The routine at Fort Bastion was immediately demanding. Riven, with his relentless focus, plunged into the fortress's logistical nightmare, dragging his unit and several unhappy Fort officers through piles of rotting rations and faulty equipment. Vaelorian, meanwhile, began his "inspection" with pointed questions about troop morale and supply flow, all delivered with an air of regal dissatisfaction.
General Korvan was a man of old habits and deep-seated prejudice, and he was not pleased. The arrival of the flamboyant Crown Prince and the former-outcast young Lord of House Ashbourne, now a field logistics commander was a disruptive nightmare. He couldn't openly defy the Crown Prince, so he channeled his frustration into relentless scrutiny.
Korvan watched the two young men with hawk-like intensity. He noticed how Riven would subtly shift to stand between Vaelorian and any source of hot air, or how Vaelorian's eyes would soften only when Riven was speaking. He was looking for any weakness, any infraction, anything to use against them.
Sir Eryndor, always Vaelorian's shadow, caught the General's hostile glares and made sure his presence was a constant, solid shield between the Prince and Korvan's malice.
One cold night, Riven and Vaelorian needed a moment away from the suffocating scrutiny. They had slipped out of the noisy Officer's Mess, using the pretense of some unfinished paperwork review. They found a secluded, abandoned stretch of the outer wall, the only place where the wind couldn't carry whispers.
Riven pulled Vaelorian into the shadows, his voice a weary whisper. "I swear, the General is being a pain in my ass on purpose. He hates me."
"He hates what we represent, my love," Vaelorian corrected, resting his forehead against the Riven's. "Change. Youth. And the unsettling fact that I'm choosing not to follow traditions."
Riven didn't even bother answering with words. He simply pulled Vaelorian closer and kissed him—a long, hungry kiss that spoke of the longing, the fear, and the intense love that bounds them. Vaelorian responded with equal hunger, his fingers finding their way into Riven's hair. It was in that moment of intense reckless intimacy that Riven's acute sense triggered. Over Vaelorian's shoulder, a shadow shifted too quickly behind a stack of crates.
It was General Korvan. The old man had been following them. His grim satisfaction was clear even from the distance. He finally had his evidence.
Riven pulled away from the kiss, his eyes instantly hardening. "We have company, that nosy bastard." he murmured, pushing Vaelorian back slightly.
Korvan, realizing he'd been spotted, turned to retreat back into the night. He didn't get far. Riven took two quick, silent steps, using the speed Vaelorian shared with him, his focus absolute. He locked eyes with the General just as Korvan was about to disappear around the corner. Riven's unique, second gift—flashed outwards, sharp and instant.
Riven whispered, "You followed no one. You saw nothing. You will forget this moment entirely. Now, leave."
Korvan stumbled, momentarily dazed. He shook his head, looking around with confusion, then muttered something about needing to check the watch schedule and walked slowly in the opposite direction, his eyes unfocused. The memory of the wall, the shadows, and the Prince's kiss had been cleanly erased.
Vaelorian, who had watched the entire silent exchange with a mix of awe and terror, let out a shaky breath. "Gods, Riven. Your second gift..."
"Came in handy," Riven finished, his voice still tense. He walked back to the Prince, looking unusually calm. "He won't remember a thing. Not following us, not the kiss. But he'll definitely still be looking for faults in our reports tomorrow."
They held each other in the cold silence, the weight of Riven's power and the General's malice sinking in. They had survived another threat, but Riven was tired of playing defense.
The next morning, the General was back to his routine of micro-managing and passive aggression. He had no memory of the night's spying, yet his resentment remained.
Riven presented his final report on the fort's disastrous supply deficit—a report that should have warranted respect, not disdain. Korvan merely tossed it aside.
"Lord Riven, while your penmanship is admirable, your conclusions are alarmist and lack practical military experience," Korvan sniffed, looking Riven up and down. "Perhaps if you spent less time… adjusting the Prince's schedule and more time on the training fields, you'd understand the realities of a frontier post."
The veiled insult was too much. It was not just an attack on his competence; it was a clear dig at his relationship with Vaelorian, a challenge to his status as a field commander. Riven had kept his cool because of his new position but that reserve has finally shattered. He had faced gruesome hours of training, an assassination attempt and his father's disapproval to be here; he's not going to tolerate the General's insults any longer.
Riven stood perfectly still, his voice dangerously low. "General, you have questioned my abilities and, by extension, the judgment of the Crown. Since your memory seems to be failing, let me remind you of my practical military experience."
He didn't look at Vaelorian, who was watching from the corner of the room, Eryndor already tense beside him.
Riven looked directly at the General, his eyes steel.
"I challenge you to a duel on the training grounds. Field Commander to General. Weapons of your choice. I suggest this afternoon. The winner will have earned the right to have his reports respected and his authority unquestioned."
The General stared, his jaw slack as he watched Riven walk away. He hadn't expected the logistics Lord to be so fiercely, dangerously brave.
The air in the small antechamber where Vaelorian, Riven, and Eryndor conferred was thick with tension. Riven's challenge had been bold, very necessary, and potentially disastrous.
"That was reckless, Riven!" Eryndor hissed, pacing the confined space. He ran a hand through his perpetually neat hair. "You don't challenge a General commanding a key Imperial fortress, regardless of the insult. You file a report! This is going to cause a scandal in the Capital!"
Riven stood calmly, checking the leather bindings on his bracers. "The General would have simply dismissed the report and continued undermining our authority. He forced my hand, Sir Eryndor. Disdain festers. I have to cut it out now."
Vaelorian stepped forward, his expression worried. "I agree with Riven. Korvan went too far. But Riven, promise me you won't lose your temper. You know how skilled you are; the man is old and spiteful. I am worried you'll take things too far. This is about respect, not execution."
Riven turned to face Vaelorian, taking the Prince's hands and squeezing them reassuringly.
"I promise, I will keep my cool. I'm not fighting for his blood; I'm fighting for the right to do my job and for your authority to be respected. In other words, I just want to kick the General's ass. He needs to be put in his place the only way old-timers like him understand." Riven finished with a mischievous grin.
Vaelorian sighed, knowing this was Riven's way of securing their place in the Fort. "Fine. But if your fight draws a political crisis, you'll owe me big time for helping you."
The news of the duel spread like wildfire, and by the time they reached the dusty, windswept training yard, half the fort's garrison was assembled. General Korvan, relishing the unexpected opportunity to publicly humiliate the young Lord, set the terms with smug confidence.
"The conditions are simple," Korvan announced, his voice booming across the yard. "First man to yield, or first blood drawn that incapacitates the opponent. My weapon will be the heavy, one-handed war mace." He smiled thinly, knowing Riven was a blade specialist.
Riven didn't flinch. "Very well, General. And I shall choose my own weapon." He turned and looked at Vaelorian, who stood with Eryndor on the sideline. "Your Highness, may I borrow your swords?"
Vaelorian looked surprised at first, then a small smile spread across his face. His twin swords were impeccably balanced, and devastatingly fast and they had recognized Riven as someone important to their master—Riven's choice was a calculated choice of speed over brute force.
Vaelorian nodded. "They are yours, Lord Riven."
Eryndor thrust the ornate, silver-hilted blades into Riven's hands, his worry evident.
"Break a leg, Riven."
The signal horn blared. Korvan, relying on weight and mass, immediately charged, swinging the heavy mace in wide, crushing arcs. Riven, however, was a whirlwind of controlled, furious motion.
He moved faster than the General could track, the twin swords blurring into red and silver lines. He didn't engage the mace directly, knowing its weight would overwhelm the lighter swords. Instead, he used his speed to constantly shift the terrain, forcing Korvan to turn and waste energy.
Vaelorian watched, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles were white. Eryndor stood beside him, a low sound of professional appreciation escaping him as Riven executed a flawless spin and dodge.
Riven kept his promise. He was cool, precise, and utterly dominant. After five brutal minutes, Korvan was panting, his mace swings growing sluggish. Riven saw his opening. He feigned a strike with the left blade, drawing Korvan's heavy mace to block high. In the fractional pause, Riven's right blade flashed out, not for the throat, but for the General's sword hand.
Clang!
The blade didn't draw deep blood, but it cut through the General's thick gauntlet, enough to incapacitate the tendons and send a shockwave of pain up his arm. The heavy war mace slipped from Korvan's grasp and clattered onto the dirt.
Korvan stood stock-still, breathing heavily, his eyes wide with shock and pain. The yard was silent.
Riven lowered the twin swords, their points resting lightly on the ground.
"Do you yield, General?"
Korvan, though defeated, was a soldier to his core. He met Riven's eyes—no longer a despised court favorite, but a formidable opponent.
"I yield, Lord Riven."
A roar of approval erupted from the garrison.
Riven walked over, sheathed the swords, and offered his clean, ungloved hand to the older man. "I trust my reports will be treated with the respect they deserve, General."
Korvan grimaced, but he took the hand, a flicker of old-fashioned respect replacing the venom in his eyes.
"They will, Lord Riven. You fought well."
The General's authority was broken, replaced by a grudging respect Riven had earned with steel and skill. Their command was now secure, but the victory had been loud, and the whole Empire would soon hear about it.