The ballroom was eerily silent, the whispers of the crowd lingering like the faint hum of an unspoken storm. Klaus stood tall, his sword lowered, its edge gleaming faintly in the warm glow of the enchanted chandeliers above. Across from him, Caidon knelt, his breathing heavy, his pride shattered as much as his strength.
For a moment, no one moved. The nobles, knights, and dignitaries in attendance seemed frozen in time, their eyes locked on the young swordsman who had just shattered expectations.
Then came the applause.
It started as a hesitant ripple—one clap, then another—until it surged into a wave of thunderous approval. The sound filled the room, reverberating against the vaulted ceilings. Klaus, however, didn't seem to notice. His icy gaze remained fixed on Caidon, who was now clutching his wounded shoulder, his expression a mixture of pain and disbelief.
"You could have killed me," Caidon rasped, his voice barely above a whisper.
