Chapter 65

Third Person’s POV

The waiting room for competitors smelled of polished leather, cold steel, and the faint tang of sweat. Duke Edric stormed through its doors like a thunderclap, his boots echoing off the stone floor. His face was crimson with barely-contained irritation, his voice sharp enough to cut through the murmur of the attendants.

“Have you lost your mind?” he bellowed.

Inside, Lance sat calmly as two attendants helped him into his gleaming armor, the plates catching the light in a dull, menacing reflection. His movements were precise, almost mechanical, and he didn’t even flinch at his father’s entrance. Slowly, he turned, dull eyes meeting Edric’s furious glare.

“Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?” Edric snapped, pacing a step closer. “I thought you were a coward, but I didn’t know you were an idiot as well.”

Lance didn’t respond. He gave a faint tilt of his head, signaling the attendants to continue fastening the remaining straps of his armor, as if the Duke’s words were nothing more than background noise.

“She’s merely a woman,” Lance said finally, his tone flat, confident, chilling in its arrogance. “My victory is inevitable.”

He clenched his fists, the sound of metal shifting softly against metal accompanying his words. “And when I do win,” he added, voice low but firm, “you must acknowledge me… as your heir.”

Edric’s jaw tightened, a vein throbbing at his temple. The insolence of his son radiated from him, daring to challenge authority with nothing but bravado. He swallowed, forcing himself to maintain composure.

“How pointless,” he muttered, voice heavy with frustration. “Just don’t embarrass my name.”

Then, with a final glare, Edric turned sharply, his cloak swinging as he left the room.

“Or else I will not hesitate to disown you.” He spat over his shoulder, his words sharp as shards of glass.

—

Lena’s POV

So he was here. 

And yet… no Marcus, no Cole. Neither had shown their faces, and that absence made my chest tighten. 

I had expected Marcus to be bold—recklessly so—but Lance? He was supposed to be cautious, careful. I would have thought him clever enough to send someone else in his stead, a puppet to bear the risk. Yet here he was, stepping into the ring himself, fully armored.

His gaze found mine immediately, sharp and unflinching. Neither of us moved, neither dared blink. 

It was a silent duel before the real one even began. There was a fire in him, raw and unpolished, that I hadn’t expected. Yet spirit alone would not make a worthy opponent.

I let my voice cut through the murmur of the crowd. “Hey. That armor looks enormous on you. Might cause a disadvantage. Is this your first time sparring?”

His jaw twitched. A vein throbbed at the corner of his temple. “That’s none of your business!” he snapped, flat and tight. 

The audacity of my remark must have stung because the tension in his stance radiated outward like a live wire.

The announcer froze mid-sentence, caught between protocol and the palpable tension crackling through the arena.

“Enough of that!” Lance barked, spinning to glare at the man. 

The announcer flinched visibly. “A-apologies…” he stammered.

Lance turned back to me, eyes narrowing, a hint of a cruel smirk tugging at his lips. 

“I would like to propose something… to the Queen,” he said, voice carrying to every corner of the arena. 

The crowd’s murmur died down to a tense hush. Even the wind seemed to pause in anticipation.

I raised an eyebrow. My gaze never left him. “And what, exactly, would that be?”

“I propose a Duel of Fate,” he said, letting the words hang like a guillotine over the spectators. “A battle until incapacitation, counted to three. Only then will it end.”

Gasps erupted. 

Whispers surged like waves across the stands. 

The Duel of Fate was no ceremonial sparring. It was reserved for the gravest of disputes—meant only for matters of honor between rulers or claims that could not be settled any other way. 

Blood could be drawn. Bones could be broken. Life could be at stake.

The announcer’s jaw slackened. “A… Duel of Fate? Against the Queen?”

I tilted my head, keeping my voice calm but sharp as a blade. 

“Explain yourself,” I said, letting the words cut through the tension like steel through cloth.  “A Duel of Fate is no idle challenge. It is reserved for conflicts of grave importance—matters that could shift an alliance. If you intend to propose it against me, you must justify it. Now. Speak.”

The crowd leaned forward as one. Whispers spiraled through the arena, a buzzing undercurrent of speculation. Eyes widened, mouths opened, and hands gripped the edges of benches as though bracing for the storm about to break.

Lance let his gaze sweep over the spectators, letting each and everyone of them feel the weight of his words before finally resting his sharp eyes on me. 

“Your Majesty,” he said, deliberately loud, deliberate, “not long ago… you attempted to take the life of my younger brother.”

Shock rippled through the crowd like a struck bell. Gasps echoed from every corner; whispers sharpened into questions. Heads swiveled, eyes darted between us. 

Some muttered indignantly, others visibly recoiled, while a few exchanged uneasy glances with their neighbors.

But I didn’t flinch. 

I stepped forward, the polished boots of my armor clicking against the ground, my hands resting lightly on the hilt of my ceremonial sword. Every motion deliberate, every breath controlled. 

“Do you,” I began, voice cold but resonant, “truly wish for the world to hear the full story?”

I let the words hang, letting the crowd hold its collective breath. 

“Do you want them to know why I acted… and why Marcus left me no choice? That my hand, though forced, was necessary due to reason?”

The arena fell completely silent. 

Everyone was waiting for Lance’s response. 

The weight of the moment pressed down on my shoulders, heavy yet familiar. This was no ordinary challenge. It was political theater, a test of perception, and a trap meant to expose weakness—or provoke fear.

Lance’s expression hardened. He took a step closer, voice sharp as steel. “Are you accepting, or not?”

I let the silence stretch. Rejecting the duel would signal weakness and invite ridicule; accepting it would risk my life, or at least my reputation, in the most dangerous of public spectacles.

My gaze swept across the arena, past the restless sea of faces and restless whispers, until it found him.

Duke Edric.

He sat among the nobles as if he were carved from stone itself—arms crossed, posture relaxed, expression untouched by the storm his son had just stirred. Not a flicker of concern. Not a hint of surprise. Just that same cold, unreadable stare, as though all of this had already unfolded in his mind long before today.

My jaw tightened.

This can’t be an impulsive act. It couldn’t be. Not with him watching like that.

Why would he allow this? Why send Lance into the ring himself, into a Duel of Fate no less, in front of the rulers of the kingdom? If this was recklessness, it was far too calculated. If it was a gamble… then what exactly was he wagering?

What are you planning, Edric…?

A faint click echoed in my ears as my teeth pressed together. The questions clawed at the edges of my thoughts, but I forced them down. There was no room for hesitation here. Not now. Not with every eye in Elysia fixed on me, waiting—watching—for the slightest crack.

Tsk…

Fine.

If this was the game they wanted to play, then I would meet them exactly where they stood.

I stepped forward, the weight of my armor settling firmly against my skin, grounding me. The murmurs in the crowd dulled into a low hum as I lifted my chin, my voice cutting clean through the tension.

“I shall accept.”

The words left my lips steady, unwavering.

A ripple surged through the arena, but I barely heard it. My eyes had already locked onto Lance once more.

“Under one condition.”

The smirk that had been tugging at his lips faltered, fading into a sharp frown. His brows drew together, irritation flashing across his face as he took a step forward. 

“This is not—”

“You challenged me,” I cut in smoothly, my tone calm but absolute. “You invoked a Duel of Fate. You do not get to dictate all its terms.”

Silence fell again, heavier this time. Even the wind seemed to still.

I took another step closer, close enough to see the tension in his jaw, the flicker of uncertainty he tried so hard to bury beneath arrogance.

“And hear me well,” I continued, my voice lowering just enough to force the crowd to lean in, to listen. “When you lose…”

I let the pause linger, deliberate. I wanted every noble, every envoy, every whispering spectator to feel the weight of what was coming next.

“I will expose your brother.”

The words landed like a blade striking stone.

“Every scheme. Every transgression. Every filthy secret he has buried beneath the ground.” My gaze sharpened, unrelenting. “Every nook and cranny of his wrongdoings to this nation… will be dragged into the light for all to see.”

A wave of murmurs erupted, louder now, more volatile. Shock, curiosity, anticipation—they churned together into something dangerous.

Lance’s expression darkened, something feral flashing behind his eyes. His hands clenched at his sides.

I held his gaze without blinking.

“So,” I finished, voice steady as steel, “if you wish to gamble your honor on this stage… then be prepared to lose far more than just this duel.”