Chapter 13: Across the Battlefield

Sparks flew as their swords clashed. Lucien sidestepped just in time, but Rhyse anticipated his movement, pivoting swiftly to send a heavy kick toward his midsection.

Lucien barely blocked it with his arm, the impact forcing him back a few steps. The crowd let out a cheer, but the strategist only grinned.

"Not bad," Lucien admitted, shaking out his arm. "But, predictable."

With a flick of his wrist, he shifted his grip on his sword, lowering his stance. Then, in a blur of movement, he retaliated. Rhyse barely managed to block as Lucien's strikes came fast and unpredictable, every movement designed to keep his opponent guessing. He was forcing Rhyse to react, controlling the tempo of the fight.

At the edge of the arena, Fedric observed, dutifully noting every shift in stance, every misstep. He quietly jotted down his observations, preparing to give each knight their review after the match.

At the sidelines, Azriel stood tall. Clad in a pristine white robe, the golden insignia of Eryndor embroidered upon his chest, his presence alone commanded a silent authority. His expression was unreadable, but his sharp eyes remained fixed on the battle ahead. Though he did not comment, his piercing gaze missed nothing.

Beside him, Gareth Macreau watched with mild interest, his arms crossed. "Rhyse is pushing too hard," he muttered. "He needs to stop playing into Lucien's hands."

Carlis Renard, the youngest Elite Captain in the circle, leaned lazily against a wooden post with a smirk. "Tsk. I told him already—his skills have gone blunt," he lamented, shaking his head. "The mighty Rhyse Landon, struggling against a mere tactician. What a tragedy."

Gareth scoffed. "A mere tactician? Lucien fights like a fox. You know that better than anyone."

Carlis grinned. "I know, I know. But it's more fun to gloat."

As the battle raged on, Rowan entered with the ladies, guiding them to a Vintage point. Unlike the eager knights, few noticed their arrival. All eyes locked onto the sparring.

Celestine, ever the excitable one, whispered, "Oh my, what a thrilling sight."

Rosellene followed her eyes to the arena ahead, watching with keen interest.

The maids giggled, clearly enjoying the spectacles as the fight continued.

"Oh? You've grown sluggish, Rhyse," Lucien tweeted.

Rhyse snorted, adjusting his stance. "I don't waste my energy on words, unlike some."

Lucien laughed, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "No wonder you lose so often. Strategy, my dear friend, is not just about brute force."

The air was alive with the clash of steel, the golden glow of light energy radiating from both captains as they fought with all they had. It was a sight to behold–a battle of strength and wit.

Rhyse, unwavering, found an opening. With a swift, decisive movement, he deflected Lucien's blade, forcing him to retreat. His footwork was steady, each step closing the distance. Then, in a powerful arc, his sword sliced through the air—Lucien barely managed to block, but the sheer force sent him skidding backward.

Before Lucien could recover, Rhyse was upon him, his blade pressed just inches from his throat.

Silence.

The arena erupted in cheers.

Lucien let out a breath before he grins, raising his hand in surrender. "Fine, you win."

Rhyse lowered his sword, offering a rare smirk. "Brute strength wins again, I suppose."

Lucien sighed dramatically. "This time."

The knights clap, the tension in the air dissipating into camaraderie.

The match had ended, but the excitement lingered. The arena was still alive with energy, the thrill of battle leaving its mark on all who had witnessed it.

The wind carried the crisp scent of fresh earth and steel, mingling with the sweat of warriors and the heated energy swirling through the arena as the next battle commenced, drawing renewed excitement from the watching knights.

The clash of swords rang through the arena as two knights engaged in a fierce bout, their weapons glowing faintly with the power of light. Bursts of energy crackled through the air as the knights exchanged fierce blows.

The crowd roared with enthusiasm, their cheers rising and falling with every masterful strike and well-timed parry.

Amidst the roars of the spectators and the heated exchange of combat, Azriel observed the battle with unwavering focus, his shrewd eyes followed each movement.

And then as naturally as the wind itself, his gaze was pulled elsewhere.

A figure stood at the far end of the crowd, bathed in the golden glow of the sun, her presence undeniable even at a distance. Rosellene Valentine.

The gentle breeze played with the loose strands of her dark hair as though nature itself sought to adorn her. Even in a place dominated by warriors, where blood and battle took precedence, she was dazzling.

There was a valley of people and the vast arena that stretched between them, yet his eyes found her with an ease that unsettled him.

And when she felt the weight of his gaze—she looked back.

The battle ahead blurred into insignificance, drawn beneath the silent pull between them. The noise, the cheers, the clashing steel–all faded into the background.

Rosellene's fingers tensed slightly around the handle of her fan. Why did her heart feel this way?

But no matter how much she pretended, the years of torment had left scars she could not erase. The weight of expectations, of rejection had settled deep within her soul. No matter how dazzling she appeared, the inferiority sealed within her heart whispered like a ghost.

And so, she broke the gaze, turning away.

Yet, from time to time, their eyes would find each other again.

A pull she did not understand.

She could barely focus on Celestine's excited commentary about the matches.

"Rosellene, Are you even listening?"

Finally, Celestine nudged her lightly, narrowing her eyes. "What in the world are you daydreaming about?"

Rosellene blinked, snapping out of her thoughts. "Nothing," she replied, her voice smooth, dismissive. "The fight is just… more entertaining than I expected."

Celestine gave her a look of pure skepticism. "Really? You seemed...rather lost in thought."

"I was merely being observant," Rosellene countered with a graceful tilt of her head.

"Mmm." Celestine hummed, unconvinced but unwilling to press further. Lifting a gloved hand to shield her eyes from the midday sun, she sighed. "As thrilling as this has been, I believe my appreciation for battle has limits. It is unbearably hot."

Indeed, as noon approached, the sun climbed higher in the sky and the heat grew more stifling. The knights continued their sparring with unwavering endurance but even the most thrilling of battles couldn't change the fact that noble ladies weren't accustomed to standing in the relentless midday sun.

Celestine fanned herself before reaching out to grab Rosellene's arm. "I can't take it anymore. Elizabeth must be awake by now, and I'm positively starving. Let's eat."

Rosellene gave a small nod, grateful for the excuse to leave.

They turned to Rowan, who had been a polite escort throughout the morning. "Thank you for your hospitality, Sir Rowan," Rosellene said with a polite smile. "We'll take our leave now."

Rowan dipped his head respectfully. "It was my pleasure, my lady. If you ever have any questions or wish to observe training again, I'd be honored to assist you."

With that, he excused himself, returning to his duties as the two ladies and their attendants made their way back toward the temple.

---

The dining hall of the temple was vast yet simple, filled with rows of long wooden tables where the visiting guests and the temple residents dined together. The high ceiling allowed the summer breeze to filter through, offering a reprieve from the midday heat.

The meal was simple and refreshing, in line with the temple's customs, prepared with care but lacking the bold flavors of noble cuisine. Bowls of steaming white rice were placed alongside fresh vegetables, clear broth, and lightly seasoned fish. 

Celestine, upon taking her first bite, looked up at Rosellene.

Rosellene met her gaze.

Their lips twitched.

The silent understanding was immediate.

Elizabeth, who had taken an elegant sip of her soup, also paused.

It wasn't bad–far from it. But compared to the refined, decadent meals they were used to, it was undeniably plain.

Still, they swallowed their first bite, silently accepting their fate.

The maids, however, did not hide their reactions well, their expressions subtly betraying their disappointment.

Elizabeth sighed, stabbing a piece of vegetable with her chopsticks. "I supposed this is a lesson in humility."

Celestine chuckled. "I miss my chef."

Rosellene only smiled to herself, lifting her teacup to her lips. It was strange–this moment of shared amusement, of something so simple yet so familiar.

For once, the weight in her heart felt lighter.

After their meal, the group made their way through the temple grounds. Rosellene held a small bundle of fresh flowers meant for prayer, her fingers absently brushing over their delicate petals that carried the faintest scent of morning dew.

The gentle hum of conversation filled the air, but her mind remained distant, fatigue weighing heavily upon her from the sleepless night.

Behind her, Celestine and Elizabeth were already engaged in yet another heated debate over something entirely trivial, their voices carrying a mixture of playful annoyance and amusement.