Oblivion's Throne

Darius lunged again, sharper this time, his attacks more precise. He had learned from his mistakes—no more feints, no more testing. Now, he fought with brute force, his goal clear: overwhelm Chantelle and trap her in a clinch. If he could lock her down, he could force a yield.

But Chantelle was a step ahead. The moment his fingers brushed her sleeve, she twisted, using his own momentum against him. A sharp pivot, a shift in weight—Darius was airborne before he even realized what had happened.

The entire hall inhaled as one. Chantelle executed a perfect throw, sending Darius crashing onto his back with a reverberating thud.

For a moment, silence.

Then, before he could react, Chantelle dropped down, locking him in a chokehold with precise efficiency. Her voice was calm, almost quiet. "Yield."

Darius exhaled sharply, pride warring with reason. But after a moment, he gave a slow, deliberate nod. "I yield."

The applause that followed was measured—appreciative, yet restrained. Even among the highest echelons of society, combat demanded respect. But the political implications lingered beneath the surface. A Petrosyan had bested a Petrosyan, reinforcing their dominance without disrupting the balance of power.

Orion watched carefully. Chantelle's victory wasn't just about skill—it was experience. She had endured nineteen months of structured training, live drills, real opponents. By comparison, his own practice had been scattered—simulations, occasional sparring matches with Ingrid. He had trained, yes, but was he prepared?

Beyond the dueling arena, the Grand Gala was a spectacle of wealth and power. The ballroom shimmered under chandeliers fashioned from crystallized stardust, their prismatic glow casting shifting patterns across polished obsidian floors. Floating luminaries drifted overhead, their light refracting like tiny constellations woven into the air.