the bridge was a lonely plain, and only after a few kilometers could the first settlements be found. The journey to the next town would be about 2hrs.
Lord Ior fell silent after his earlier words. It took him a few moments to get his thoughts in order and speak his next but final words.
"You should stay away from my Lucia. May the gods who helped you win all your battles see you through the mess you've created." He stated, departing from Tristan's internally boiling presence.
Surprisingly, Lord Ior's demeanor had commanded a sort of calmness from Tristan. He felt the man had genuinely gotten the last of him and left him to his fate.
Soon enough, Tristan was left alone at the town's center.
The people had left him due to his normally cold behavior towards them. He had no friends among them.
Furthermore, it was dangerous to approach a man right after he fought. He or she could still be jumpy and alert.
Silence.
Utter tranquility existed around Tristan's figure. It had only been a bit after sundown, but it felt like many hours had passed into the night.
He had caused a big commotion and expected the townspeople to tread with caution.
A sigh departed from Tristan's lips at some point and he raked his hand through his hair recalling the moments Lucia had brushed them.
Staring at the sky high above, he struggled to deal with the murkiness that crept up his chest.
Anger, hurt, uncertainty, anxiety, more anger. These emotions swirled through the 17-year-old's mind.
His heart beat strongly whilst Lord Ior's words replayed in his head.
He recalled Lucia's utterances and the actions he had taken that day. The weight of them all dug into his mind, leaving gashes.
There was still too much he was dealing with, those additions were a great increase. Nevertheless, Tristan had learned many things in his relatively short life.
One of them was to deal with his issues himself. Albeit a dangerous and erred mindset, it left him with some sort of control over himself.
He would always be hard on himself, quick to criticize his actions.
Unfortunately, there wasn't much he could do at that point. Lord Ior had made known his intentions to carry on the marriage even if Den had sworn to not do so if he lost.
'What did I even expect?' Tristan's lips curved in a wry smile, mocking himself for his struggle. He hated to admit it, but he knew his wishes would never come to be.
Lord Ior had stooped low to get what he wanted, what stopped him from stooping lower?
It was a losing battle from the very beginning, and he knew it. Lucia could have held off telling him until the day of her departure arrived. He'd not be able to do anything then.
His actions only served to cause annoyance and strife. He expected a consequence and believed he had the strength to deal with it.
"Or is this also blindness?" He focused his gaze on the starless sky, taking note of the sadness he felt from that magical but lonely scenery.
The universe around him seemed to mourn whatever was to occur to him, and he felt hatred spill from the depths of his cold heart toward the world.
His confidence returned with a snap, as the drive for most of his actions returned.
Hatred.
Deep hatred.
He wanted to kill any and everything that had caused him to become the person he was. The cold unforgiving man he had become.
He knew only fighting but found himself hating it more.
He had killed men before and had been praised for his seemingly inborn talent for life-taking.
The coldness of the arena had shaped his mind. Renewing him and burying him in its frozen, dark depths.
He had tasted darkness and had grown accustomed to it.
Lucia had been kept from knowing the underground battles her father had forced him into.
Tristan had won many legal fights, but the truth was he had more wins from Illegal battles and more than half of them had ended when his opponent stopped breathing.
Only he knew the struggles he went through. Every night he heard the voices of the men he had killed.
Their groans when he sliced their throats open. Their gasps when he crushed their windpipes with his blows.
The cries of agony that ensued when he detached limbs from said men.
He recalled their faces. All of them. Their souls came to torment him each night. He dreaded sleep and often stayed close to the fountain sited behind the mansion.
The rushing of water drowned the voices away and managed to let him sleep. Even at that, he still had nightmares of the men he killed.
He recalled one man in particular. Hugh. Aged twenty-six. He had been dazzling and bodily built. Possessing an air of confidence that bespoke of many such battles he had won.
His presence filled the room and even Tristan acknowledged the blonde-haired man for his looks.
Tristan liked him after a few light verbal exchanges. He had been in such fights many times and was well-known amongst the regulars.
Still, his lightheartedness had seemed utterly untainted by the darkness of what they did.
When Tristan had plunged his blade into Hugh's neck, severing his jugular and crushing his windpipe, causing blood to spill forth, he recalled the slight smile on his opponent's bloodied face.
Hugh had been glad his young opponent won and he lost!
Life has never been the same for Tristan after that point.