Chapter Eleven: The Duel Begins

The hush over the dueling ground was thick with tension. The assembled nobility, guards, and common onlookers formed a broad circle around the field, their whispers barely audible beneath the dull hum of anticipation. The old dueling grounds, just outside the king's barracks, had hosted countless battles of honor before. Today, it would host another.

Raymond stood at the center, his breathing measured, his heartbeat steady. The morning air was crisp, but his skin burned with the lingering aches of past wounds. He was injured, not broken. He had fought through worse. He rolled his shoulders, testing his body, gauging the tightness in his side. The stitches would hold—for now.

Across from him, Dorian Valner was the picture of nobility: broad-shouldered, clad in a finely wrought dueling harness, a black and crimson tabard draped over steel. He carried himself with the arrogance of a man who had never known true struggle. Raymond had seen his type before—warriors trained in the safety of gilded halls, drilled in controlled environments, praised as prodigies without ever facing the terror of a real battlefield.

Dorian, however, had strength. His grip on his sword was sure, his stance firm. Raymond would not underestimate him.

The herald stepped forward, his voice ringing clear. "By the decree of the noble courts and under the laws of honor, this duel shall be fought between Raymond of House Lorien and Dorian of House Valner. The terms are to first yield or death."

A murmur ran through the crowd. There had been no clarification on whether surrender would be accepted. Raymond doubted Dorian intended to let him live, even if he yielded.

The herald continued, "Let all present bear witness. May steel determine the righteous." He stepped back.

A beat of silence.

Then, Dorian lunged.

Raymond barely had time to raise his sword before Dorian's attack slammed against his guard. The force shuddered through his arms, his ribs aching in protest. Dorian pressed forward, battering his blade against Raymond's in rapid succession—a brutal, overwhelming offensive designed to break his stance.

But Raymond did not break.

He absorbed the blows, moving fluidly, redirecting rather than resisting outright. This was the difference between a battlefield fighter and a dueling hall champion. Dorian sought to overpower him. Raymond sought to outlast him.

Dorian fainted high, attempting to drive Raymond's blade up—a mistake. Raymond read the shift in his footwork, saw the way his weight pivoted too far forward. In an instant, he stepped inside the arc of the attack, tilting his blade downward in a swift parry.

A textbook counter.

Dorian's balance faltered for half a second—a half-second too long.

Raymond struck.

His blade lashed out in a quick, brutal riposte, the edge slicing a thin line across Dorian's forearm. A small wound, but a wound nonetheless. The crowd gasped. First blood.

Dorian stepped back, lips curling in fury as he glanced at the red beading on his sleeve. Humiliation flashed across his face.

"You bastard," Dorian spat.

Raymond remained silent. Letting him seethe.

Dorian came at him harder. His swings were no longer measured but furious, each blow faster than the last. Raymond could feel the exhaustion creeping in, the pain in his ribs flaring with every pivot. But he had spent lifetimes enduring pain. He had spent lifetimes learning to fight despite it.

When Dorian swung low, Raymond countered with a winding maneuver, catching the noble's blade with his own and twisting it aside. The technique was brutal in its simplicity—a bind that forced control away from the enemy.

Dorian growled. He disengaged and immediately threw his weight forward again, abandoning all pretense of technique. He was fighting on instinct now, and that was dangerous. Not for Raymond, but for himself.

A shift in stance. A low feint.

Raymond knew the move—it was a predictable nobleman's trick. When Dorian surged forward, aiming a thrust for his exposed side, Raymond sidestepped at the last possible second.

Dorian's blade struck only air.

And in that moment of overextension, Raymond punished him.

A sharp pommel strike to the jaw.

The crack of impact was audible. Dorian staggered, vision swimming, his footing unsteady. Raymond followed through, kicking the noble's leg out from under him.

Dorian hit the ground with a heavy thud.

The duel should have ended there.

But Dorian was too proud for surrender.

With a snarl, he lashed out, one last desperate act—a dagger drawn from his belt, flashing toward Raymond's midsection.

Raymond saw it too late.

Pain. A searing slice across his ribs as the blade cut shallow but deep enough to draw blood. The sudden shock of it sent white-hot agony lancing through him.

Raymond inhaled sharply, then—without hesitation—stamped his boot down onto Dorian's wrist, pinning him.

A slow silence settled over the field.

Dorian groaned beneath him, chest heaving, the dagger trapped beneath Raymond's heel. The only thing keeping it from driving deeper into his side.

The crowd held its breath.

Raymond leaned down, pressing more weight onto Dorian's wrist, his blade hovering just above his opponent's throat.

"Yield," Raymond murmured. A demand, not a request.

Dorian's lips pulled back in a silent snarl, his pride warring with reality. But reality had already won.

His dagger clattered to the ground.

"I yield," he spat, voice barely above a whisper.

The silence broke with an eruption of noise. Some jeered, some cheered, others simply stood, stunned.

Raymond lifted his boot, stepping back. Blood ran warm down his side, but he remained standing. He had won.

And Dorian Valner would never forget it.

The herald's voice rang out, declaring Raymond victorious. The duel was over.

Ethan was already rushing toward him, eyes scanning the fresh wound at Raymond's side. "You're an idiot," he muttered under his breath, but there was relief in his tone.

Raymond chuckled weakly. "Did you bet against me?"

Ethan snorted. "Not this time."

The Valner entourage had already gathered around Dorian, lifting him to his feet. His face was a mask of fury and humiliation, his lips tight with the effort of not lashing out again.

Raymond met his glare evenly. There would be no words here. Only the understanding that things had irrevocably changed.

As he turned away, Ethan steadying him slightly, Raymond exhaled.

The duel was done.

But the war had only begun.