The Duel of Draven

Winter's breath coiled through the Academy's ancient courtyards, carrying whispers sharper than frost. The news spread faster than ink on parchment: a sanctioned duel, approved by the magisters and watched by noble eyes. And at its heart, Arthur—son of Cecilia, the Anti-Healer—and Draven, heir to a bloodline as ruthless as it was royal.

Students gathered in small knots by dawn, voices hushed, the marble yard slick with frost. Banners of silver and crimson stirred in the cold wind, and the stone felt alive with old magic—echoes of countless duels that had spilled pride and promise alike across these flagstones.

Arthur stood at the edge of the ring, Fenrix at his side, silent and watchful. His breath misted in the cold, and beneath his cloak, the Grimoire pulsed faintly, a steady reminder of memory, blood, and choice.

Across the ring, Draven adjusted his gauntlets, the red enamel glinting in dawn light. His gaze met Arthur's, cold as drawn steel and twice as sharp.

Lilith stood among the watchers, her eyes shadowed with worry, hands hidden in her cloak. Around her, nobles whispered:

"Traitor's spawn against royal blood…"

"They should have ended him before…"

"…a curse cannot win against lineage…"

Yet some voices spoke softer, carried by hope rather than fear.

---

The magister raised a silvered staff, its rune-etched wood catching morning light.

"By sanction of the Academy," the magister intoned, voice echoing off stone and silence alike, "this duel shall test skill and will alone. Blood need not be drawn—but pride often demands it."

Arthur drew a slow breath, frost clinging to pale lashes. Fenrix watched, golden eyes locked on Draven.

"Are you ready?" the magister asked.

Arthur nodded once. Draven inclined his head, jaw tight, lips a thin line.

"Then begin."

---

Draven moved first: a blur of steel and crimson cloak. Mana coiled around his blade, fire-kissed runes flaring as he struck, each blow meant not just to bruise, but to break.

Arthur pivoted aside, cloak swirling, hand brushing the Grimoire. Dark runes flared around his fingers, his Anti-Heal magic rippling outward to intercept.

Steel met curse in a burst of black-violet light, the force cracking frost beneath their feet.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Draven stepped back, blade raised, breath smoking in the cold air.

"You hide behind curses," Draven spat, voice low. "Is that all your bloodline left you?"

Arthur met his gaze, voice calm despite the roar of blood in his ears. "No. It left me choice."

---

Draven came again, strikes faster, blade sweeping low, then high. Arthur parried with mana-forged shields, shadows twisting and reforming under each blow. The curse bit back, seeking gaps in Draven's defense, but Draven's skill was honed from years at the royal salle, his footwork precise, relentless.

A cut slipped past Arthur's guard, steel grazing his shoulder. Warmth bloomed, staining cloak and cloth alike.

The watchers gasped; Fenrix growled low, muscles bunching as if ready to leap.

Arthur gritted his teeth, forcing focus. Pain sharpened his will. Shadows gathered at his fingertips, ready to strike.

"Don't flinch," Arthur whispered to himself. "Don't yield."

---

For a breath, time seemed to still: Draven, cloak swirling, blade lifted for a finishing blow; Arthur, runes burning along his outstretched hand; and between them, the thin space where pride met desperation.

Arthur spoke a single word of power, the rune flaring black and bright.

The curse lashed outward, striking Draven's breastplate. Enchanted steel cracked under the force, mana shattering in a shriek of broken wards. Draven staggered, eyes wide in shock.

Yet even wounded, he did not yield. He lunged, blade a streak of red and silver.

Arthur twisted aside, curse striking again—but Draven's blade caught his cloak, tearing fabric, the steel's edge grazing flesh beneath.

Pain flared hot and immediate, but Arthur's focus held. Shadows coiled around Draven's arm, slowing the next swing.

---

They broke apart, breath ragged, blood spotting frost between them.

Draven's chest heaved, rage burning in every line of his face. "I will not be shamed by you," he snarled. "You who should have died before you ever drew breath."

Arthur's voice came low, steady despite pain. "And yet here I stand. Not because of blood—but because of choice."

The words cut deeper than any blade. For a moment, something flickered in Draven's eyes—doubt, or fear—but it was gone as quickly as it came.

Draven raised his blade once more.

---

The magister's staff struck the ground, rune flaring.

"Enough!"

The shout cracked through the air, freezing both combatants mid-motion.

Draven's chest heaved, sweat and blood glinting on his brow. Arthur lowered his hand, curse fading back into quiet darkness.

The magister's gaze swept the ring. "Skill and will have been shown. This duel is ended."

For a heartbeat, Draven seemed ready to strike again—but the eyes of the gathered nobles, of Lilith, of history itself, held him in place.

He stepped back, blade lowering. Arthur straightened, breath ragged but gaze steady.

---

Whispers broke the silence as students and nobles spoke at once:

"He stood against Draven…"

"…and lived."

"…he did not kneel."

Lilith moved to Arthur's side, her hand brushing his arm, eyes searching his face. "You're bleeding," she murmured.

"It's only blood," Arthur replied. "It's always been only blood."

Fenrix stepped close, muzzle brushing Arthur's hand, warmth a quiet promise of loyalty that neither crown nor curse could command.

Across the courtyard, Draven turned away, cloak hiding the crack in his breastplate—but not the crack in certainty.

---

That night, Arthur sat by candlelight, the Grimoire open before him. Shadows danced across old ink and scarred knuckles alike.

His shoulder throbbed, pain steady and real, a reminder of the price of defiance.

Yet within that pain lived something more: a quiet vow that choice would matter more than lineage, that defiance itself was worth the wound.

Fenrix lay beside him, breath slow and even, eyes half-lidded but watching.

Arthur whispered into the hush: "Not the last blade I'll face. But let them come."

Beyond stone walls, winter winds carried rumor and promise alike: of a cursed heir who had stood unbroken—and of a kingdom watching, wondering what would come next.

**To be continued...**