Winning and Its Consequences

The morning sun hung low, casting long shadows across the Montfort estate's central courtyard. The air thrummed with anticipation, thick enough to choke on. Nobles draped in silks and furs clustered around the dueling grounds like vultures, their whispers sharpened to daggers.

"Look at him," sneered a baroness, fan fluttering like a moth's wings. "Still wobbling like a stuffed goose. Edward will gut him before the first bell tolls."

Edward stood at the center of the arena, resplendent in silver-edged armor, his blade catching the light as if the sun itself bent to admire him. His smile was a knife-slice of confidence. Behind him, Duke Montfort loomed on the viewing balcony, his face a mask of frost. Only the tightening of his jaw betrayed a flicker of impatience—or was it dread?

Alistair emerged from the shadowed archway, and the crowd erupted in muffled jeers. His frame, still broad but no longer the bloated carcass of weeks past, was clad in plain leathers. No armor, no crest—only the faintest glint of sweat on his brow. Cecily hovered at the edge of the courtyard, her knuckles white around a folded towel. He's ready, she told herself, though her heart hammered denial.

"Brother!" Edward's voice boomed, all honeyed venom. "Did you starve yourself for this? A pity. I'd hoped for a challenge, not a scarecrow."

Laughter rippled through the nobles. Alistair met Edward's gaze, his own eyes flat and unreadable. He flexed his fingers, recalling the stolen moments in his chambers—the midnight drills, the illicit bites of enchanted meats that now simmered in his veins like banked coals.

"Save your jests for the bards, Edward," Alistair said, his voice steady. "They'll need material for your elegy."

The crowd stilled. Edward's smile faltered.

Duke Montfort raised a hand, and a servant struck the duel bell. The metallic clang shuddered through the courtyard.

"First blood," the Duke intoned, "or yield."

Edward lunged without ceremony, blade a silver blur. Alistair sidestepped, slower than a dancer but deliberate, his breath even. The crowd roared as steel met air.

"Running already?" Edward taunted, circling. "How very like you."

Alistair said nothing. He let his brother's strikes carve the space between them, each miss a brick in the wall of Edward's frustration. The Devourer Magic hummed in his gut, a dormant serpent. Not yet.

On the balcony, the Duke leaned forward, his ice-chip eyes narrowing. Cecily's breath hitched as Edward's blade grazed Alistair's sleeve, drawing a scarlet bead.

"First blood!" a herald began—

But the bell did not ring.

Alistair's lips curled. The cut was a paper-thin scratch, and the warmth seeping into his skin was not pain, but power.

Edward's smirk returned. "You see, Father? The duel is almo—"

"Finish him!" a voice shouted from the crowd. Others took up the cry, a hungry chorus.

Alistair tightened his grip on the sword. The real fight was just beginning.

The duel bell's echo still hung in the air as Edward pressed his advantage, his blade a relentless storm. Alistair's breath burned in his lungs, every parry sending shocks through his arms. But beneath the fatigue, a quiet heat pulsed where Edward's blade had grazed him—the Devourer's hunger, barely leashed. He met his brother's eyes and saw the first flicker of doubt.

"You're tiring, brother," Alistair murmured, too soft for the crowd to hear. "How… embarrassing."

Edward snarled and lunged again.

The courtyard became a whirlwind of steel. Edward's attacks grew wilder, his footwork sloppy with rage. Alistair let him come, each near-miss a calculated risk.

Too slow, Alistair thought as he pivoted, Edward's sword slicing the air where his throat had been. The Devourer Magic hummed, siphoning wisps of energy from the enchanted wound—a trickle of clarity sharpening his senses.

"Stand and fight, coward!" Edward roared, sweat streaking his face.

Alistair feigned a stumble. Edward took the bait, lunging with a overhead strike meant to cleave bone.

Now.

The magic surged. Time seemed to thicken. Alistair twisted, the blade grazing his ribs as he rammed his shoulder into Edward's chest. His brother staggered, off-balance—

—and Alistair's sword flashed upward, the dulled duelist's edge pressing against Edward's throat.

Silence.

The crowd froze, a tapestry of gaping mouths and widened eyes. Duke Montfort rose from his seat, his chair screeching against stone. Cecily's towel slipped from her grasp, forgotten.

Edward trembled, his blade clattering to the ground. "Impossible," he whispered. "You… you cheat."

Alistair leaned close, his voice a serpent's hiss. "No one saw a thing." He stepped back, sheathing his sword with a smirk. "Yield."

The bell tolled.

"Victory," boomed the herald, voice cracking, "to Alistair du Montfort!"

Chaos erupted. Nobles shouted over one another, some cursing, others demanding a recount. Duke Montfort's icy composure shattered as he gripped the balcony rail, veins bulging in his neck. Cecily darted forward, catching Alistair's arm as he swayed—the magic's toll sapping his strength.

"A fluke!" Edward spat, face crimson. "This isn't over!"

Alistair ignored him, turning toward the Duke. Their eyes locked—a challenge, a promise. I see you now, his father's glare seemed to say. And you will regret it.

But as the crowd's jeers shifted to uneasy murmurs, Alistair knew the truth: they'd underestimated the Devourer. And that was exactly how he'd win.

The herald's proclamation hung in the air like smoke, thick and disbelieving. Edward's labored breaths cut through the silence as he scrambled to his feet, face twisted with fury. Alistair turned away, the weight of the crowd's stares prickling his skin. Cecily steadied him, her grip firm, but he shrugged her off with a barely perceptible nod—weakness must not be seen. The Duke's voice sliced through the murmurs like a blade.

"Enough!" he thundered. "The duel is settled."

But the sharp gleam in his eyes promised otherwise.

The courtyard erupted anew. Nobles surged forward, voices overlapping in a cacophony of outrage and awe.

"Sorcery!" cried a marquis, jabbing a jeweled finger at Alistair. "No man defeats Edward Montfort without dark tricks!"

"Look at him—he's smirking," hissed a countess, her fan snapping shut like a guillotine. "The wretch planned this!"

Alistair ignored them, focusing on the tremors in his hands. The Devourer Magic had retreated, leaving his veins hollow, but the thrill of its whispers lingered. More. You'll need more.

Edward stormed toward him, flanked by two retainers. "This isn't over," he spat, spittle flecking Alistair's cheek. "You think Father will let a worm like you inherit? You'll choke on your victory."

Alistair wiped his face slowly, deliberately. "Funny. I recall you choking on your arrogance moments ago."

A muscle twitched in Edward's jaw. He opened his mouth to retort, but the Duke's voice froze them both.

"Alistair." The word dripped with frost. Duke Montfort descended the balcony steps, his cloak billowing like a storm cloud. "You will join me in the solar. Now."

The command brooked no refusal.

As Alistair followed, the crowd parted like frightened sheep. Cecily trailed silently behind, her gaze darting to the shadows—where Lord Berrick stood, his face unreadable.

In the solar, the Duke turned, his composure cracking to reveal the venom beneath. "You think yourself clever?" he snarled. "That pathetic display changes nothing. You are still a blight on this house."

Alistair met his glare, unflinching. "And yet, I remain your heir."

The Duke's hand twitched toward the dagger at his belt. For a heartbeat, Alistair wondered if he'd miscalculated—until the man scoffed. "Enjoy your hollow triumph. The real battle has yet to begin."

As the Duke stormed out, Cecily stepped forward, her voice trembling. "My Lord, your wound—"

"Leave it," Alistair interrupted, glancing at the shallow cut on his ribs. The skin had already knit itself closed, leaving only a faint scar. Devourer's work.

Alone, he slumped into a chair, exhaustion crashing over him. Through the window, the sunset painted the estate in bloody hues. Somewhere, Edward was scheming. Somewhere, Berrick was reporting to shadowy masters. Somewhere, enemies gathered.

Alistair smiled.

***

The sun dipped below the horizon, staining the Montfort estate in hues of ash and amber. Alistair's chambers, once a tomb of indulgence, now echoed with the weight of his victory.

Beyond the walls, the courtyard still hummed with the aftermath of the duel. Voices hissing like serpents, footsteps scurrying to spread gossip, and the clatter of wine cups raised in mock celebration.

A cold draft slipped through the window, carrying fragments of conversation: "…sorcery…" "…luck…" "…disgrace…"

Alistair lingered by the sill, his scarred ribs throbbing faintly. The Devourer's hunger stirred, restless. "They'll choke on their own doubts soon enough."

The great hall of the Montfort estate thrummed with the restless energy of a storm about to break. Candles flickered in wrought-iron chandeliers, casting wavering light over nobles clustered around oak tables laden with wine and half-eaten platters of roasted pheasant. Servants wove through the crowd like ghosts, refilling goblets and collecting whispers.

Near the arched entrance, Baroness Vivienne—a woman whose malice was matched only by her opulent pearl collar—leaned into a gaggle of silk-clad peers. "Did you see that twist?" she drawled, lips curling around her goblet's rim. "Like a drunkard tripping over his own breeches. Pure luck, I say."

A grizzled knight with a mangled ear, Sir Gareth, slammed his tankard onto the table. "Luck? That pivot was straight from Lord Garrick's manuals. Taught it to every squire worth their spurs. Edward's the fool for forgetting it."

"Lord Garrick's manuals?" A young marquis in peacock-blue velvet snorted, sloshing wine onto the tablecloth. "The man's as graceful as a pregnant sow. Surviving Edward's Whirlwind Strikes takes more than footwork. Divine intervention, perhaps—or a dagger up his sleeve."

By the hearth, three mercenaries huddled close, their voices gravelly with skepticism. The tallest, a scarred sellsword from the northern marches, traced a calloused finger along his tankard. "He timed it. Let the boy exhaust himself, then struck. Cold calculation, that." His companion, a wiry archer, nodded. "Aye. Like baiting a bear into a trap."

"Or baiting a bear with magic," hissed a gaunt courtier in scholar's robes, earning sharp glances. His ink-stained fingers trembled as he adjusted his spectacles. "The Montfort bloodline has… history with shadowed arts. Mark my words—this isn't over."

At the edge of the hall, Cecily hovered in the doorway, her maid's apron stark against the sea of finery. Her gaze darted between clusters of nobles, catching fragments of venom:

"—heard he sold his soul to a demon—"

"—pathetic, really, clinging to scraps of honor—"

"—Duke will disinherit him by week's end—"

A serving boy scurried past her, balancing a tray of sugared figs. "Baker's saying the duke's cursed," he muttered to a scullery maid. "Swears he saw black smoke in his chambers last night."

Cecily's fists clenched, her nails biting into her palms.

Across the room, Alistair's name slithered through the air like a poison—until a sudden crash silenced the crowd.

Sir Gareth had risen, his chair toppled behind him. "Enough prattle!" he barked. "The man won by the code. Question his honor again, and you'll answer to me."

The hall held its breath. Then, as the knight stomped out, the whispers surged anew—louder, sharper, hungrier.

Cecily slipped away, the echo of their laughter clinging to her like cobwebs.

The great hall's clamor faded as Cecily hurried down the torchlit corridor, her footsteps echoing off cold stone. Laughter and venomous speculation dulled to a muffled hum behind her, replaced by the rhythmic tap of rain against stained-glass windows.

She paused outside Alistair's chambers, her hand hovering over the iron handle. From within came the scratch of a quill—steady, unhurried. How can he write at a time like this?

She inhaled sharply, pushed the door open, and stepped into the eye of the storm.