Hohenfels

Maximilian von Altendorf was livid. Not only had Ludwig, the colossal fool, squandered a golden opportunity to further inconvenience the East. No, he had also saddled him with this ghastly ordeal – ‘negotiating’ with Lord Arnold’s second. They had met on neutral grounds as the duel code demanded, and were now facing each other across the instructor’s desk in an empty classroom.

His affable facade had long since crumbled under the relentless recalcitrance of Friedrich von Hohenfels-Steinberg, the son of a mere Eastern Count, who was treating him, the son of the Emperor, like a toddler. He barely managed to stay out of the realm of direct insult, but had it been anyone else, Maximilian would have long since demanded satisfaction. He was, however, painfully aware that a duel against the Mudlordling would end in his immediate and humiliating defeat – and he had no intention of sharing Ludwig’s fate.

“As I said before, Your Highness, we can’t do that,” said Friedrich in a sickly sweet voice, pronouncing every word as clearly as he could. “If you insist on fighting only to second blood, we insist on fighting with the saber.”

Maximilian tried and failed to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Fighting to third blood is simply unreasonable. And you know that Prince Ludwig is not an expert with the saber.”

“Perhaps he should have thought about that before issuing the challenge,” the brute said with a condescending smile. The Prince wholeheartedly agreed with that assessment, but he couldn’t exactly say that.

“His honor does not allow him to back down from such a severe insult,” he replied instead, pretending not to notice Friedrich’s quiet chuckle at hearing the word ‘honor’.

“Then his honor will survive being stabbed thrice.”

Maxmilian’s eyelid twitched. “Fine, then. Third blood, with smallswords. A priest shall also be present to administer blessings.”

The insufferable oaf actually scoffed at that. “Sure, sure. As long as you pay for it.”