Like rolling thunder, Royce pressed through the corridor. With Arty at his side, a lightning that shocked away those who tried to halt their progress. Through the doors and to the room that would decide their future.

  They pressed through before they could be announced. On the throne was the old man who ruled Zernau. An unpleasant frown stretched across his face. At his side, Brodwyn. Only a few guards were visible.

  Cwach looked up with surprise. “I thought you two left with the fools marching to stop my guests.”

  “I apologize for the false impression, Your Grace,” Royce responded, “For we have a dire task to accomplish ourselves here in Znseruff.”

  “I’ll declare it once more,” Arty commanded the attention of those in the room. “I will unite the Dradris Kingdoms. Join us, Cwach.”

  Harsh laughter. “Is that all you have to say, boys? I thought you might attempt to threaten me, or try some rousing speech, but to say the same thing you’ve been babbling about this entire time is asinine.”

  “We are not that way,” Royce said with no inflection in his voice. “Your Grace a King, one deserving of the highest respect. So we simply await your response.”

  Chuckling to himself, jubilant, the King said, “With recent events, the answer should be obvious.”

  Royce understood that, had known the path this conversation would take. However, for everyone involved, they still had to offer the simple out one last time.

  “Oh, that will do no good, Your Grace.” Royce’s features twisted. “We cannot have that. Dradris needs Zernau and Lenda. It is good, then, that I know the exact thing that will change your position on this matter.”

  Cwach raised an eyebrow. “Resorting to violence, are you?”

  “Do we appear to be such barbarians?” Arty asked. “Would anyone be truly accepting of an alliance after a hostile takeover of another Kingdom?”

  “If you understand such things, then you should leave.”

  “No, Your Grace,” Royce responded. “We will be taking something important to both you and Lenda, so that you will join our alliance.” As the King’s eyes flicked to his bride, Royce continued, “A political prisoner, until the dregs of summer are upon us.”

  “You think I would let you scoundrels take her? I should have you killed right now for even the thought of it.”

  “Your Grace cannot! If such an option were open, you would have disposed of us on our first night in the palace. Murdering the Promised One in cold blood, an envoy of peace, would turn every Dradris Kingdom against you. Even Lenda would be forced to bend as they march on your capital. I doubt your relationship with the Uxsons is so deep that they will run to your aid in that situation.”

  “You foul brats. That disgraced captain, the filthy Eddgaarite, the lying witch, and you three from wretched Welkia. I will not fight you, but I do not have to hand her over!”

  “Nor will I go,” Brodwyn said.

  Royce reached his hand toward the Queen. “Your Grace would not have to, but as His Grace refuses us, we are forced to take action. You will spend time with us, forcing the two Kingdoms into our alliance.”

  “What do you suggest?” The King spat.

  Arty walked forward. “A duel, Your Grace.”

  Laughter from a hidden section in the throne room. Slowly, Brymoor revealed himself. “I was waiting for you fools to strike at His Grace, but this presents an even better opportunity.”

  The King of Zernau put his hand to his face in contemplation. “A duel, you say? A time-honored way of settling disputes. Would you be willing to represent me, Brymoor my boy?”

  “It would be my honor, Your Grace.”

  Royce met the eyes of the King. “If we win, Your Grace will bar the Uxsons from entry into your Kingdom, and commit yourself to the alliance. We will take Brodwyn as an incentive to follow the deal.”

  “And when we claim victory, you all will leave and give up on the alliance,” Cwach responded.

  Brymoor stepped forward. “That is too forgiving, Your Grace. I will defeat this false messiah in honorable, fair combat. Once he is dead, I will be recognized as the Promised One and bring prosperity to Dradris.”

  Arty smiled. “Shall we make our way to the courtyard then? Your delusion deserves a proper burial after all.”

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  The King sighed as he lifted himself off his throne. Brodwyn and Brymoor walked at his sides respectively, as they made their way to the destination of the duel.

  All according to plan.

  This was not the most devious of traps; in actuality, it put both parties on even ground. Zernau did not have a known warrior who had incredible martial prowess. If a duel was offered, the hound that had been at Arty’s feet this whole time would, of course, accept it.

  Cwach might have been able to plan their deaths, but his careful nature was holding him back. In his eyes, allowing Brymoor to represent him probably seemed like little risk. Simply denying their requests would keep the band in his Kingdom, and they were stirring up discontent and trouble. This was an easy way to push them out, while keeping up appearances.

  With worry of the force that had been created outside their walls, the palace security had been reduced to deal with the possible problem. Meaning a threat to the rulers of Zernau was possible. Arty was not like that, though, and it would hurt the alliance overall. That also influenced Cwach’s decision.

  In that way, they had been at a standstill. A fair duel was an easy way to settle things, though Cwach would usually avoid it. However, in this current situation, with a ravenous Prince begging for a fight, he made the mistake of accepting.

  Arty would not lose.

  Each step was an eternity. Artowen was used to eyes being on him, as was his destiny, but this was even worse. The bloodlust exuding from the Lord Prince behind him was palpable, the look of disappointment from the King adding further pressure. Every soldier held their iron gaze, but behind that was either disapproval or wonderment at the sequence of events. Royce was steady, sight set firmly on the future.

  The only person unreadable was the Queen, a distant enigma whose existence was calling for this duel. Without her, there might not have been a path forward.

  The sun escaped through a patch of clouds in the sky, creating a circle of light that would be the arena for their battle. Despite the importance of this duel, only two Royal Guards were around, the only other onlookers those directly involved.

  Artowen took his place across from Brymoor. They drew their swords. No other words had been exchanged. There had been no point; this was the conclusion of their relationship, an inevitability they had both seen coming since their first meeting.

  Taking his stance, Artowen admired the Lord Prince. There were no visible openings in Brymoor’s defense, no way to approach. The minimal armor that allowed movement, the lack of ostentation, bar a single necklace that held a pendant. It was a worn piece of jewelry, not one royalty should be displaying. He smirked at Eira’s words the day prior.

  The person standing before Artowen was not some pampered royalty, or a man who overvalued his skill. No, this person was a warrior.

  “You may begin,” Cwach announced.

  Artowen prepared himself for an onslaught, but nothing came. Brymoor stood there, breath steady, gaze searching. Slowly, Artowen crept forward. It prompted no response.

  He launched a probing strike, easily deflected by Brymoor. Artowen did not fall back. Closer, and closer, their swords, their bodies, nearly touching.

  Cold sweat on his neck, Artowen swung.

  Brymoor parried, despite the strength of the blow. That was the beginning of the infighting, close strikes where the full range of the body was not possible. It should not have hindered Artowen with his deity’s ability, but the Lord Prince halted him at every turn.

  Artowen jumped away to create distance, but Brymoor followed, lashing rapidly, putting Artowen fully on the defensive. No openings, the only thing he could do was block and parry the perfect sword strikes.

  Instead of slowing down, Brymoor sped up, creating a pace that would be impossible to hold for long. However, the man’s breath did not grow ragged. The persistence paid off, as the flurry peeled away Artowen’s defense.

  A long slash on his left forearm appeared, red painting his white arm. An expression of jubilation showed on Brymoor’s face.

  That instant of hesitation gave Artowen what he needed. He dropped low, strengthening his leg and shoulder as he launched himself into the man, shoulder-checking him in the chest.

  This pushed Brymoor back, but before Artowen could follow up, the man had already recovered.

  The Lord Prince snickered. “Is this all that the so-called Promised One is? You could never defeat me. I’ll be the one to make my teacher’s dreams come true!”

  After all the insults and this duel to the death, Artowen still could not bring himself to hate the man before him, even if he himself was hated. “You truly are skilled, Lord Prince.”

  “Have you come to your senses? If you concede, I can spare you.”

  A shake of his head. “No, it only means I will have to give it everything I have. Afterwards, I will have grown even stronger thanks to you.”

  Brymoor roared in anger and sought to continue his earlier tirade of attacks. Artowen would not allow it.

  I always am useless when I’m on the defensive, aren’t I? I should probably work on that.

  With reckless abandon, the Promised One charged forth. Each slash contained inhuman strength, every maneuver made to keep him on the offensive.

  He pushed the never-tiring Prince back. His ferocious attacks left no need for defense.

  Artowen’s tenacity paid off, as a downward stroke blazed through the Lord Prince’s minuscule armor, scoring a large gash on the man’s shoulder. Blood sprayed.

  Brymoor waned for a moment, and Artowen sought to press his advantage on the foe who was left on the verge of defeat. Another swing arced for the Lord Prince’s body.

  Steel reflected the sun overhead, alerting Artowen. He ducked back, just as Brymoor’s sword flew a breadth over his face.

  Artowen relinquished the attack. As he made space, his mind spun, confused. With that injury, there is no way he should have been able to attack like that. It was as if his blade was even faster.

  The Lord Prince clicked his tongue.

  Then Artowen noticed it. The bleeding had already halted on the fresh wound. In fact, it had already begun knitting itself closed, though the process was still slow.

  “An internal deity that heals,” Artowen murmured.

  Brymoor displayed a wicked smile.

  He had been lured in by the Lord Prince, almost losing his head in the process. The blow he had struck was calculated to make him drop his guard.

  What had seemed the end of the battle was a facade.

  The duel was only just beginning.