A Duel Without Fighting (II)

Chapter 16: A Duel Without Fighting (lI)

The Game of Shadows

The moment Noctis stepped into Lord Duvain's study, the real battle began.

There were no swords drawn, no blood spilled, yet the air was thick with conflict. Not the kind fought with steel, but with words, perception, and control.

Lord Alistair Duvain sat like a monarch upon his throne, his piercing grey eyes observing Noctis with cold amusement. The weight of his presence was suffocating to lesser men. He had built his reputation on absolute control, never allowing anyone to dictate the flow of a conversation, let alone a game of wits.

But Noctis?

Noctis thrived in disrupting control.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the distant crackle of the fire, the scent of aged parchment and pipe smoke clinging to the air. Shadows flickered against the walls, elongating and twisting, as if the very room were watching.

Then, Duvain spoke.

"You are an anomaly."

Not an insult. Not a compliment. A simple observation.

Noctis merely smirked, tilting his head slightly. "I do try."

Duvain exhaled softly, fingers tapping against the polished surface of his desk. "That, I believe."

A test. A probe.

Noctis did not take the bait. Instead, he let his gaze drift across the room, as if inspecting the carefully curated space. Everything here was intentional. Controlled.

Like its owner.

He turned back to Duvain, letting silence stretch just long enough for it to become his weapon.

"You summoned me, my lord." A deliberate shift. A push. "Why?"

Duvain chuckled. Low. Amused. "You are bold."

Noctis smiled. "I prefer efficient."

Another silence.

Then—Duvain leaned forward slightly, his stare sharpening. "Tell me, Noctis—do you know why you have survived thus far?"

Noctis met his gaze without flinching. "Luck, if you ask my enemies."

Duvain's lips twitched. "And if I ask you?"

Noctis's smirk deepened. "Preparation."

A flicker of something passed through Duvain's gaze. Interest. Calculation.

Hooked.

Finally, Duvain leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.

"Let us be clear, Noctis." His voice was calm, but the weight behind his words was unmistakable. "I am not your enemy."

Noctis's smirk did not fade. "That is good to hear, my lord." A deliberate pause. Then, smoothly—"But let us also be clear." His gaze sharpened. "You are not my ally. Not yet."

Duvain's eyes flashed with something sharp, unreadable.

Another shift. Another crack in the façade.

Noctis had turned the game on its head.

Duvain studied him, silent, calculating. Then, he exhaled. "Interesting."

A single word. But it carried weight.

Noctis had forced Lord Duvain into the position of observer rather than predator.

But Noctis was not done.

"You called me an anomaly." He leaned forward slightly, mirroring Duvain's earlier movement. "Tell me, my lord—do anomalies interest you?"

Duvain exhaled softly. "They are… dangerous."

Noctis tilted his head. "That was not an answer."

Duvain chuckled again, this time quieter. "Then I suppose my answer is this."

His gaze darkened. "Anomalies are only of use if they can be controlled."

A threat. A warning.

Noctis did not flinch. He did not look away. Instead, he smiled.

"And if they cannot be?"

Silence.

Then, Duvain's lips curved into something dangerously close to a true smile.

"Then they must be watched. Carefully."

Noctis laughed.

Soft. Amused.

Utterly fearless.

The fire crackled in the hearth, its embers casting long, flickering shadows against the walls. Noctis met Lord Duvain's piercing gaze with the same unshaken confidence he had carried into this meeting.

And yet, beneath the surface, the real battle raged.

This was not a contest of strength or weapons—this was a war of the mind.

Lord Duvain leaned back, his fingers steepled in a gesture of calm authority. A king upon his throne, watching a challenger who dared step into his domain.

"Let us dispense with pleasantries, Noctis," Duvain finally said, his voice smooth as aged wine. "You are bold, and you have skill. But boldness is not enough."

Noctis smirked. "And yet, it brought me here, did it not?"

Duvain chuckled softly. "Indeed. But tell me—do you understand why you were allowed to enter?"

A test. A trap.

Noctis did not rush his answer. Instead, he tilted his head ever so slightly, watching Duvain with the same measured intensity the older man was using against him.

"I was not 'allowed' to enter," Noctis said at last, his voice smooth, unwavering. "I forced my way in—just without breaking the door."

Duvain's fingers tapped lightly against the desk. A slow rhythm. A thinking man's gesture.

"A clever answer," he mused. "Yet still incomplete."

He leaned forward slightly, his grey eyes gleaming in the dim firelight. "You were allowed to enter, Noctis, because I was curious. That curiosity has now been satisfied."

A subtle threat.

A warning that his presence here was temporary—unless he proved his worth.

Noctis let a beat of silence stretch before speaking. "Curiosity is a dangerous thing, my lord. One must be careful not to underestimate what they bring into their house."

Duvain chuckled. "Do you think I fear you, boy?"

Noctis smiled—slow, sharp, predatory. "I think you would not have wasted your time if I were beneath your notice."

The older man regarded him carefully. Then—a shift.

Not in his expression, but in the air itself.

Duvain had been assessing him. Now, he was engaging him.

The real duel had begun.

Duvain exhaled softly, as if weighing something in his mind. "Very well, Noctis. Let us speak plainly. You want influence."

Noctis inclined his head. "I do."

Duvain's lips twitched. "And yet, you are surrounded by people who would rather see you fall."

Noctis's smirk did not fade. "That only makes the game more interesting."

Duvain hummed. "Then let us see if you truly understand the rules."

His voice dropped slightly—not in volume, but in weight.

"Tell me, Noctis—why is it that men like us survive, while others are crushed beneath the wheels of power?"

Another test.

Noctis could feel the weight of the question, the layers beneath it. A lesser man would have answered with something predictable—strength, wealth, connections.

But Noctis was not a lesser man.

He met Duvain's gaze and smiled.

"Perception."

Duvain stilled.

Noctis continued, his voice calm, steady. "A sword can be parried. Gold can be stolen. Alliances shift with the wind." He leaned forward slightly. "But perception, my lord? That is the foundation upon which power is truly built."

Duvain did not move.

Noctis pressed forward. "A man who is feared will never lack for enemies. A man who is loved will never lack for betrayal. But a man who is misunderstood?" His smile turned razor-sharp. "That man is untouchable."

A slow silence stretched between them.

Then—Duvain laughed.

Low. Amused. Genuine.

"You understand far more than I expected," the older noble admitted. "But understanding is not the same as mastery."

Noctis tilted his head slightly. "Then perhaps you should test me."

Duvain's gaze sharpened. "Very well."

He leaned forward, voice quiet, but heavy with implication.

"Tell me, Noctis—if you were in my position, how would you remove a threat without ever drawing a blade?"

Noctis let the question settle.

Not because he did not know the answer—but because he wanted Duvain to wonder if he did.

Then, slowly, he spoke.

"A threat that is known can be countered. A threat that is feared can be outmaneuvered." He paused, then—"But a threat that does not know it has already lost?" He smiled. "That is true victory."

Duvain's fingers tapped against the desk again. A slow, thoughtful rhythm.

Noctis continued. "Power is an illusion, my lord. A man only holds as much as others believe he does." He tilted his head. "If I were in your position, I would not eliminate a threat."

His smile sharpened. "I would convince it that it was never a threat to begin with."

Duvain's fingers stilled.

A shift.

A slow, creeping realization that Noctis had just outmaneuvered him without ever breaking the conversation's flow.

Then, the noble exhaled.

And for the first time since Noctis had entered this room—Lord Duvain smiled.

A real, dangerous smile.

"I believe," he murmured, "you and I will get along very well, Noctis."

Noctis smirked. "I do try."

The duel was over.

And Noctis had won.