Caelric sat alone at the long oak table.
Before him, a massive map of the continent sprawled across the surface, its aged parchment worn thin at the edges. Crimson ink slashed through the map in sharp, deliberate strokes—lines, circles, symbols, and carefully dated notations.
His estate.
Neighboring provinces.
Border towns. Merchant routes. Forgotten roads.
Three locations stood out, each encircled in precise red rings, accompanied by brief inscriptions:
Spring—Eastern Ridge.
Late Summer—Hollowford Vale.
Winter—Southern Border.
He dipped his quill once more and drew a fourth mark—just beneath the southernmost ring.
"It begins here."
His hand hesitated.
Then, with steady purpose, he added two more words beneath it:
"Then spreads."
Caelric was tracing the map again, his quill circling a point along the southern border, when a familiar, arrogant voice sliced through the silence like a dull blade.
"Well, well. If it isn't the disgrace of House Vaelthorn," the voice drawled behind him. "Plotting your next tantrum, Caelric? Or just playing general with crayons now?"
He didn't turn. He didn't need to.
He knew that voice.
Edan Marlewyn.
The only son of Count Marlewyn—his father's trade ally and part-time parasite. A boy wrapped in silk and sarcasm and cursed with a mouth that ran faster than his fists.
Caelric dipped his quill again, ignoring him.
Edan stepped into view, lips curled into a smirk. "Tell me, how does it feel? Being passed over by your half-brother? What is he now—nine?"
He leaned forward on the table. "Oh, right. You tried to kill him, didn't you?"
Caelric's hand stilled for a heartbeat. Just a flicker. But Edan caught it—and his grin widened.
"You're fourteen, Cael. Most nobles awaken by twelve. Except you, of course. You were always... different."
Caelric didn't look up. His voice was calm. Controlled.
"You're right."
Edan blinked, caught off guard.
"No matter how much I trained," Caelric continued, "how hard I bled, it was never going to happen. I was never going to awaken Aura."
A flicker of memory surged up—painful and sharp.
After everything was lost—his estate, his family, his legacy—he had wandered for years until he crossed paths with a traveling mage deep in the border wilds. An old man with no name, who looked at Caelric once and said,
"You'll never awaken aura. Your heart was born different."
A mana heart.
A rarity, found in barely one child among thousands. A heart capable of drawing raw mana from the world, bending it into spells, and shaping it into magic.
But the world was cruel in its design—no one could wield both mana and aura.
To be born with a mana heart meant being forever barred from awakening aura.
Caelric hadn't failed because he was weak.
He had failed because he was never meant to succeed on their terms.
And no one had ever told him.
By the time he learned, it was already too late.
His thoughts returned to the present—where Edan still stood grinning like a fox circling a crippled rabbit.
"As a friend," Edan said smoothly, reaching into his coat, "Let me help you."
He pulled off one of his gloves and laid it carefully on the table in front of Caelric.
"Let's have a duel. Tomorrow. At dawn."
Caelric didn't look at it.
"I don't want it."
"Oh, come now," Edan pressed, feigning pity. "This is the least I could do—for an old friend. I'll even throw the match if that helps. Just picture it—your father hearing you finally won something. You'd get one more chance."
Still, Caelric said nothing.
He didn't have to.
The memory already answered for him.
Same day. Same year. Same Caelric.
Desperate to reclaim his place. To prove he wasn't a failure.
Edan had made the same offer once before and Caelric had grabbed it with both hands.
And walked into the trap blind.
The duel had been public, the crowd large. But no one told Caelric that Edan's father had bet a thousand gold on the outcome. That it wasn't just a match—it was a performance.
When Caelric lost, the debt fell on House Vaelthorn.
Gold meant for defending their borders flowed into Marlewyn coffers instead.
Supplies ran thin. Weapons were delayed. Rations were cut.
Three towns were left undefended during a winter raid.
All because of him.
Edan muttered, straightening. "Tomorrow morning. Arena courtyard."
Caelric exhaled, long and slow, before dipping his quill again. He returned to his map, drawing a new circle around the southern border.
The glove still lay beside him on the table.
Untouched.
He didn't look at it. He didn't need to.
His eyes remained fixed on the map—on the line that carved toward Ironholt.
"If you want a duel so badly…" Caelric murmured, voice low, almost amused, "I'll give you one, Edan."
His lips curled faintly.
"One you'll never forget."
The next morning, Count Alvaron Vaelthorn stood rigid near the dueling terrace, his jaw locked in quiet tension.
"You seem unusually tense, Alvaron," said Count Marlewyn, striding beside him with smug grace. "Worried? Nerves, perhaps? I'd be too if my son were gambling with coin he doesn't possess."
Alvaron didn't rise to the bait. But his thoughts simmered.
'Yesterday, when Caelric accepted punishment so calmly… I thought something had shifted. That perhaps there was resolve beneath the silence. But now?'
'A duel? With a public bet? A thousand gold?'
He clenched his gloved hands tighter, the leather creaking faintly.
On the platform, Edan Marlewyn stood in his polished dueling leathers, flashing grins to the crowd, soaking in the attention. His ceremonial blade gleamed in the sun.
Fifteen minutes passed.
Then thirty.
Subsequently, a full hour passed.
Still—no Caelric.
The crowd began to murmur, at first with curiosity, then with disdain.
"Where is the Vaelthorn boy?"
"Late for his own duel? How typical."
"Did he flee again? Cowardice must run in the bloodline."
Each word carved deeper into Alvaron's composure.
Across from him, Count Marlewyn was all but glowing.
"How unfortunate," he said, just loud enough to draw attention. "The son of House Vaelthorn, absent from his own challenge… and after placing such a dramatic bet."
His inward thoughts were crueler:
I will finally see the great Alvaron finally bow his head right after the gold lands in our vaults.
And then—
A shout cut through the courtyard.
"My lord!"
Heads turned as a knight pushed through the crowd. He dropped to one knee before Count Alvaron.
"Urgent news from the estate!"
Alvaron's voice was razor-sharp. "Speak."
The knight bowed lower. "Lord Caelric has left the estate."
The word rippled through the gathered nobles.
Gasps. Faint laughter. A few outright scoffs.
"Left?" Count Alvaron asked, his voice a blade of tempered steel.
"When?"
The knight bowed deeper, sweat beading beneath his helm.
"Last night, my lord. Just before dawn. He departed alone—through the eastern gate."
A hush swept across the arena.
Then—soft, smug, and cruel:
Count Marlewyn chuckled.
"So… he truly ran." He gave a mock sigh. "I expected excuses. But vanishing entirely? That's dramatic. Even for your bloodline, Alvaron."
Alvaron didn't flinch. But the muscles in his jaw flexed visibly.
Beside him, Count Marlewyn wore the look of a man already savoring his victory—calm, polished, and self-satisfied.
Everything was going exactly as he planned.
Because this wasn't just about a duel. Not really.
It had all started with Edan and his father.
They were the ones who spread the word—telling nobles, guild scribes, and anyone who would listen that Caelric Vaelthorn had issued a formal challenge. That a thousand-gold wager had been placed. That it would be a duel worth betting on.
They even registered it through the Capital Guild—making it official. Bookkeepers logged it. Invitations went out. Nobles traveled to see it. Wagers were placed.
Why?
All because of one goal:
To humiliate House Vaelthorn.in front of the nobility.
To crush their name.
And to make a fortune from the fallout.
This is the perfect blow. Win the duel, claim the gold, and let the boy's reputation drown under the weight of his own arrogance.
Alvaron's house won't recover from this. One more crack… and the entire foundation crumbles.
But now, the perfect plan was unraveling.
Noblemen who had wagered small fortunes stepped forward, demanding clarity.
Guild representatives whispered furiously into each other's ears.
And a few angry commoners near the back of the terraces began raising their voices.
"Where's the challenger?"
"If there was no duel, we want our money returned!"
"Was this all a lie? A rigged show?!"
Count Marlewyn's smirk faltered.
His hand twitched at his side.
Count Alvaron remained silent, stone-faced—until the knight added, voice uncertain:
"There's more, my lord. The young master left this… for you."
He extended a silk-wrapped parcel.
A sealed letter bearing the Vaelthorn crest.
Alvaron stared at it for a long moment before breaking the seal.
His eyes scanned the contents quickly, his expression unreadable—until his brow lifted, ever so slightly.
Then he handed the page to his steward.
"Read it."
The steward stepped forward and unrolled the letter. His voice rang clearly across the silent arena:
------------------------
To my honored father,
I begin by offering my deepest apologies for the shame I've brought upon House Vaelthorn—for failing to accept the duel proposed by my dear friend, Edan Marlewyn.
I am a coward. Unworthy of your expectations, unworthy of our name, and unworthy of the honor I was born into. I lacked the strength to stand before him… and the courage to face you.
And for that, I am truly sorry.
Your son,
—Caelric Vaelthorn
P.S. I am returning his glove—unworn. Untouched. Unanswered.
----------------------
The steward paused as the final words settled over the crowd.
He opened the letter fully—and held it up.
Inside was a single black dueling glove.
Unworn.
Untouched.
Unanswered.
A long, tense silence followed.
And then—chaos.
Outrage burst from the stands.
Guild scribes immediately began huddling, scribbling down the timeline. Several nobles turned toward Count Marlewyn, expressions hard.
"You said the boy made the challenge."
"Then there was no duel at all!"
"Was this… staged?"
Count Marlewyn's face drained of color.
"What is this trickery?" He barked. "He clearly challenged us! Everyone heard—!"
Then a sharp voice cut through the noise.
A Guild magistrate, cloaked in official black and silver, stepped into the open with a scroll in hand. His expression was carved from stone.
"The duel was formally registered by Count Marlewyn and his son—without written or witnessed acceptance from Lord Caelric.
Under Capital Duel Code, Article Nine, this qualifies as a false claim of honor, punishable by full compensation of all financial damages and reputational harm caused."
Gasps rippled across the arena.
Because Caelric had never challenged Edan to a duel.
Never placed a bet.
The magistrate's eyes narrowed coldly at Count Marlewyn.
"You orchestrated a false duel to manipulate public betting. As per Guild law, you will repay every wager lost under this deception—Including private noble stakes, guild betting pools, and compensation to House Vaelthorn, whose honor you tried to tarnish."
The judgment landed like a blade.
Clear. Final.
A thousand gold in losses. Penalties issued by the Guild. A forced public retraction. And worst of all—a lasting stain on House Marlewyn's name.
Some nobles roared with laughter. Others seethed at their lost gold.
Count Alvaron said nothing—but the way his chin lifted, just slightly, spoke volumes.
Edan stood frozen on the stage—humiliated not by the blade, but by the absence.
A fool who forged a fight.
A fraud exposed by a single letter.
His father swore under his breath, low and furious—but even he couldn't protest.
They had played the game.
And Caelric?
He never moved a single piece.
Yet somehow—he'd won it.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The wheels of an old merchant cart creaked over gravel and grass. Inside sat alone figure in a dark cloak, arms folded, legs swinging off the back.
Caelric Vaelthorn.
He stared at the fading road behind them, watching the estate—and everything it stood for—disappear into the rising dust.
A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
"I told you I'd give you a duel, Edan," he murmured, eyes glinting.
"One you'll never forget."
The cart owner, an old man with missing teeth and a pipe clenched between them, looked over his shoulder.
"Boy, where'd you say you were going again?"
Caelric's smirk sharpened.
"Ironholt."
The driver turned fully, alarmed. "Ironholt? Boy, you've gone mad. That city's worse than war. It's where thieves go to hide and killers go to thrive. No lord rules it. Even the king keeps his hands off it."
Caelric tossed a silver coin forward. "Just drop me near the outer wall."
The man hesitated, then clucked his tongue and started the cart again.
"You're mad, boy."
Caelric smiled.
"Maybe."