fall.

Titus lunged, his flaming mace slamming towards Damian.

It was all the prince could do to keep out of reach, dancing sideways and backwards, avoiding each blow by just a few inches. Since the mace had no weight, Titus was able to pivot in response, his follow-up attacks ripping through the air with a fierce crackle.

He's getting sloppy.

"Just! Stay! Still!"

Titus growled angrily, each blow more reckless than the last. Damian bobbed and weaved, using Dominic's boxing training to deftly avoid each strike and position his opponent exactly where he needed him.

Just a little more…

"Stop… RUNNING!"

Enraged, Titus gave a monstrous bellow and lunged, his mace slamming vertically towards Damian.

This is it!

The attack was the same as the first—a powerful lunge designed to throw off an opponent who was used to fighting with physical weapons. All of Titus' attacks so far had exploited that unique deficiency in Damian's training—but repeating attacks only gave Damian time to figure out a new strategy. 

Rather than dodge sideways, where Titus could produce the follow-up attack he clearly expected to make, Damian leaped forward, past Titus's mace. 

The bishop twisted around, surprised, but that single moment was all Damian needed.

"Aspect of Power Contained, Cinder—Cluster—Burst!"

A child's invocation, the very same he used to ignite Leon's cigarette.

So basic that it was usually a Voiceless Invocation, Damian had given true form to the humble Cinder by invoking the Angel's Aspect. 

Heat burst forth from Damian's outstretched hand, manifesting the commonplace Cinders—but his invocation had contained an additional command. The Angel's power obeyed his instructions, and the Cinders combusted.

A wave of heavenly heat slammed into Titus' back, sending him stumbling forward and—

"—Combatant has left the ring!" 

Obediah raised one hand to the sky. 

"Duelist Titus Brightwell is disqualified by forced fault. Victory goes to His Royal Highness, Damian Roswald!"

"What the hell?!"

Titus roared in anger as he realized what Damian's petty trick had accomplished. 

By evading all those attacks, Damian had lured his opponent to the boundary of the arena—and with a gentle push of heavenly energy, knocked him out of the iron sands and onto the stone floor of the Cathedral.

Irate, Titus stormed back into the arena, kicking up black sand around his heels.

"You dirty little princeling! That was a cheap shot, and you know it. You're too cowardly to fight me like a real man! I'm going to—"

Titus raised his flaming mace, but before he could carry through with his threat, both Obediah and Lynn had reached him and seized his wrists. 

"Enough, Bishop," Obediah said sternly. "His Highness fought a clean, legal battle. You were overpowered against him, and he exploited a weakness."

"Exploiting weaknesses is the work of the Deep!"

Titus' eyes bulged, and a vein pulsed in his forehead. He tried to wrench free of Obediah's grasp, but the older man held on with surprising strength. The senior bishop spoke with a stern, commanding voice.

"I will not tolerate baseless slander against a child of the Flame, not in my cathedral. You go too far, Titus. Now release your Blessing so I may tend to the prince's wounds."

Titus stared Obediah down, his nostrils flared. For a moment, Damian thought Titus might turn against the older bishop, but then he relented and extinguished his mace in a shower of embers.

"Let go of me," Titus muttered. 

He twisted free from Lynn and Obediah, and stalked a few paces away.

"Heed my words, little princeling." 

Titus turned and pointed a finger squarely at Damian. 

"Sooner or later, the Order will test your worth as king. And when that time comes, you'd better have more than cheap tricks up your sleeve."

Titus stormed out of the arena, heavy doors slamming shut behind him.

***

It took an hour for Bishop Obediah to heal Damian's wounds. 

When Obediah passed his hands over Damian's side for the last time, the wound had completely healed, as though it never existed. Unfortunately, the damage to Damian's shirt could not be repaired by the Angel's Blessing, so the prince threw his jacket back on to hide the scorched hole.

"I fear that our meeting has been rather disrupted by that incident. It's almost time for midday mass, and I cannot abandon my flock. I hope you understand."

"Of course, Your Eminence. I'll have my people arrange another time. And—thank you."

Damian didn't specify exactly what he was thankful for, but it seemed like the bishop understood. Obediah nodded respectfully to Damian, and then looked at Lynn, who hovered behind Damian like a worried parent.

"Captain Brightwell, I am sorry you had to witness such a disgrace. Truly, I regret that I allowed Bishop Titus to get himself so worked up."

"No, the fault is mine, Your Eminence. My older brother has always had a terrible temper. I should have intervened sooner."

"Perhaps. But the Angel did not grant us powers with no intention of using them. Sometimes, there are battles that can only be fought by comparing our faiths—not in the Angel, but our faith in ourselves."

"Hardly the sage advice I would expect from a holy man," Damian remarked, surprised.


"Your Highness, you may find, in time, that not all men of the cloth are the same. I have said enough, for now—I must attend mass. Please, see yourselves out when you're ready. Or you can stay for the sermon, if you wish."

Damian twisted in his seat, grumbling at the slight twinge in his back. Obediah might have healed the largest wound, but Damian had still suffered a battering, and he'd yet to recover from his hangover or his hunger. It was high time he returned to the Palace and had the maids prepare something for lunch.

"We'll be returning to Rossheim," Lynn said smoothly, interpreting her liege's silence correctly. "Thank you for your patronage, Your Eminence."

"Anything for the Captain of the Flameguard. And stay safe, Your Highness."

With that, Bishop Obediah departed, leaving Lynn and Damian alone. The silence that followed felt oppressive, and Damian could feel the captain grinding her teeth, chewing on words she didn't voice.

Unable to suffer the silence any longer, Damian gave an awkward cough.

"Well… That went better than expected?"

"You absolute idiot!" 

Lynn exploded, her blue eyes piercing him with her most dangerous look yet. 

"I told you my brother was dangerous, yet you still fought him anyway! Do you have a death wish?!"

"Hey, I won, didn't I?"

"By a technicality! If the fight had gone on any longer, Bishop Obediah would've had to intervene!"

Damian gave Lynn his most charming smile, the one that usually won over noble ladies and pretty maids.

"I'm sure my knight in shining armor would've come to my aid before that. You certainly looked the part standing up to your brother, you know. Quite dashing, I must say."

Lynn made a gurgling noise in the back of her throat, and her cheeks flushed red.

"Th-that's—I'm just doing my duty! Ugh! Come! We're leaving now."

Damian chuckled to himself as he trailed after Lynn. Dozens of worshippers were already slipping through the open doors of the Cathedral, filing into the pews to hear the good word from the Bishop. Damian and Lynn slipped past the crowd and emerged into the crisp air of a winter's day. 

As the car pulled away, Damian glimpsed a strange sight through the windows. 

For just a moment—a scarce few seconds—he thought he saw black-robed figures in white masks. But then the phantom image was gone, replaced by the crowded streets whipping past.

"Starting to see things," Damian muttered to himself. He settled back into the seat and closed his eyes.

The midday bells tolled.

TWELVE HOURS BEFORE THE DEATH OF DAMIAN ROSWALD