Lord Suyed looked at Lord Powell, then at his glass of wine, and finally toward the window, where the pale afternoon light crept across the floor.
"The mine is indeed within my territory," he said at last, voice calm and deliberate. "But the rights to it are not in my hands."
Lord Powell took a measured sip from his cup, a soft, knowing smile spreading across his face."You and I both know such matters can be... resolved," he said lightly. "As the old saying goes, where there's a will, there's a way." He laughed, the sound polite yet edged with intent.
Lord Suyed did not answer. He merely returned the laughter—brief, restrained, and without mirth.
Sensing that his host would not fill the silence, Powell pressed on."I'm not asking you to confiscate the mine from your merchants," he said, tone softening to something more persuasive. "All I ask is the exclusive right to purchase the raw ore—at its original price. Nothing more."
He no longer smiled, nor did he touch his cup. His gaze locked firmly on Suyed's, the air between them heavy with expectation.
Lord Suyed already knew his guest's purpose; he had known it from the moment Powell entered the room.But what he did not see was any offer of return—no token of goodwill, no gesture of parity. The unspoken law of exchange, as old as any code of nobility, was being ignored.
He opened his mouth to speak—to name his own price—but the door burst open.
An attendant stumbled in, breathless and pale. "Forgive me, my lord, but—urgent news from the city!"
Suyed's brow lifted slightly, half in irritation, half in relief. "What is it?" he asked, his tone calm but edged with curiosity. The interruption, though rude, spared him the immediate necessity of an answer.
The attendant swallowed, choosing his words carefully. "It's the young lord, he… there's been—"
He hesitated.
Something in his eyes—a flicker of dread—told Lord Suyed that whatever had happened, it was not a mere disturbance.
...
...
...
The city of Crest below Castle Thornecrest roared—not with celebration, but with the shattering of stone and the roar of magic.
Explosions rattled windows, sending startled passersby stumbling.
Few understood what was happening. High above, the fate of two young lords clashed in fury, pride, and years of bruised egos.
Inside the High Feather Inn, once a symbol of refinement, Arion moved like a storm incarnate.
He slammed the last of Cedrik's guards through the ceiling with a single, devastating punch.
The guard vanished into rubble, screaming silenced by the chaos. Dust and splintered wood rained down.
Cedrik's eyes burned crimson as he conjured another red energy sphere. It streaked toward Arion, hungry and blazing.
Without hesitation, Arion raised a pearlescent barrier. The sphere slammed into it, detonating in a shockwave that shattered the remaining stone pillars.
Rubble cascaded around him, dust choking the air, but Arion's focus never wavered.
He seized a jagged fragment of a broken post, hefting it like a spear, and hurled it with all his strength.
The makeshift javelin cut through the air, a whistling missile of wood and vengeance. Cedrik's head snapped to the side, narrowly avoiding death.
No pause. No hesitation.
Arion surged forward, sword in hand, aiming for Cedrik's neck.
His heartbeat roared in his ears, adrenaline drowning hesitation. For the first time, he tasted the thrill of lethal intent—but instinct guided him. Every move, every strike, had been honed through relentless training.
A flash of azure light erupted from a ring on Cedrik's finger.
In an instant, he vanished.
Arion's blade sliced through nothing but air. Confusion flared, but he recalibrated instantly.
Blood dripped into his eyes from a wound on his forehead, blurring his vision, yet he pushed forward to the edge of the shattered ceiling.
Below, Cedrik crouched in the crowded streets, terror etched on his face. Debris rained down around the panicked onlookers.
The air was thick with dust, magic, and the stench of fear.
Arion's white barrier flared again, repelling another barrage of crimson spheres.
He moved with fluid precision, ducking beneath falling beams and shattered stone. Every motion was a dance of survival and mastery.
Cedrik lashed out, summoning tendrils of red energy, but Arion anticipated each strike.
His improvised weapons became extensions of his will.
A broken chair leg, a shard of marble, even chunks of plaster—each hurled with deadly intent.
The city seemed to hold its breath.
Citizens scattered, some drawn by morbid curiosity, others fleeing the devastation.
Few noticed the artistry of the duel, only the spectacle of chaos and destruction.
Finally, Arion leapt from the ruined building, sword flashing like silver lightning.
Cedrik vanished once more, but Arion was ready.
He pivoted mid-air, surveying the crowd, sensing every movement.
Even the blood-clouded eyes could not obscure his focus.
This was not a battle of survival alone. This was a war of skill, pride, and inheritance.