The Lantern Duel

You didn't challenge a man over coin, not directly.

You challenged him over suspicion of theft—which meant you got to say it out loud in the open. That's how it worked.

"You think you're better than us," said Bragan, a thick-skulled axebearer from the mid line. "You eat with scouts now. Walk alone. Coin shows up in your name."

Darin didn't answer.

They were already lighting the lanterns.

Lantern duels weren't sanctioned.They weren't outlawed, either.

They happened at the edge of the nightline, just past where officers stopped listening. Two lamps. A rope ring. No blades longer than a boot-knife.

First blood, or broken stance. No death unless you were stupid.

Darin didn't speak as he stepped into the ring.

He didn't smile, didn't posture. He didn't even stretch.

Bragan did. Loudly.

"This is what happens to line-thieves," Bragan growled. "Rank-grabbers. Camp whispers."

The watching men muttered. Not many of them. A dozen maybe. But enough to talk about it later.

Darin said just one thing:

"You talk too much."

Then he moved.

The fight was short.

Bragan had brawn. He had instinct.

But Darin had memory.

He remembered how scouts moved on shale, how speed came from shoulder drop and not leg torque.

He sidestepped a lunge, pivoted his heel, and cracked the side of Bragan's temple with the hilt. Not hard. Just enough to make him blink—

—then he followed with a gut jab.

Not showy. Not clean. But it dropped him.

Blood on the lip. Bragan coughed it.

One of the lanterns tipped.

Darin stepped back, breathing hard.

Raive was there. He hadn't lit a torch. Just watched from the dark.

"You want me to stop them from doing it again?" Raive asked.

"No," Darin said.

Raive grunted. "Good."

They didn't clap. They didn't cheer.

But the men remembered.

That was the point.