Duke Amene was in silent agony.
His muscles burned with an ache that felt borrowed from a twelve-hour battle, yet the reality—the humiliating, undeniable reality—was that mere seconds had passed. Seconds. The knowledge settled into his bones like cold water.
This was one of the reasons for his true agony.
His opponent had possessed enough leisure to count the time while they were battling. The young sir had been tracking seconds while Duke Amene had been drowning, scraping against death with every blocked strike, treating each dodged blade like a gift from fortune itself.
'He was counting.'
The words echoed through him, hollow and sharp.
Northern had fought as if running from death—every sword strike the Duke blocked or dodged felt like a product of desperate luck, not skill. He had been barely scraping out of each attack, his body screaming with the effort of survival.
And Northern had been counting.
