Hohenfels

“...’As iron sharpeneth iron, so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend,’” Arne read aloud to the great amusement of his audience: Friedrich and Sieglinde, currently having a hearty meal at the Hohenfels refectory.

“I can’t believe he agreed to the spar, Your Highness,” Sieglinde said, gingerly setting aside her silverware.

“You think I can get him to fight me too?” Friedrich added, much less gingerly stabbing at his sautéed venison.

“You can try. I don’t think he’d be categorically opposed to the idea,” Arne shrugged. From their serious duel, he had gotten a much better sense of Leonhardt’s capabilities than from the useless smallsword lesson. One rarely became this competent with something they did not enjoy.

He set aside Leonhardt’s letter to take a bite of his own food, braised rabbit with various root vegetables. The taste reminded him of home; much unlike the artistic creations served at the dining hall.

After a satisfying meal, he waved a servant to the table, asking for a quill and paper. He quickly penned a response, inviting Leonhardt to Hohenfels Hall at his convenience, then sent a runner to the Sonnenfeld dorm.

It appeared that Leonhardt von Wessen was not a man of hesitance. Merely an hour later, he appeared in front of the ornamental drawbridge with two followers, causing a small commotion.

Arne went out to meet him, Friedrich in tow. Out of uniform, of course – no need for excessive formality here.

“Good afternoon, Prince Arnold,” Leonhardt greeted. To Arne’s surprise, there was little hostility in his solid aura, only an undercurrent of discomfort and anticipation. His companions were radiating anxiety, which was to be expected.