pride.

"This is a terrible idea," Lynn hissed in Damian's ear. "Titus is twice the fighter I am, and you haven't beaten me once!"

"I don't care." 

Damian unbuttoned his jacket and threw it onto a wooden bench. His fingers shook from a mixture of anger and adrenaline. 

"That man—your brother—insulted me, my father, and my crown. I cannot let that stand, or I have no right to be the future king."

"Titus could kill you!"

"Somehow I don't think murder is on your brother's mind today. Clearly he wants to humiliate me, and he might, but I will not allow anyone—not even the clergy—to rake my father's name through the mud. And when we're done here, you and I are going to have a nice long chat about your family members."

Damian brushed Lynn off and stepped into the sandy arena of the Cathedral's training hall. 

Though regular sand might melt into glass from the Flame, the black sands that filled the 100-square-foot room were, in fact, fine grains of metal. The clergy claimed the grains were the results of a century's effort grinding at just a single link of the Angel of the Flame's chains. Thus, the specialized dueling pit made for a unique combat arena where the Flame's powers could be wielded.

Damian took his duelist's stance, resting low in his hips, one hand raised with two fingers upright. Across from him, Titus Brightwell threw off his outer robes, his metal chains rattling loudly. Uncloaked, the man was even larger and thicker than Damian had suspected.

Titus cracked his knuckles menacingly. The man was built like a gorilla—forget heavenly Blessings, he could easily snap Damian's spine in half from raw strength alone. Having magic powers on top of that was simply unfair.

"Are both parties ready to commence?" 

Obediah stood off to one side, in the very middle between the combatants. He would act as the impartial umpire for the match, although Damian wasn't convinced the old man was completely unbiased.

Still, nothing to do about that now except fight for my honor.

"This is a duel between Flame-blessed, and as such, sanctioned by the Holy Order of the Flame in the name of the Angel Themselves. The winner shall be determined by yielding, or when the other combatant cannot continue. I shall offer the finest of healing to both parties after the duel, without bias for the victor. This completes the oaths of the Bishop Overseer. Please state your assent."

"Damian!" Lynn hissed, more urgently than before. "Please, just apologize for slapping him, and—"

"And ignore what he said about me and my father? I may not have much, but I still have my pride. Your Eminence Obediah, I assent!"

Titus gave a short, bark-like laugh. 

"Come, little prince, show me that you're not all dainty slaps and pretty words. I assent!"

Obediah nodded to each combatant in turn.

"By the power of the Flame, this duel shall—commence!"

"Aspect of Wrath Unleashed, Mace of the Angel!" 

Titus roared his invocation and leaped off his starting position. 

With just three strides, he'd reached the center of the arena. Flame burst from his arms, writing around in intricate chains, before coalescing into a flaming mace with a spiked head. Each spike was wreathed in Flame, sending out a pulse of energy that shifted the iron sands and rippled Damian's clothes.

Shit, he's fast!

Damian flicked his fingers downwards and summoned the power of the Flame hidden deep within his soul. A familiar wave of heat rippled through his veins, expelled through his fingers as he forced the Angel's power into shape with the bellowing cry:

"Aspect of Vigor Unknown, Shield of the Angel!"

Heat burst from his fingertips, blooming into hundreds of long, flaming feathers. The feathers weaved themselves together, forming a shield in midair, heat waves shimmering from the blazing wingtips.

"Not good enough!" Titus shouted, bearing down upon Damian.

"A battle between Flame-blessed is not won by conventional strength. The victor is decided by their faith in the Angel, their belief in the Blessing, and the conviction of their heart."

Such were the words of the previous Captain of the Flameguard who had instructed Damian in the arts of the Flame. Damian poured all of his strength into the shield, willing the shield to hold—

—Titus's mace slammed into the shield, creating a backdraft of scorching wind. 

For the briefest moment, the defenses held, and then—

—the feathers cracked, fractured, and—

—shattered entirely.

The resulting explosion threw Damian back twenty feet. 

He slammed into the ground, all breath forced from his lungs. He heard Lynn shout his name, but his ears were ringing, the world a blurry mess of color and sound. He rolled sideways, scrabbling for purchase in the iron sand, his hands coming away bloodied and flecked with grit.

"Pathetic!" 

Titus held his mace over his shoulder, the Blessing protecting him from the damage of his own weapon. 

"Exactly what I thought. You're just a pauper prince without an ounce of the Angel's Blessing. How could you possibly be fit to lead this kingdom?"

Damian stumbled upright and spat blood onto the ground. He glanced at Obediah to confirm the battle was still continuing, and then resumed his duelist's stance.

"Come on, Titus! I won't yield to a little shit like you! Aspect of Wrath Unleashed, Thorn of the Angel!"

Heat rushed through his limbs again. Flaming chains exploded from his arm, writhing around his wrist, coalescing into a small dagger in his right hand. This was, shamefully, his strongest weapon—the most that he could channel from the Angel's Aspect of Wrath. The battle arts of the Angel were the most difficult to yield, yet the most important for any warrior of the Flame.

Titus cackled when he saw the tiny dagger, barely three inches long.

"All those rumors about the 'playboy prince.' Guess you leave the women disappointed with that tiny prick, huh?"

Titus didn't give Damian an opportunity to respond to the crude remark. The Bishop had already lunged forward, the heavy mace leaving a contrail of flames billowing through the air.

As Titus swung downwards, Damian threw himself to the side, using the advantage of Titus's momentum to blindside him—

Titus twisted and slammed the mace into Damian's side.

The Angel's wrathful heat scorched straight through his shirt and seared his flesh; the impact sent him tumbling to the ground, rolling several times over. Grains of iron sand rubbed into the wound, and he screamed in pain. His vision swam, and he gasped for air. Unable to maintain his faith, the dagger vanished into a handful of embers, soon extinguished in the cold air.

"Absolutely pathetic," Titus snarled, standing over Damian's prone form. "Didn't your master ever tell you? Angelic weapons don't have momentum. If you practiced with Angelic weapons, not wooden ones, you'd know that. But when all you can do is summon cheap shit like that, you wouldn't know how a proper weapon feels, would you?"

Damian groaned in agony. He'd never been struck with an Angelic weapon before—his wound was still burning, as though the Angel Themselves was searing the insides of his stomach. The tattered edges of his shirt smoked like a half-lit cigarette.

"Titus, that's enough!" 

Lynn dashed across the sands and slid to a stop beside Damian, her eyes wide. She took one look at Damian's wound, then glared up at her older brother. 

"Look at this! You've done enough, you've proven your point."

"Captain Brightwell," Obediah called out, a note of warning in his voice, "the duel continues. His Highness can still move, and he has not yielded."

Damian's breath hissed through clenched teeth. He put a forearm on the ground and pushed himself onto all-fours, his side aching with the burning wrath of an Angel.

"Damian, stop, please!" Lynn begged, her voice cracking. "This is enough! If you keep going, Titus will—"

"Lynn, get out of the arena." 

Damian spat blood and saliva onto the sand. He twisted his head to look at Lynn, locks of black hair falling over his face. Her face was contorted in a strange expression—grief and sorrow and disappointment.

She didn't think any better of me than Titus did. Nobody expects anything of me. They all think I'm just some pampered party-going prince, with no power, just riding on my father's coattails until he dies. But I'll show them. I'll show them I can be so much more than that!

Damian staggered upright and wiped a hand over his mouth. His footing was unsteady, and the seared flesh of his side sent lances of agony through his body. But still, he would not yield, not to this asshole of a bishop.

"I am… the Crown Prince… of Sidralis. If I… yield… to the likes of you… then I am no prince… and surely no king!"

Damian took his duelist's stance for the third time. A flicker of admiration crossed Titus's face.

The bishop laughed, grinning wide.

"Now that's more like it! You heard the good prince, sister. Get out of the way and let us settle things like men."

Lynn refused to move, her hands tightly clenched by her sides.

"Settle things like men? This is no better than back-alley brawling, and you know it! Your skills are vastly outmatched—"

"—Captain Brightwell. There can be no third party in the duel. Please leave the arena, or I will remove you myself."

Obediah's commanding voice offered no room for argument. Lynn hesitated, her boots grinding into the iron sands. She looked at Damian again, genuine worry filling her eyes.

"Are you sure?"

Her voice was soft, the question gentler than he'd expected. Damian nodded, his head swimming as he did so.

"I might lose the fight, but I won't lose my honor."

Lynn swallowed, her throat bobbing up and down. She nodded sharply and stepped past Damian, taking up a position just behind him on the outside of the iron sands.

Titus twirled his mace, creating a whorl of flames.

"Looks like you ain't got more than another fall in you, Your Highness. You really want to keep this up?"

"If I fall for my kingdom, I fall with honor." 

Titus's eyes narrowed. 

"Honor this, honor that. I'm getting sick of hearing you talk. Let's finish this!"