Hohenfels

The banesilver blade felt comfortably cold underneath Arne’s fingers. The spectators’ auras were muted and dull now, a far cry from the chaotic onslaught he was subjected to moments before.

It made everything so much easier.

The damnable silklings wanted a fight? They would get a fight. Arne was beyond done with this foolishness. Stupid schemes were expected. Even forcing him into a meaningless duel was… perhaps not acceptable, but tolerable.

Questioning House Hohenfels’ honor in front of a huge audience? That was a problem. It showed that Hohenfels was not respected in the slightest.

A statement was needed.

It was more than obvious that Leonhardt was not the true culprit. Still, he was the one who had spoken the insult, so he would answer for it. Whatever Ludwig and Maximilian had bribed or threatened him with, Arne had to make sure that it would not be worth it in the end.

He watched as Leonhardt solemnly strode down the stairs into the arena, already unfastening his jacket in preparation for the impromptu duel. It was not exactly in good taste to hold a duel on the same day as the offense had taken place – but in this case, it would be seen as weakness from either side to not draw steel on the spot.

When Leonhardt stepped onto the sand, the intensity of the audience’s auras redoubled. Anticipation. Eagerness.

‘Animals.’ They wanted to see blood, and they did not care whom it belonged to. It was decadent. Shameful.