The silence in the grand hall was a physical thing, a heavy, smothering blanket thrown over the roaring crowd of just moments before. As Leonel stepped down from the arena platform, the packed earth still holding the imprint of his boots, he felt the weight of a thousand stares. It wasn't admiration he felt pressing down on him; it was the prickling, uncomfortable weight of being a spectacle. They weren't looking at a boy; they were looking at a storm that had just passed, wondering if the calm would hold. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, on the arched exit, a sanctuary of cool, shadowed stone.
And then, a sensation, sharp as a needle prick between his shoulder blades.
It was a feeling he'd only had a few times before—like when a master swordsman had watched him train from a hidden gallery, or that time in the deep woods when he'd felt the unseen gaze of a mountain cat. An instinct, older than reason, screamed that he was being seen in a way that had nothing to do with the gawking crowd.
His steps faltered. His head came up, his eyes, against his will, dragged upwards to the grand observation balcony where the high nobles and elders sat. Most were still turned towards the arena, murmuring amongst themselves. But in the deepest recess of the balcony, tucked into a pocket of shadow where the torchlight failed to reach, stood a figure.
He was just a silhouette, a man-shaped cutout against the dark stone. Leonel couldn't make out a face, nor the color of his clothes. But he could feel him. The air around the figure seemed to warp, thick with a presence that was both utterly still and humming with latent power. It was a quiet, deep-well kind of strength, the kind his father, the Duke, possessed—but this was different. This was… more. A still ocean compared to his father's mighty river.
Stronger than Father, the thought surfaced, unbidden and unsettling, causing a single, hard thud of his heart against his ribs.
It wasn't fear that coiled in his gut. Fear was a simple, hot thing. This was colder, a mix of awe and a predator's innate caution. He stared, trying to pry details from the shadows, but the figure offered none. Then, just as Leonel was about to look away, the silhouette tilted its head a fraction. A gesture of… curiosity? Amusement? Leonel's hearing, sharpened by the flow of Vitalis Energy, caught a whisper so faint it might have been the rustle of a banner.
"Oh? He can feel my gaze? That's… unexpected."
The words were gone as soon as they were spoken. The figure turned, and with a fluidity that defied the eye, melted back into the deeper shadows of the balcony's rear archway, vanishing as if he had been nothing more than a trick of the light.
Leonel blinked, the strange pressure lifting from his skin. He let out a slow breath, realizing he'd been holding it. Who in the seven kingdoms…? The question hung in his mind, unanswered and deeply troubling. The power had been immense, yet it carried no malice he could detect. It was the neutrality of a mountain—it simply was, and your survival depended on whether it decided to notice you.
Before the chill of that encounter could fully settle in his bones, it was burned away by a sudden, blazing warmth.
"Brother! Brother!"
A comet of silver-gray hair and unrestrained joy shot through the crowd, ignoring the stunned adults who parted for her. Little Selene, all of five years old, slammed into his legs with enough force to make him stagger, her small arms wrapping around his waist in a vice-like grip. She looked up, her face a perfect, shining moon of hero-worship.
"You were so amazing out there!" she exclaimed, her voice ringing with a purity that felt alien in the tense hall.
Leonel looked down at her, truly thrown. Of all the reactions he had braced for—disapproval, fear, even pride—this unadulterated, gleeful admiration was the last one. He had just threatened to maim a boy in front of hundreds. He had felt a cold, alien rage take hold of his voice.
"You're... not scared?" he asked, his own voice rough with disbelief.
"Scared?" She pulled back, her nose scrunched in genuine confusion. "Of you? No way! The way you blocked his big, stupid sword—it was like whoosh!" She mimed a dramatic, two-handed block, nearly overbalancing. "And then you stood there all tall and scary and you said—" She puffed out her little chest, her voice dropping into a comically low growl, "—'Do you want to die, Garic Stormblade?'" She dissolved into a fit of giggles. "So cooooool! You have to teach me how to do that!"
A choked laugh escaped Leonel's throat, the sound strange even to his own ears. The grim reality of the moment was being refracted through the prism of her innocence into something out of a storybook. "Selene... you shouldn't be copying that," he said, crouching down so they were eye-level. The movement made his sore muscles protest. "You're too small for swords. You could get hurt."
"I am not small!" she declared, stomping one tiny foot for emphasis. "I'm five! That's practically a grown-up!"
He couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. Her indignant puff, the way her cheeks rounded like a squirrel's—it was an antidote to the poison of the arena. "Is that so? Well, maybe when you're a little bigger, I'll teach you," he conceded, reaching out to ruffle her already-messy hair.
She swatted his hand away with a theatrical huff. "Hmph! Fine! But you have to promise, Brother! A real promise!"
"Alright, alright," he surrendered, holding up his hands. The weight of the promise felt good, solid. "I promise. But the 'do you want to die' part is off-limits. That's not for you."
"But it sounded so cool!" she insisted, her giggles returning.
He just shook his head, his smile softening into something more genuine. In the span of a minute, she had taken the darkest moment of his day and turned it into a game. Her faith was a anchor, pulling him back from the edge of the strange, cold place he had been.
It was then that his mother's voice, clear and carrying the unshakable authority of House Graythorn, cut through the residual murmur of the hall.
"By my authority, today's competition is suspended. The semi-final matches will resume tomorrow at the ninth morning bell. All participants, use this time to rest and recuperate."
A wave of palpable relief swept through the gathered fighters. Leonel saw Roland Stormbreaker, his own match postponed, give a tired but grateful nod in his direction. The delay was a mercy. Leonel felt it in his own weary limbs.
"Can we go home now, Brother?" Selene asked, her small hand finding his, her earlier dramatics forgotten.
"Yeah," he said, his voice quiet. "Let's go home."
He scooped her up without a second thought, settling her on his hip. She let out a delighted squeal and wrapped her arms around his neck, her head tucking against his shoulder. As he walked from the hall, he pointedly ignored the lingering, complex stares. He focused instead on the weight of his sister, her warm, trusting presence, and the simple, rhythmic sound of her chattering about what she wanted for dinner.
The Graythorn mansion was a bastion of calm after the storm of the arena. The familiar scent of polished oak and drying herbs greeted them. Leonel carried a now-sleepy Selene all the way to her room, her small body growing heavier with each step.
"Selene, it's time for bed," he whispered, trying to pry her arms from around his neck.
"Nooo," she whined, the sound muffled against his tunic. "Stay with me for a bit! You promised you weren't tired!"
Leonel let out an exaggerated sigh, though he was still smiling. "I am tired. I just had a very dramatic day, remember?"
"You didn't even look tired!" she accused, pulling back to narrow her eyes at him with impressive suspicion for a five-year-old. "You didn't even look like you were trying!"
"That's because I'm just that good," he replied, tapping her nose with his finger, which earned him another swat.
"Hmph. Show-off."
After a few more minutes of negotiation, involving promises of a special trip to the city's sweets market, he finally managed to tuck her under the thick down comforter. She was asleep almost instantly, her breathing evening out into a soft, steady rhythm. As he turned to leave, he heard her murmur, a drowsy sigh into the quiet of the room, "Brother is still the coolest..."
He paused at the door, looking back at her small form. The love he felt was a sharp, aching thing. That was what he was fighting for. Not for glory, not to prove a point. For this.
When he finally reached his own chamber, the day's exhaustion hit him like a physical blow. He pushed the door open, expecting solitude, and found Mariella, his nanny since he could remember, setting a tray of food on his desk. A thick stew, fresh bread, a wedge of hard cheese.
"Welcome back, young master," she said, not turning around, her voice as familiar as the room itself.
Leonel groaned, dropping his practice sword by the door with a clatter. "Nanny, for the last time, it's just Leonel. How many times do I have to beg?"
Mariella turned, hands on her hips, fixing him with a look that had cowed him since he was in diapers. "Call the young lord of the house by his given name? The very idea. The scandal. What would your father say?"
"He'd probably tell you to stop being so stubborn," Leonel grumbled, slumping into a chair.
"He'd do no such thing," she retorted, thrusting a warm, damp towel into his hands. "He knows the value of tradition. Now, eat. Then clean up. You look like you've been dragged through a thorn bush backwards by an angry bear."
A faint, tired smile touched his lips. "It felt like it."
Once she had bustled out, scolding him about his posture even as she closed the door, the room fell into a deep silence. The only sound was the crackling of the fire in the hearth. He picked at the stew, the rich aroma suddenly making him aware of his hollow hunger. But as he ate, his mind wandered back, unprompted, to the arena.
He saw Garic's face, twisted not just with anger, but with a cruel, petty joy. He heard his own voice, flat and cold as a glacier, uttering those words: "Do you want to die?" The memory sent a shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. That voice hadn't felt like his. It had felt like something else speaking through him, something that had been waiting in the dark corners of his soul.
He pushed the tray away, his appetite gone. He sighed, the sound loud in the quiet room, and let his head fall into his hands. His shoulders, held taut with pride and tension all day, finally sagged.
What was that? he asked the empty room. Who was that?
He had won. He had protected Ronald from a grievous, possibly fatal injury. By any measure, he had done the right thing. But the means… the cold, ruthless efficiency, the unveiled threat that went far beyond the bounds of a simple duel… it felt wrong. It felt like a betrayal of the discipline his father had drilled into him.
Father always said true strength is a controlled burn, not a wildfire. The Duke's calm, authoritative face surfaced in his mind. Alistair Graythorn's power was a thing of immense, unshakable control. He never raised his voice, yet his commands were obeyed instantly. His sword strokes were precise, never wasteful. His strength was a shelter, not a weapon of terror.
I can't… I can't become a monster trying to protect them. I have to be better than this.
The thought was a resolution. He stood up, ignoring the deep ache in his muscles, and walked over to the training sword. He picked it up, the familiar weight of the polished wood a comfort and a rebuke. He looked at his reflection, distorted and wavering in the blade's curve.
"I'll fix it," he whispered, the words a vow to his reflection. "Tomorrow, I'll show them. I'll show myself. My strength isn't that… that flash of rage. It's a shield. It's something you can rely on."
He moved to the center of the rug, his feet sliding into a ready stance without conscious thought. He drew a deep breath, pulling the air down into his core, feeling the Vitalis Energy stir in response. He shut his eyes, and one by one, he let the world fall away. The pop of the fire faded. The whisper of the wind outside the window vanished. There was only the rhythm of his heart, the flow of his breath, and the whisper of the wooden blade cutting through the air.
Calm. Precise. Unshakable.
He began the most basic of forms, the ones he'd learned as a small child. His muscles screamed in protest, stiff and bruised, but he pushed through the pain, forcing them to obey his will, not his fatigue. Each swing was a meditation. Each step was a reaffirmation of control. Sweat beaded on his forehead, tracing clean lines through the arena dust on his skin, but he didn't stop. He moved from the basic forms to more complex sequences, his body flowing through the motions, a dance of discipline and focus.
This is how I get stronger. Not by losing control, but by mastering it.
After what felt like an eternity, his body could take no more. He stilled, lowering the sword, his chest heaving. He let out a long, shuddering breath, and some of the weight that had been crushing his spirit seemed to lift with it. He was still weary to his bones, but it was a clean weariness, earned through effort, not anguish.
He sat back on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the grain of the wooden floorboards. His mind was clearer, the self-doubt quieted, if not entirely silenced.
A soft knock at the door broke the silence.
"Leonel?"
His head snapped up. It was his mother.
"Come in," he called, quickly running a hand through his damp hair.
The door opened and Lady Seraphina Graythorn entered. She had changed from her formal court attire into a simple, elegant dressing gown, but her presence still filled the room. She didn't speak at first. Her sharp, perceptive eyes—the same blue as his own—took in the scene: the discarded tray of food, the sheen of sweat on his skin, the training sword leaning against the bed. She saw the exhaustion, but also the determined set of his jaw. Then, without a word, she stepped forward and flicked him smartly on the forehead.
"Ow! Mother!" he yelped, more out of surprise than pain, rubbing the spot. "What was that for?"
"For giving me ten new gray hairs today," Seraphina said, crossing her arms. Her expression was a familiar blend of love and sternness. "Do you have any idea what you did? Interrupting a sanctioned duel, appearing out of nowhere like a specter… Leonel, what possessed you?"
He ducked his head, a sheepish look on his face. "I was saving a life. Doesn't that count for something?"
"It counts for a great deal," she admitted, her tone softening a fraction. "But the way you did it…" She paused, and for the first time, he saw a flicker of something else in her eyes—not anger, but a deep, maternal fear. "It wasn't you, Leonel. You were reckless. And for a moment there…" She hesitated, then shook her head slightly. "You looked like a stranger. You looked like one of those men consumed by battle-rage. It was terrifying."
Leonel blinked, her words landing with the force of a physical blow. "Terrifying? Me?"
"Yes, you," she said, her voice quiet but intense. She came and sat beside him on the bed, the mattress dipping with her weight. "I have stood on battlements and watched armies clash. I have seen good men lose themselves to the red haze. It is a terrible, ugly thing. And today, in my son's eyes, I saw a glimpse of it."
Leonel's shoulders slumped. The sting of her words was sharper than any lash. He opened his mouth to argue, to explain, but she lifted a hand.
"Listen to me," she said softly, her voice firm. She reached out and placed her hand on his cheek, her touch cool and steadying. "Strength is not measured by how fiercely you can destroy. It is measured by how steadfastly you can protect. You are not a brute, Leonel. You are my son. You are a Graythorn. And we do not let our anger rule us."
Leonel swallowed hard, the truth of her words cutting through the last of his defensiveness. "I know, Mother. I… I let it get the better of me. I felt it… a coldness. I promise you, I will master it."
Seraphina studied his face for a long, quiet moment, her gaze searching his. Finally, a faint, relieved smile touched her lips. She brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "Good. That is all I ask. Your father and I, we believe in the man you are becoming. Never forget that."
Leonel managed a small, genuine smile in return. "Thank you, Mother. I won't let you down."
She rose to her feet, the stern line of her shoulders relaxing. "Get some proper rest now. Tomorrow demands a clear head."
She turned to leave, but as her hand touched the door handle, he called out.
"Wait!"
She paused, glancing back over her shoulder, one eyebrow arched in question.
"You're not going to mention how incredibly dashing I looked? The way I caught his blade? The timing? The sheer, breathtaking skill of it all?"
A slow, amused smirk spread across Seraphina's face. She shook her head, a fond exasperation in her eyes. "You are utterly impossible, Leonel."
"But you love me."
"I do," she conceded with a soft chuckle. "And yes, it was… impressively done. Now, for heaven's sake, go to sleep before your ego wears out the floorboards."
She slipped out, closing the door behind her with a quiet click.
Leonel fell back onto his bed, the soft feathers of the mattress embracing his weary body. He stared up at the familiar cracks in the ceiling plaster, his mother's words echoing in the quiet chamber.
Strength that protects, not strength that destroys.
The resolve that had been forged in the heat of his solo practice now cooled into something harder, more durable. He would not be defined by that moment of rage. He would learn from it. He would control it.
He would protect his family, his house, his friends. But he would do it with a steady hand and a calm heart. He would be a shield, not a sword swung in blind fury.