The square held its breath.
Dorian's grin was molten gold, burning bright against the crimson and black of his tailored attire. Rings gleamed on his fingers as he rolled his sleeves, voice carrying like the crackle of fire.
"Come now, Lucian. Don't keep them waiting. Unless, of course, you'd rather hide behind silks and titles?"
Lucian smiled faintly, eyes calm as glass. "You always did love an audience."
"A duel, Ashthorn," Dorian declared, his voice booming across the market. "For honor, for pride, and for the truth these good people deserve!"
The crowd roared, circling tight like wolves sensing blood. Merchants abandoned their stalls, children perched on crates, and whispers braided into a single cry: Fight! Fight!
Lucian exhaled softly. He was not dressed for this. Dark shirt, plain boots, no blade at his side, hardly the picture of a man ready to brawl. Then again, he had no plan to win with fists.
Dorian lunged first, a punch slicing the air. Lucian slid back, effortless as a shadow peeling from stone.
"Still quick," Dorian taunted, throwing another swing. "But all dodge and no bite? Come now. Show them the strength of House Ashthorn."
Lucian tilted his head, sidestepping. The cobblestones kissed his heels as he flowed around every strike like water curling past a blade. He did not answer. Words were wasted when silence spoke louder.
Elinor's voice shattered the tension like a thrown stone. "Punch him in the nose, Luci!"
Lucian flicked a glance her way. She was bouncing on her toes like a tiny general commanding an army.
"Kick him in the shin, Luci!!" she yelled again, tiny fists pumping.
Lucian blinked, a wry thought sliding through his mind. Remind me to ask where she learned that.
Dorian barked a laugh, pivoting into a sweeping hook. Lucian spun away, boots whispering over stone.
"Still dancing?" Dorian's grin was all teeth. "You will tire soon."
"Perhaps," Lucian murmured, just loud enough for him to hear.
Another punch. Another dodge. And in between, a flicker of something more—small gestures disguised in motion, a rhythm no one watching would understand.
To the crowd, it was a storm of fists and fury. To them, it was something else entirely, veiled in silence and steel-edged smiles.
Elinor clapped her hands and shouted, "Yes! Like that, Luci! Show him!"
Dorian's knuckles grazed air. Lucian slipped past, his body a current of calm defiance.
"Is this all?" Dorian jeered, throwing a brutal jab. "A future lord who fights like a coward?"
Lucian's lips curved, faint and sharp. "If that comforts you."
And then, as if bored with the game, Lucian moved. A sudden twist, a sharp shift of weight, and Dorian stumbled forward, momentum betraying him. Lucian's boot hooked his ankle, clean and quiet.
The golden heir hit the cobblestones with a grunt, curses biting the air.
Lucian did not stay to gloat. He scooped Elinor into his arms, her laughter bright as bells, and vanished into the tide of bodies before the gasps turned to shouts.
"Luci, that was amazing!" she squealed against his shoulder. "You were like whoosh! And he was like thud!"
Lucian huffed a quiet laugh. "Very accurate."
"And I cheered so much!" she added proudly. "You owe me sweets. And a fox. And—oh, maybe a pony."
"A pony?" Lucian raised a brow, weaving through the crowd with her perched like a queen. "Why stop there? Shall I get you a castle too?"
"Yes!" she declared without hesitation. "With pink towers!"
Behind them, Dorian's voice rose, rich with fury and laughter both. "Run while you can, Ashthorn! This is not over!"
Lucian only smiled, his grip tightening on the small weight in his arms as he darted into a narrow alley branching off the square, the din of the crowd fading behind them like a swallowed storm.