After my match with Edwin, the excitement in the hall crackled like fire in the hearth. The whispers of nobles rose like the rustle of autumn leaves, anticipation curling in the air. Before I could draw another breath, a figure stepped forward from the gathered crowd, his posture as confident as the sun cresting the horizon.
"Will Lord Silvaria grant me the honor of a duel?" he announced, his voice clear and resonant, commanding attention.
The man wore a regal uniform embroidered with a golden dragon, the symbol of the Evereux Imperial Family's elite Golden Dragon Knights. The emblem glimmered as if alive, catching the light and drawing gasps from those closest. He was no mere spectator, but a formidable warrior, a Blue Stage knight with the gleam of Intent sharp in his eyes.
A long, ceremonial sword rested at his side, its hilt adorned with a lion's head, the metal polished to a blinding sheen. The sight stirred an instinctual response in me—a thrum of recognition at facing a true opponent.
I inclined my head, a smile playing on my lips. "It would be an honor."
The knight's expression remained measured, though a flicker of approval lit his eyes. He stepped into the dueling circle, bowing slightly, as was custom, before announcing himself. "I am Sir Everwood of the Golden Dragon Knights, in service to the Evereux Imperial Family."
A ripple of murmurs followed his introduction, the gathered nobles leaning forward, eager to witness the clash between the young heir of Silvaria and one of the empire's most esteemed knights. The dueling grounds, etched with ancient runes of resilience and fortitude, seemed to hum as if recognizing the gravity of the match.
We took our positions, the distance between us charged with expectation. The air grew thick, holding its breath as we readied ourselves.
Sir Everwood shifted his stance, the weight of a seasoned swordsman evident in the poised elegance of his frame. His longsword slid from its sheath with a resonant whisper, catching the glow of the lanterns and reflecting it in sharp arcs. He raised it in salute, eyes meeting mine with the steady gaze of one who had faced countless battles.
I returned the gesture, leveling my spear, its tip aligned with the center of his chest. The haft felt warm, familiar, as if it too sensed the challenge ahead.
The moment hung suspended, each heartbeat stretching longer than the last. And then, with a nod from the officiant, the silence shattered, giving way to the symphony of steel and intent.
Both of us moved as if propelled by the crackling tension of the room. Without hesitation, we let our weapons ignite with the glow of aura, each blade and spear tip shrouded in a shimmering, otherworldly light. The air between us crackled with energy, humming with the anticipation of watching intent meet steel.
This battle was a different beast entirely from my earlier duel with Edwin. Sir Everwood was seasoned, his aura a honed edge that spoke of decades of training and battles etched into memory. His strikes came fast and precise, the longsword carving arcs of light through the charged air. Each swing was calculated, imbued with the confident power of a warrior who had tested himself on countless fields.
He was my equal in mana stage, and his advantage in age lent him longer limbs, a greater reach, and the muscle of maturity. Yet, victory was not something I could surrender so easily. I watched him with eyes sharpened by experience beyond my years, observing the way his muscles tensed before each lunge, the subtle shift in his footing before he attempted a feint. The spear in my hands felt alive, an extension of my will, responding with a familiarity earned through countless hours of practice.
We exchanged a series of blows, the clash of aura blades ringing out like the song of an ancient forge. The floor beneath us, reinforced by runes, quivered with the force of our strikes. The gathered nobles held their collective breath, the glow of the lanterns flickering as if moved by the tempo of our duel.
Sir Everwood's brow furrowed as I began to use the one advantage that even age could not match: my vision and footwork. My movements were fluid, almost playful, a dance perfected through endless practice. Each step was a note in a silent symphony, each shift of my weight a prelude to the spear's song. Where his longsword swept wide, cutting paths of sheer force, my spear darted in narrow strikes, probing for weaknesses, drawing him in only to slip away at the last moment.
He pressed forward, determined to corner me, but I was already gone, weaving just outside the reach of his blade. The frustration flickered in his eyes, just for a heartbeat, as he realized that no matter how fiercely he attacked, my movements remained a step ahead. I let him think he had an opening, his longsword slicing toward my side in a controlled arc. In that split second, I spun, shifting my weight, and my spear slipped beneath his guard, tapping his chest with the lightest touch of aura-coated steel.
The room fell silent, the only sound the faint echo of the last strike still hanging in the air. Sir Everwood's eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he nodded, a smile breaking through his otherwise stoic expression.
"It seems the stories don't do you justice, Lord Lancelot," he said, a touch of admiration in his voice as he lowered his sword in acknowledgment.
I inclined my head, respect tinged with triumph in the gesture. "Thank you, Sir Everwood. It was an honor."
Applause burst forth from the spectators, a wave of noise that seemed to shake the very walls. I met my mother's eyes across the room, and her nod was subtle but proud, a recognition of the path I was beginning to carve.
"Let us conclude with the duels for now," my mother declared, her voice cutting smoothly through the clamor of the hall. The announcement caught me by surprise, though I masked it quickly. In truth, there was wisdom in her decision. Pushing myself further would mean revealing more of my abilities than I intended, and that was a card I preferred to keep close to my chest.
"Brilliantly done, brother!" Celia bounded towards me, eyes alight as she wrapped her arms around me in an exuberant embrace.
"Thanks, Celia," I replied, a chuckle escaping as I pinched her cheek gently, earning a pout in return. Her crimson eyes, so full of joy, reminded me that for all the ambition in this room, there were simple things worth protecting.
"Nice to meet you, Lady Celia and Lord Lancelot. Congratulations on turning ten years old," came a voice as smooth as a harp's string, elegant and lilting.
We turned in unison to the source. There stood the twin princesses, their presence unmistakable. Golden hair framed their youthful, noble faces, adorned with the subtle marks of imperial heritage. Their gowns shimmered like woven moonlight, and though they shared the same fair looks, their demeanors were as different as sun and shadow.
Celia and I bowed with practiced precision. "We greet Your Highness, the Crown Princess, and Your Highness, the Second Princess," our voices chimed together, respectful and unwavering.
Aurora, the Second Princess, lifted her hand with a smile as warm as spring rain. "Please, be at ease," she said, her tone light enough to dispel the formality around us.
Despite their mirrored elegance, my eyes lingered on Rachel, the Crown Princess. There was something in the way she stood—a subtle, unyielding confidence that commanded attention without demand. She was no mere ornament of the court, no gilded symbol with little substance. Rachel Vasillias Evereux was the living flame of the empire, the keystone around which power and ambition circled.
It was said that the Imperial Family, once faltering under the weight of complacency, had found its savior in her. While whispers spoke of the emperor's dwindling influence, Rachel's rise had rekindled the empire's strength. Her acumen and fierce competence had outshone her sister's gentler charms and secured her the title of Crown Princess. The empire, which had teetered dangerously close to being overshadowed by the Archdukedom of Ardenfall and even our own Grand Duchy of Silvaria, found its footing again under the shadow of her ambition.
"Your feats today were impressive," Rachel said, her voice carrying a quiet power, eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that seemed to peel back the layers of pretense. There was a flicker of appraisal, sharp and discerning.
"Thank you, Your Highness," I replied, my own voice steady, tempered steel against the warm fire of her gaze.
Aurora's smile grew, the light catching in her eyes. "You've made your family proud today, Lord Lancelot. And you, Lady Celia, your joy is infectious."
Celia's cheeks flushed with a pink that rivaled the bloom of spring roses, and she bobbed her head in shy acknowledgment.
The conversation flowed like a river—polite, with eddies of genuine curiosity, yet always with an undercurrent of strategy. Rachel spoke sparingly, each word chosen like a piece on a chessboard, while Aurora's warmth filled the spaces in between with ease.
But as the evening wore on and the nobles dispersed to indulge in the feast and festivities, the echo of Rachel's gaze stayed with me. The young Crown Princess, already the heart of a reign yet to come, had fixed her attention upon me.