Chapter 30—Court Duel

The Auditorium of the Academy had never been so full, nor so silent.

Its vast stone floor stretched bare, cleared of all but the banners of Houses, their colors suspended in the vaulted air. To the north, the emerald green of Arkantez flared against pale walls. Opposite it, the banners of Olwen—light blue, serene yet cold—declared where Barowen’s allegiance lay. The two colors faced one another like armies across a field.

Above, the gallery tiers groaned under the press of bodies. Nobles, faculty, and students crowded shoulder to shoulder, their breath turning the air heavy. Guards stood at every stair and arch, halberds gleaming. Barrier-mages lined the upper rim, hands at the ready, spells woven thin and taut to catch stray blows should the duel spill outward.

At the dais sat Bergalion of Lynthor, his frame lean but unbending. Beside him Carn, grim as stone, and Falden in crimson Barowen robes, eyes alight with the satisfaction of a man who had orchestrated the stage.

The herald stepped forward, voice ringing across the chamber:

“On this day, by decree of the Council and the laws of the Academy, we witness a Court Duel. The feud between House Rymboven and House Barowen shall be settled by steel and by will. No act of vengeance shall follow, nor retaliation after judgment; the Academy’s standing force shall enforce this law.

Weapons of every kind are permitted. Armor of every kind is forbidden. Only cloth or robe shall dress the duelists. The circle below is the field. Cross its bounds, and you forfeit. Victory shall decide honor, and honor shall decide truth.”

A ripple of murmurs passed the crowd, then died again into silence.

Bergalion’s voice, colder than the herald’s, carried through the hall: “Let the duelists enter.”

The midday bell tolled.

From the west gate strode Garid Barowen, clad in pale robes cut for freedom of movement, trimmed in blue to echo Olwen’s colors. At his hip gleamed a sword, its edge catching the high light. His stride was confident, chin lifted, the smirk already upon his lips. He drank the silence as though it were applause.

From the east gate came Raiden. His step was slower, measured. He wore plain cloth in Arkantez green, no adornment, no steel but the single sword at his side. The roar of blood in his ears nearly drowned the world, yet he forced each pace forward until he stood within the circle.

The gates clanged shut behind them, barred from the outside.

Between them stretched thirty paces of polished stone.

Bergalion lifted his hand. “Begin.”

Yet neither moved.

The silence grew taut. Hundreds of eyes pressed down like weight.

Garid’s smirk widened. “The half-blood the world whispers of. Pestilence in the veins, filth in the blood. Today, I’ll rid us of you. When I’m done, the name Barowen will stand higher than ever. Olwen will raise me, and all will know me as the heir who crushed the Calamity’s spawn.”

His voice rang clear, deliberate, every word meant for the galleries as much as for Raiden.

Raiden closed his eyes. His hands rested loose at his sides. The words slid past him like wind over stone. He breathed slow, steady. Meditation had become his anchor these past weeks, a rhythm that steadied him when blades and spells threatened to break him.

In the gallery, Liana leaned forward, eyes narrowing. She recognized the stillness for what it was. Randall muttered something sharp, but Ophelin hushed him, her grip tight around her walking stick. Beside Liana, Lynda sat rigid, lips pressed white.

Garid laughed, low and eager. “Praying won’t save you.”

He struck first.

A blur of motion—hands flashing, mana churning. Spears of ice bloomed into being, six, then eight, their shafts jagged and glittering with cold. Garid charged, his blade weaving before him, the ice spears aligning like a storm at his back.

The crowd gasped. They had seen this spell before, wielded by Barowen men in training. But never with such speed, such ferocity.

Raiden’s eyes opened.

Garid was ten paces away, the spears trembling with imminent release.

And Raiden did not panic.

His breath stilled, his body loose. At the last instant, he slipped aside—one step, then another, smooth as water. The spears loosed, tearing forward. His sword flashed once, twice, intercepting with the precision of reflex drilled and redrilled. Shards scattered harmlessly against the stone.

Gasps erupted in the gallery.

Randall half-rose from his seat. “Did he—?”

“He slipped them,” Tadari said, voice hard, almost proud. “Without breaking.”

Even Carn on the dais leaned forward. Falden’s smile faltered.

Raiden exhaled once, steady. How far I’ve come.

Garid’s smirk cracked. His blades whirled into a flurry, refined arcs cutting from every angle. Raiden met them, steel ringing against steel. A cut grazed his cheek, another his arm, but no decisive blow. He yielded ground, yes, but his guard did not break.

The storm had begun.

And the Auditorium roared.