Chapter 33—Embers of Victory

The roar of the crowd had faded, yet the silence that lingered in the Auditorium afterward weighed heavier than any shout. Raiden stood in the circle of stone where Garid Barowen had fallen, his blade streaked with blood and trembling in his grip. His own sword felt suddenly heavier, as though it too bore the burden of what had just transpired.

The presiding council—Bergalion Lynthor, Carn, and Falden—had risen from their seats. Bergalion alone spoke, his tone grave and resonant.
“By the ancient laws of trial, the verdict is clear. House Barowen’s claim against House Rymboven is dismissed. By right of combat, Raiden Rymboven stands the victor.”

Murmurs rippled through the stands. Some students cheered openly, their voices echoing the triumph of one who had faced down arrogance with steel. Others whispered uneasily, questioning what it meant that a “mixed-blood boy” had stood against a scion of Olwen’s vassals and lived.

Raiden could barely hear them. His ears still rang with the clash of Garid’s twin blades, his vision still flickered with fragments of storm and war. But when he looked up, he saw the faces that anchored him: Randall grinning tiredly, Tadari stiff and proud, Ophelin’s eyes bright with unshed tears.

The moment of triumph was brief.

Falden Barowen’s voice cut across the hall like a knife.
“This is travesty!” he spat, stepping down from his place among the judges. His cheeks burned crimson, fury unmasked. “I demanded a Court Duel to defend my House’s honor, not to see it humiliated by a farce! You let a mongrel child strike down my kin, and you call this justice?”

“It was your demand,” Bergalion said, his voice iron. “The law of trial was invoked at your petition. The verdict is binding.”

Falden’s lips curled. “Then the law itself is a mockery! Barbaric customs, clung to by those too weak to stand in council! I will see it overturned, here and in court beyond these walls!”

The chamber buzzed with unease. For a moment, it seemed as though the flames of vengeance might reignite then and there.

Until Yuka Olwen rose.

The heir of Olwen moved down the steps with measured grace, her twin swords sheathed at her hips, her pale eyes cold as glaciers. The nobles parted instinctively as she strode across the floor to stand before Falden.

“Enough,” she said, her voice calm yet carrying to every corner of the Auditorium. “House Barowen has embarrassed itself enough for one day.”

Falden stiffened. “You dare—”

“I do,” Yuka interrupted, her tone like frost. “Garid Barowen acted under your guidance, flaunted arrogance under your protection, and fell by his own hubris. That is the truth witnessed by all here. If you would dispute it, then you dispute the honor of Olwen itself.”

A chill swept the hall. No one doubted what it meant for Yuka Olwen, daughter of the House that stood above Barowen, to speak those words.

Falden’s face blanched, rage curdling into fear. He tried to form a reply, but Yuka turned her back on him without waiting. Her gaze swept across the chamber, fixing briefly on Raiden.

“House Barowen will forfeit its standing in this Academy’s councils until further notice,” she declared. “Those who whispered poison into Garid’s ear will be stripped of privilege. This is my judgment, as heir of Olwen.”

No one challenged her.

In the uneasy quiet that followed, Yuka Olwen rose. She descended the steps with calm, glacial poise, her presence cutting sharper than any blade. Nobles shifted aside as she crossed the hall. Falden stood rigid, words still burning on his tongue—until he noticed movement at the edge of her shadow.

Weldin.

Once Garid’s staunchest ally, he stepped away from the Barowen cluster and fell in step behind Yuka without a word. The act was simple, but it landed like a hammerblow. Gasps scattered the chamber; Falden’s face drained to ash. His subordinates froze, disbelief and betrayal etched into their eyes.

Yuka did not glance back, nor did Weldin. Together, they walked away from Falden, leaving him stranded in his fury, exposed before the entire Assembly.

Falden stormed out of the chamber, his lackeys scrambling after him. With their departure, the tension eased, but not entirely. The duel was over. Yet the air felt charged, as though something unfinished lingered.

Raiden sheathed his blade slowly, his limbs trembling not only from exertion but from something deeper. He should have felt relief. Triumph. Vindication. But when he closed his eyes, the silence of the Auditorium bled into another silence—the kind he had felt in the woods at dusk, the unnatural hush where no bird sang, no insect stirred.

That silence returned now, curling cold around his heart.

That night, the Academy feasted. Nobles raised cups in Raiden’s name, students toasted, even the common-born whispered of his victory as though it had broken some eternal chain.

But outside the firelit halls, the woods behind the Academy slept strangely.

The treeline stretched black against the moonlight, branches unmoving though wind swept the plain. No rustle of wings. No cry of night-hawk. Even the insects that usually hummed in the underbrush had stilled.

Randall noticed it first as they left the hall, Raiden walking between him and Tadari, Ophelin just behind. “It’s too quiet,” he muttered, frowning at the forest. “Like the whole damn thing’s holding its breath.”

Ophelin tilted her head, her brows knit. “I’ve thought the same for days now. The stables, the road beyond… it’s like the beasts have vanished.”

“Not vanished,” Tadari said. His hand hovered near his blade. “Something’s driven them off.”

Raiden halted on the path, staring into the treeline. For an instant, he thought he saw movement—a ripple among the trunks, too large to be mere wind. But when he blinked, the forest was still again.

The silence pressed harder, like a weight on his chest.

It should have ended with Garid. With Barowen humbled, with Yuka’s decisive hand, with his friends still at his side. Yet standing beneath the moonlight, Raiden felt none of it was truly ended. Something vast, ancient, and restless lay just beyond the trees, waiting.

And though he could not name it, he knew—deep in his bones—that his duel had been but the opening act.

The real trial had yet to begin.