A Duel Without Fighting

Chapter 16: A Duel Without Fighting

The Meeting with Lord Duvain

The night air was cold.

Noctis walked the dimly lit corridors of the Umbrael estate, his thoughts sharp and precise as he turned over the implications of Lord Duvain's summons. The meeting was inevitable, but it was the timing that intrigued him. Duvain had waited until now—until the rumors had taken root and Noctis had been acknowledged as a player.

It wasn't a challenge.

It was an assessment.

Duvain wanted to see what Noctis was.

And Noctis intended to show him.

As he stepped out into the moonlit courtyard, his senses sharpened. The cool wind carried a hint of something foreign—not danger, but watchfulness. He was being observed.

Noctis slowed his pace, glancing at the treeline beyond the estate's stone walls. The guards patrolling the perimeter were present but distant—stationed just far enough that they wouldn't interfere.

Intentional.

He wasn't just being watched.

He was being hunted.

Noctis exhaled softly, allowing the world around him to shift.

His perception expanded, tendrils of his awareness spreading outward, tasting the subtle distortions in the air. The flickering torches, the cool bite of the breeze, the faint shift of fabric as someone moved in the shadows.

A presence.

Waiting.

Noctis turned slightly, tilting his head as if listening to the wind. Then, with a mere flicker of thought, he adjusted.

The light around him bent, subtly warping the way shadows stretched across the courtyard. To the untrained eye, nothing changed—but in the mind of his observer, Noctis's position blurred.

An illusion. A ripple in their perception.

A trick of the mind.

For a heartbeat, he was nowhere and everywhere at once.

Then—

A voice. Cold and measured. "If you wish to remain unseen, you should do better."

Silence.

Then, from the shadows between the columns, a figure stepped forward.

Tall. Cloaked in midnight blue.

And masked.

Noctis didn't shift, but he felt the flicker of annoyance from the stranger, a ripple of emotion through the web of perception he had cast. They had realized—too late—that he had noticed them first.

The masked figure was controlled, movements slow and deliberate as they emerged into the moonlight. Not an assassin—at least, not one intent on killing him immediately.

Noctis studied them, hands casually resting at his sides. "And you are?"

The figure said nothing.

Then, in a smooth, practiced motion, they drew a blade.

Moonlight gleamed against the curved steel—a dueling sword, refined and elegant.

Noctis arched a brow. "Ah. We're skipping introductions, then?"

The masked figure shifted their stance, weight balanced perfectly. A swordsman. A skilled one.

Noctis didn't move.

Didn't react.

He simply watched.

And when the stranger lunged—swift as a shadow—Noctis did what he did best.

He stepped aside.

Except—

To the stranger, it didn't look like he moved at all.

The blade whistled toward him—only to pass through empty space.

A flicker of dissonance. A twist in perception.

The swordsman faltered for the barest second, recalibrating, his mind struggling to reconcile what his eyes were telling him versus reality.

Noctis smirked, hands still at his sides. "That was sloppy."

The stranger did not respond. They twisted on their heel, striking again—fluid, controlled, lethal. A masterful execution of form.

And yet—

Every attack missed by a whisper, as though the battle itself refused to let Noctis be struck.

Not by skill alone.

By design.

Each time the swordsman's eyes locked onto his target, Noctis twisted their perception just slightly—a fraction of a second of misjudged distance, an instinct overridden by a whisper of false certainty.

The human mind was a fickle thing.

It trusted its senses.

And Noctis had long since learned that those could be easily deceived.

The masked figure finally stepped back, blade lowering slightly. The silence between them stretched, heavy with unspoken realization.

Noctis hadn't even drawn a weapon.

"You're not a fighter." The voice was male, edged with irritation but not yet anger. Refined. Educated. Nobility.

Noctis smiled, tilting his head. "And yet, here I stand."

The masked man stiffened. For a moment, it seemed as though he might strike again, but then—

He exhaled sharply, stepping back. The sword lowered, but wasn't sheathed.

"Coward."

Noctis's smirk widened. "Tactician."

A beat of silence.

Then, at last—

The stranger removed his mask.

Moonlight revealed sharp, aristocratic features—dark hair, high cheekbones, piercing silver eyes. Familiar.

Noctis recognized him instantly.

Ashford Duvain.

Son of Lord Alistair Duvain.

Noctis let out a soft, amused hum. "Ah. I see."

Ashford's expression remained cold, but his grip on the sword was steady. "I wanted to know what kind of man you were."

Noctis gestured vaguely. "And?"

Ashford's gaze sharpened. "Unpredictable."

Noctis inclined his head, pleased. "That's the idea."

Another pause. Then, Ashford finally sheathed his blade. "My father is waiting for you."

Noctis smiled, stepping past him without hesitation.

His steps made no sound.

Ashford hesitated. He had heard the movement—seen it—but for a moment, his mind questioned whether Noctis had even walked past him at all.

A trick of perception.

A reminder.

Noctis glanced over his shoulder, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Then let's not keep him waiting."

The Duvain estate was nothing like House Umbrael.

Where his own family's manor was cold, imposing—a fortress first and a home second—the Duvain estate was something else entirely.

Dark marble columns rose high, adorned with gilded accents and subtle but undeniable decadence. Everything about the structure spoke of wealth and power, but unlike the extravagant displays of lesser nobles, this was controlled.

Refined. Measured.

A carefully curated illusion.

Noctis took in his surroundings with a practiced eye as he was led through candlelit halls. The estate exuded an air of quiet authority, a place where power was not flaunted, but understood. Servants moved with silent efficiency, their presence almost imperceptible, and the guards stationed at discreet vantage points were not merely for show.

Every detail was intentional.

Calculated.

Much like the man he was about to meet.

At last, they reached the private study where Lord Alistair Duvain awaited him.

The doors swung open with a whisper of polished hinges, and Noctis stepped inside.

The study was a portrait of controlled sophistication—walls lined with shelves of meticulously arranged books, dark velvet drapes framing tall windows, and a massive desk of blackwood standing at the heart of the room. The air was thick with the scent of aged leather, ink, and pipe smoke, a blend of authority and familiarity.

And behind the desk sat Lord Duvain himself.

The man did not need embellishments to command the space. He was not adorned in elaborate silks or ostentatious jewelry, nor did he rely on outward displays of status.

He did not need them.

His presence was enough.

Sharp, piercing grey eyes assessed Noctis with the weight of a man who had seen and maneuvered through decades of courtly intrigue. Unlike his son, Lord Duvain did not need a sword to dominate a room.

His gaze was enough.

Noctis inclined his head respectfully. "My lord."

Lord Duvain did not rise. He merely lifted a hand, gesturing toward the chair opposite him.

"Sit."

Noctis obeyed, unhurried, settling into the chair with the ease of someone who did not fear the room he had entered. He did not lounge carelessly, nor did he sit stiffly—his posture was balanced, deliberate.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

The crackling of the fireplace was the only sound in the room, shadows flickering against the walls like ghosts.

Then—

"You are not what I expected."

Noctis smiled faintly, tilting his head. "And what did you expect?"

Lord Duvain exhaled slowly, fingers tapping against the armrest of his chair.

"A foolish boy who overestimates his own cleverness. A reckless player, too eager to show his hand."

His gaze sharpened, cutting through the dim light like a blade.

"You are neither."

Noctis did not reply immediately. He merely watched. Measured. Waiting.

Duvain leaned forward slightly, his stare unyielding.

"You have disrupted the board, Noctis."

Ah.

There it was.

Noctis let a slow, knowing smile tug at the corners of his lips.

"Have I?"

Lord Duvain's lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something close. "Do not insult me with feigned ignorance."

A slow pause.

Then, Noctis smirked.

"My apologies, my lord," he murmured. "I assumed you would appreciate a challenge."

Silence.

Then, to his surprise—

Lord Duvain laughed.

Low. Quiet. But genuine.

Noctis did not let his expression waver, but inwardly, he marked the moment as important.

Duvain was not displeased.

He was intrigued.

Finally, the older noble leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.

"You and I will have much to discuss."

Noctis smiled, relaxing just slightly into his seat.

"Then by all means, my lord," he murmured, "let's begin."

A Game of Shadows

Duvain exhaled slowly, watching Noctis with a gaze that weighed every movement, every breath, every shift in expression.

"You do not fear me."

It was not a question.

Noctis tilted his head slightly. "Should I?"

Duvain chuckled, low and thoughtful. "Most do."

Noctis let his fingers rest against the armrest of his chair. "I find fear to be a poor foundation for negotiation."

Duvain's eyes flickered with amusement. "Negotiation, is it?"

Noctis inclined his head. "Is that not why I am here?"

Duvain hummed, tapping his fingers against the polished surface of his desk.

"Tell me, Noctis—what is it you truly want?"

Noctis did not answer immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch, using the pause to observe how Lord Duvain waited.

No impatience. No flicker of irritation.

The man was not easily provoked.

Finally, Noctis spoke. "Influence."

Duvain exhaled softly, as if neither surprised nor unimpressed. "And yet, you already wield it."

Noctis smiled. "Not enough."

Duvain's lips quirked slightly. "Greedy."

Noctis's gaze remained steady. "Practical."

A beat of silence.

Then—

Duvain leaned forward slightly, his voice calm, almost conversational.

"You have drawn attention, Noctis. More than you realize."

Noctis's expression remained neutral, but he filed away the statement.

More than he realized.

That was both a warning and an opportunity.

Duvain studied him for another long moment before speaking again.

"Tell me, Noctis—do you know why I summoned you?"

Noctis exhaled softly. "An assessment."

Duvain nodded. "Correct."

He leaned back, his presence shifting—not softer, but more deliberate.

"You have potential, but potential without guidance is wasted."

Noctis smirked. "And you wish to guide me?"

Duvain's gaze sharpened. "I wish to see if you are worth guiding."

Another beat of silence.

Then, Noctis did something few would dare.

He laughed.

Soft. Amused.

And utterly fearless.

Duvain arched a brow. "Something amuses you?"

Noctis tilted his head, smirking. "You do, my lord."

Duvain's expression did not shift, but there was something in his gaze—something that spoke of unspoken calculations, unseen conclusions being drawn.

Finally, he exhaled.

"Very well, Noctis."

He steepled his fingers once more.

"Let us see what you are truly capable of."