The Happiest Moment

Kameya was the oldest City-State in all of Cordia, its name whispered with reverence across the Principalities. Legends said it was not merely guarded by its towering white stone walls but by Patzrech, the wolfen spirit of the ancestors, who roamed the city's heart. Few dared to enter without invitation, for its warriors, though dwindling in number, were known as the most dangerous Cordia had ever produced. What Jerald had suggested was nothing short of madness—defying the very ancestors who shaped their realm.

Both Ing and Sylvan froze in place.

Ing, ever pragmatic, broke the silence. "My Prince, surely if you intend to commit treason against the Principality of Cordia, then a Kuraokami bodyguard would serve you better. You have our loyalty, our skill. While I do not doubt Sylvan, he is—" Ing hesitated, glancing briefly at the Ulvmen. His hesitation said more than his words: Sylvan is not one of us.

Sylvan felt no insult; he could not help but agree. The Kuraokami dedicated their entire lives to the blade, training in martial discipline until every strike was perfection. They lived for combat. Sylvan, on the other hand, was a soldier, a captain of men who commanded through grit and cunning. He fought not with art but with survival in mind. This mission—whatever Jerald was planning—seemed better suited for the Kuraokami elite.

Jerald, however, remained resolute. "Hush, Ing. I have chosen."

Sylvan's instinct was to argue, but Jerald's expression allowed no debate. Resigned, Sylvan bowed his head. "It will be done, my Prince."

"Good." The word was curt, final, and left no room for further discussion.

The conversation dissolved into silence as the hunting party approached the city of Tuvat. Even from a distance, its grandeur was undeniable. Jerald's banner—the crossed axe and hammer, symbolizing strength and labor—fluttered in the icy winds above the gates. The white stone walls gleamed under the winter sun, a defiant bastion against the snow that sought to bury it. Tuvat was a city of fire and stone, built atop steaming rivers that refused to freeze, their warmth flowing into hot springs scattered throughout the landscape.

Inside the gates, cobblestone streets glowed in the flickering light of countless torches. Shadows danced upon vibrantly painted houses, their colors a cheerful contrast to the bleak surroundings. The towering watchtowers, always manned, loomed protectively over the bustling streets. Tuvat was a city of prosperity, second only to the capital as an economic hub of the Principalities. But it was not just wealth that defined Tuvat—it was its martial legacy. This was a city of warriors, a place where soldiers were forged as surely as the weapons they wielded.

As the hunting party entered, a wave of celebration swept through the city. Songs and laughter erupted in every corner, and the people of Tuvat—rugged and hearty—danced without restraint. The rhythmic pounding of drums echoed through the streets, and the air grew thick with the savory scent of roasting boar.

When the party finally reached the grand fire at the center of the city square, the real festivities began. The massive boar, its skin glistening as it rotated on the spit, was presented as an offering to Shorian, the fox spirit of mischief who had stolen the great axe of Cordian legend.

Marius, the Grand Prince, clapped his hands together, commanding the attention of all. "Before we feast, I think we should make this a true Cordian celebration."

Jerald, seated nearby, raised an eyebrow. "Grand Prince?"

"I mean that we should honor our ancestors properly—with a duel," Marius declared, his voice booming over the murmurs of the crowd. His grin was sly as he scanned the gathering. "Let us see the best of Tuvat prove their worth."

"That is unnecessary," Jerald began, his tone edged with irritation, but Ing, ever eager to prove himself, interrupted.

"We should listen to the Grand Prince. The men of Tuvat know who the best among us is." He motioned to himself and Sylvan, a slight smirk tugging at his lips.

Jerald sighed, clearly exasperated, but the cheers of the crowd drowned out any further protest. Ing turned to Sylvan, his voice teasing but sharp. "Come now, Sylvan. Surely you would like to see who is truly favored by the ancestors? It has been years since we fought in earnest."

Sylvan glanced at Jerald, silently asking for guidance. Jerald's expression was weary but resigned. With a slight nod, he gave his approval. There was no escaping this now.

Rising from their seats, Sylvan and Ing made their way to the open space before the fire. The warmth of the hot springs mixed with the frigid winter air, creating a surreal mist that swirled around their feet. Sylvan's heart was steady, his breaths slow. He had fought Ing many times before, always with the same result. Ing was better with a blade. This duel would end no differently.

Marius, watching with barely contained glee, announced, "A Kuraokami and an Ulvmen captain—I know who my coin is on."

"You might be surprised, Grand Prince," Jerald muttered under his breath.

The two men faced each other, the crackling fire casting flickering shadows across their features. Sylvan's blade, shorter than most, glinted in the firelight. Ing's weapon—a full-length sword—was sleek and deadly, an extension of the man himself.

Sylvan narrowed his eyes. "Why are you doing this, Ing?"

"Is it not obvious?" Ing replied with a cocky smile. "Prince Jerald forgets our worth. I merely wish to remind him."

Sylvan said nothing more. There was no need. The crowd quieted as Marius raised his hand. "Let the duel begin."

The sharp clap of his hands rang out, and Ing moved first, his sword slicing downward in a brutal arc. Sylvan's smaller blade met it with a metallic clang, deflecting the blow. Ing's speed was impressive—his follow-up strike came in a horizontal slash meant to cleave Sylvan in two.

But Sylvan did the unexpected. Instead of retreating, he stepped into Ing's guard, closing the gap between them. Using his left arm, he blocked the sword's hilt while ramming his knee into Ing's chest with brutal force. The Kuraokami staggered, his breath knocked out of him.

Sylvan didn't stop. He tackled Ing to the ground, the snow exploding around them. Ing tried to thrust his blade upward, but Sylvan's gauntleted fist crashed into his face, sending blood spraying into the snow. The duel devolved into a brawl, and the crowd roared with approval.

Sylvan's strikes came relentlessly, each one heavier than the last. Ing struggled beneath him, but Sylvan pinned his sword arm to the ground, wrenching the weapon free. He tossed it aside, his breath heaving in the cold air.

"You always had to be better at everything," Sylvan snarled, his voice thick with years of pent-up frustration. "Maybe Jerald saw you for what you really are."

Ing, bloodied and dazed, still managed to rise. His body swayed, but his eyes burned with defiance. "I cannot lose," he rasped. "I will not lose."

Sylvan took a step back, watching as Ing staggered forward. The man's determination was admirable, if foolish. Ing was a perfectionist, a swordsman who fought by the book. But perfection had no place in the chaos of the battlefield.

"Stay down, Ing," Sylvan warned, his tone low and dangerous. "Before I thrash you again."

For a moment, it seemed Ing might press on. But his body betrayed him, crumpling to the ground before he could take another step. The crowd erupted into cheers, and Marius clapped with delight.

"Well fought!" the Grand Prince declared. "It seems I owe you a fair amount of resin, Jerald."

Sylvan barely heard him. He stood motionless, staring up at the falling snow. For the first time in his life, he had bested Ing. The years of rivalry, of being overshadowed, of feeling lesser—they all culminated in this single moment. It was the happiest day of his life, a brief calm before the storm of destiny that awaited him.

Sylvan finished recounting the story to the children, his voice trailing off as the memories faded. They sat wide-eyed, their awe almost palpable. He smiled faintly and rose to his feet.

"Enough stories for now," he said. "I have dinner with the Red Reaper and the Silver Huntress."

The children groaned in protest, begging for just one more tale. But Sylvan shook his head, his smile tinged with melancholy. It was good to reminisce, to relive the better days, but the present always loomed. As he walked to the door, he pushed the memories aside, leaving them behind like footprints in the snow.

For him, it was no longer a victory. Just a story to tell by the fire. Nothing more.