The funeral was held three days after my mother's death.
Three days passed in a blur of numbness and rage that I barely controlled. Three days of servants whispering. Three days of my half-siblings' mothers looking satisfied behind their mourning veils. Three days of guards investigating and finding nothing.
Three days of my father not arriving.
He finally returned the morning of the funeral, riding through the gates with an escort of Royal Knights. I watched from my window as he dismounted, his face carved from stone, and strode into the manor without looking at anyone.
I waited for him to summon me. To hold me. To grieve together.
He didn't.
The funeral was held in the Ashford family chapel, a cold stone building that smelled of incense and old prayers. All the nobility of the region attended, duty demanded it. The Duke's wife had been murdered, after all. Political statement, dangerous precedent, all those calculated concerns that meant more than actual grief.
My mother lay in an ornate casket, dressed in her finest gown. Blue, like the dress she'd worn when she'd held me after I destroyed the training dummy. Her face was peaceful, beautiful even in death, but wrong. So wrong.
She didn't look like my mother anymore. Just a doll made to resemble her.
I sat in the front row beside my father. His face was expressionless, granite-hard. He stared straight ahead at the priest conducting the ceremony, not at the casket. Not at me.
"Heinrich Ashford is a man of stone," I'd heard someone whisper once. "Nothing breaks him. Nothing touches him."
I'd thought they were wrong. I'd seen him soften with my mother. Seen him smile, seen warmth in those ice-blue eyes.
But now, looking at his profile, I wondered if I'd imagined all of it. If the warmth had been an illusion, I'd wanted to believe.
Behind us sat my half-siblings and their mothers. I could feel their eyes on the back of my head. Could almost hear their thoughts: One less rival. One less threat. One fewer obstacle to inheritance. How was my mother a threat?
The priest droned on about eternal rest and the mercy of the gods. Empty words that meant nothing.
I wanted to scream. To overturn the casket. To demand answers. To make everyone hurt as much as I was hurting.
But I sat still. Silent. Proper.
Because that's what noble children did at funerals.
The ceremony ended. People filed past the casket to pay their respects. Empty condolences fell like rain.
"She was a wonderful woman."
"Such a tragedy."
"Our deepest sympathies."
Lies. All of it lies.
I stood beside the casket as they passed, my face carefully blank, accepting their false sympathy with mechanical nods.
Then I saw her.
Sera.
She was thirteen now, nearly fourteen. She'd grown taller, her features maturing from childhood into something that promised genuine beauty. Her blonde hair was arranged simply for the funeral, her blue-green eyes red from crying.
She'd been crying. For my mother. For me.
She approached slowly, and unlike everyone else, she didn't offer empty condolences.
She just looked at me. Really looked at me. Saw past the blank face to the barely controlled rage and grief beneath.
"Aldric," she said softly.
That's all. Just my name.
But something in the way she said it, with genuine care, genuine pain for my pain, broke through the numbness.
My carefully controlled expression cracked. Tears started falling before I could stop them.
I turned away, ashamed. Noble children didn't cry at funerals. They stood strong. They maintained composure.
But Sera's hand found mine. Small and warm in my cold, numb fingers.
"It's okay," she whispered. "You're allowed to be sad. You don't have to be strong right now."
The words were too much. The kindness was too much.
I broke.
Not visibly, I maintained enough control for that. But inside, something fundamental shifted.
Sera didn't let go of my hand. Just stood there beside me, silently offering support while the rest of the funeral proceeded around us.
She was the only real thing in a room full of lies and performances.
The only light in a darkness that threatened to consume me.
When the funeral finally ended and people began to disperse, I didn't want to let go of her hand.
"Thank you," I managed to whisper.
"You don't have to thank me." She squeezed my hand gently before releasing it. "I'm your friend, Aldric. That's what friends do."
Friend.
Yes. Friend.
But as I watched her walk away with her father, something deeper than friendship was taking root in my chest. Something that felt like drowning and breathing at the same time.
The investigation into my mother's death went nowhere.
My father hired the best investigators. They questioned every servant, every guard, everyone who'd had access to my mother's chambers. They tested everything—food, water, wine, the very air in her rooms.
Nothing.
The poison had been too subtle, the perpetrator too careful. Whoever had done this had planned perfectly, left no trace.
"It could have been anyone," the lead investigator finally reported. "A servant bribed by a rival family. One of the other wives acting through intermediaries. Someone with a grudge we don't know about. Without evidence, we cannot determine the culprit."
My father's face remained stone. "Continue investigating. I want answers."
But weeks passed. Then months. And still nothing.
The case went cold.
The manor moved on.
But I didn't.
And neither did my father.
He became colder after the funeral. More distant. He threw himself into his duties with mechanical efficiency, spending more time at court, less time at the manor. When he was home, he barely spoke to anyone. Barely looked at me.
I tried to talk to him once, a month after the funeral.
"Father, can we...."
"Not now, Aldric. I'm busy."
"But I wanted to talk about Mother...."
His ice-blue eyes finally met mine, and they were empty. "What's done is done. Grieving won't bring her back. The investigation continues. That's all there is to say."
He turned back to his paperwork, dismissing me.
I stood there for a moment, wanting to scream that I needed him, that we should be grieving together, that we'd both lost someone precious.
But his coldness was a wall I couldn't breach.
I left his study and didn't try again.
My father had locked his grief away behind duty and distance.
And I was left alone with mine.
Cedric found me in the training yard a week after the funeral.
I hadn't been back since my mother's death. Hadn't wanted to. What was the point? I'd trained for years, gotten strong, and it hadn't mattered. Hadn't saved her. Hadn't protected anyone.
"You need to start training again," Cedric said without preamble.
"Why?" My voice was flat, dead. "What's the point?"
"The point is not becoming useless. Your skills are already degrading. Give it another month, and you'll be back where you were at age six."
"Good. Then I'll match how I feel."
Cedric was quiet for a long moment. Then he sat on the bench beside where I was standing.
"Your mother's death wasn't your fault."
"I know." The words tasted like ash.
"Do you? Because you're acting like someone who blames themselves."
I didn't respond.
"You couldn't have prevented this," Cedric continued. "You're ten years old. Even if you'd been training every day, even if you'd been the greatest swordsman in the kingdom, you couldn't have stopped a skilled poisoner. Poison doesn't care about combat prowess."
"I should have noticed something. Should have been more vigilant. Should have..."
"Should have what? Tested all her food? Watched her every moment? You're a child, not a bodyguard." His voice hardened slightly. "Your mother had trained guards, a food taster, and every precaution. Someone still got through. That's not on you."
"Then who is it on?"
"The person who did it. And your father, whose responsibility it was to ensure security." He looked at me directly. "You want to be angry? Be angry. You want to grieve? Grieve. But don't take responsibility for failures that weren't yours."
"What if I want to make sure it never happens again?" I asked quietly. "What if I want to be strong enough that no one can hurt the people I care about ever again?"
"Then you come back to training. You get stronger. But you do it with a clear purpose, not desperate grief." He stood. "I'll be here tomorrow at dawn. Show up or don't. Your choice."
He left me alone in the training yard.
I showed up the next morning.
Not because I'd found peace. Not because I'd processed my grief.
Because Cedric was right. Wallowing in guilt was pointless. Action was the only thing that mattered.
I would get stronger.
Strong enough that I'd never feel this helpless again.
Strong enough to protect what mattered.
Strong enough to make whoever did this pay.
Training became obsessive.
I threw myself into it with single-minded focus. Every morning with Cedric, learning advanced techniques. Every afternoon practicing alone in the yard. Every evening, studying combat theory, magical enhancement, anything that could make me more capable.
"You're pushing too hard," Cedric warned after a month. "Training angry makes you sloppy. You need to find balance."
"I don't want balance. I want to be better."
"Better at what? Self-destruction?" He blocked another of my strikes. "You're regressing, Aldric. Your technique is getting worse, not better, because you're fighting emotionally instead of strategically."
He was right. I knew he was right.
But I couldn't stop.
Because stopping meant thinking. And thinking meant feeling. And feeling meant confronting the enormous, crushing weight of loss and guilt that threatened to drown me.
So I trained. And trained. And trained.
Until my body was too exhausted to think anymore.
The only respite was thoughts of Sera.
I found myself thinking about her constantly. Her warmth at the funeral. The way she'd held my hand without judgment. The genuine care in her eyes.
She was light in a world that had gone dark.
She'd sent me a letter a week after the funeral:
Dear Aldric,
I'm sorry I couldn't stay longer at the funeral. Father had obligations we had to attend. But I wanted you to know I'm thinking of you. Losing a parent is the worst pain in the world. I know. I remember.
You don't have to be strong all the time. You don't have to have all the answers. You're allowed to hurt. You're allowed to be angry. You're allowed to need help.
I'm here if you need to talk. Even if it's just to sit in silence together.
Your friend,Sera
I read that letter dozens of times. Dozens. Until the paper was worn soft and the ink was smudged from my fingers.
She understood. She'd lost her mother, too. She knew what this felt like.
I wrote back:
Dear Sera,
Thank you for your kindness at the funeral. It meant more than you know. You were the only real thing in a room full of performances.
I'm trying to be okay. I'm training again. Trying to get stronger so this never happens again.
I miss her every day. The manor feels empty without her. Like all the warmth left with her.
Thank you for being my friend. It helps.
Aldric
Her response came quickly:
Dear Aldric,
I'm glad you're training again, but please don't forget to take care of yourself, too. Strength is important, but so is rest. So is letting yourself feel.
We're having a small gathering next month for my birthday. Just a few families. Father says you and your father are invited. Please come if you can. I'd love to see you again.
And Aldric? You're not alone. Please remember that.
Sera
I went to that gathering. My father declined, too busy with court matters, but he allowed me to attend with an escort of guards.
Sera was radiant that day, dressed in a pale blue gown that matched her eyes, smiling and laughing with her guests. She was turning fourteen, at that age where childhood was becoming something else.
She found me standing awkwardly near the refreshments table.
"Aldric!" Her face lit up. "You came! I was worried you wouldn't."
"I said I would."
"I know, but..." She glanced around, then lowered her voice. "How are you? Really?"
"Fine."
"Aldric."
The way she said my name, gentle but insistent, made the lie impossible.
"I'm... managing," I admitted. "Training helps. Keeping busy helps. Thinking doesn't."
"That's understandable." She took my hand, just like at the funeral, and I realized how much I'd missed that simple contact. "Come on. There's someone I want you to meet."
She led me through the gathering to where a boy about our age stood talking to an older man. The boy was tall for his age, with dark brown hair and warm hazel eyes. He had an easy smile and confident bearing that spoke of someone comfortable in his own skin.
"Aldric, this is Lucas Hartwell, son of Duke Hartwell. Lucas, this is Aldric Ashford."
The Duke's son. I'd heard of him. Same age as Sera and me, considered a prodigy in both combat and magic, genuinely kind according to reputation.
He extended his hand with a friendly smile. "Aldric. I've heard good things about you. My father says your father is one of the few honest men at court."
"That's what Adelaide's father said, too," Sera added.
I shook his hand, feeling immediately defensive. He was everything I wasn't confident, comfortable, unburdened by grief or guilt.
"I heard about your mother," Lucas said, his expression becoming serious. "I'm sorry for your loss. That kind of pain doesn't really go away, but it does get... easier to carry, eventually."
The sympathy sounded genuine. Felt genuine.
I hated it.
"Thank you," I said stiffly.
Sera must have sensed my discomfort because she changed the subject. "Lucas is entering the Royal Academy in two years. Same as us! He's been studying with private tutors; apparently, he's incredible at wind magic."
"You're too kind," Lucas said, but he looked pleased. "I've had good teachers. What about you, Aldric? What's your magical affinity?"
"I don't have one. My mana is colorless."
His eyebrows rose. "Really? That's rare. Means you can theoretically learn any type, right?"
"Theoretically."
"That's actually advantageous in the long term," he said thoughtfully. "Most of us are limited by our affinities. You're not. That's powerful in its own way."
He was being nice. Genuinely nice. Making me feel better about something that had always felt like a weakness.
And I resented him for it.
We talked for a while longer, or rather, Sera and Lucas talked while I contributed monosyllables. They had an easy rapport, joking and laughing like old friends.
"We've known each other since we were children," Sera explained when I asked. "Our fathers are friends, so we see each other at gatherings fairly often."
Friends. They were friends.
That shouldn't have bothered me. Sera was allowed to have friends.
But watching them together, the easy smiles, the comfortable conversation, the way Lucas made her laugh, something dark twisted in my chest.
He was competition. Threat. Obstacle.
The thought came unbidden, automatic.
And I hated myself for thinking it.
But I couldn't stop.
Three years passed.
Three years of training obsessively. Three years of my father's continued coldness. Three years of the investigation into my mother's death remain unsolved.
Three years of seeing Sera at various noble functions and watching Lucas always be there, too. Always making her laugh. Always being kind and charming and everything, I couldn't manage to be any more.
I was thirteen now, and my personality had calcified around my grief and rage.
I was skilled, genuinely skilled. Cedric said I was advancing faster than any student he'd ever taught. My mana control was exceptional. My swordsmanship was deadly. I'd mastered the Ashford family technique and several other advanced forms.
But I'd also become possessive. Jealous. Desperate.
Sera had become my lifeline. The only person who could make me feel something other than anger or numbness. Every letter from her, every conversation at gatherings, every smile she gave me, they were air to someone drowning.
And I wanted more of them.
All of them.
I started arranging to be wherever she was. Requesting my father's permission to attend every event where the Blackwood family would be present. Finding excuses to write to her more often.
She responded with her usual warmth, never seeming to notice, or at least, never mentioning, how intense I was becoming.
But I could see it in others' eyes. The way servants looked at me when I asked about upcoming events. The way Cedric watched me with concern during training.
"You're fixating," he said once.
"I don't know what you mean."
"On the Blackwood girl. You talk about her constantly. Plan your schedule around seeing her. Get agitated when that Hartwell boy is mentioned." He looked at me seriously. "Attachment isn't bad, Aldric. But obsession is."
"I'm not obsessed. She's my friend. My best friend. The only person who..."
"Who what? Understands you? Cares about you? Makes you feel less alone?" He sighed. "Those are all reasons to value someone. Not reasons to own them."
"I don't want to own her."
But even as I said it, I knew it was a lie.
I wanted her to choose me. To see me the way I saw her. To be mine in a way that meant Lucas and everyone else didn't matter.
I was in love with her.
Had been for years, probably. Since the funeral, when she'd been the only light in the darkness.
But I couldn't tell her. Not yet. Not until I was strong enough. Not until I'd proven I deserved her. Not until the timing was perfect.
So I waited. And watched. And grew increasingly possessive of something that wasn't mine to possess.
The breaking point came at a banquet celebrating the King's anniversary on the throne.
All the major noble families were there, including the Blackwoods and the Hartwells.
I was thirteen years and eight months old. Sera was sixteen. Lucas was sixteen.
We were all entering the Royal Academy in less than two years.
The banquet was elaborate, political, and exhausting. I'd learned to navigate these events, the careful conversations, the strategic alliances, the performative courtesy.
But I was there for one reason: Sera.
I found her in the garden, standing by the fountain where we'd talked at that first meeting years ago. She was beautiful, genuinely beautiful now, no longer just promising it. Her blonde hair was arranged in an elegant style, her dress a deep blue that made her eyes even more striking.
She was talking to Lucas.
Of course, she was.
They were laughing about something, standing close but not inappropriately so. Friends. Just friends.
But the sight of them together made something hot and poisonous rise in my chest.
I approached, forcing a smile. "Sera. Lucas."
"Aldric!" Sera's face lit up. "I was hoping you'd be here. Lucas was just telling me about his new wind technique. It sounds amazing."
"I'm sure," I said, barely looking at Lucas. "Sera, can I talk to you? Privately?"
"Oh, um..." She glanced at Lucas. "We were in the middle of...."
"It's important," I pressed. And then, hating myself even as I said it: "It's about my mother."
Sera's expression immediately softened. "Of course. Lucas, do you mind?"
"Not at all," Lucas said easily. "I'll find you later?"
"Sure."
He left, and I finally had Sera to myself.
But now that I did, I didn't know what to say. I'd used my mother's death as an excuse, exaggerated my grief, and manipulated her kindness just to get her alone.
The guilt was immediate and sharp.
"What's wrong?" Sera asked, touching my arm gently. "Is it about the anniversary? I know these events must be hard without her."
"I..." I tried to think of something, anything that would justify having pulled her away. "I just needed to see you. To talk to you. We haven't had a chance to really talk in months."
"We write to each other every week," she pointed out, confused.
"It's not the same. Letters aren't..." I reached for her hand. "Sera, you're the only person who makes things better. The only one who...."
"Aldric." She pulled her hand back gently. "What's this really about?"
The direct question caught me off guard.
"What do you mean?"
"You used your mother's death to get me alone. That's not like you." Her blue-green eyes were searching my face. "What's going on?"
She'd caught me. Seen through the manipulation.
Shame flooded through me, but I pushed it down. I was committed now.
"I just wanted to talk to you without Lucas hovering around all the time," I said, and it came out more bitter than I'd intended.
"Lucas isn't hovering. He's my friend."
"He's always here. Every event, every gathering. Always talking to you, making you laugh, taking up your time..."
"Taking up my time?" Sera's expression shifted, became something I'd never seen on her face before. Hurt. Disappointed. "Aldric, I have more than one friend. That's normal. That's healthy."
"I know, but..." I reached for her arm. "Can we just go somewhere else? Talk properly? Just the two of us?"
"Aldric, let go." Her voice was still gentle, but there was steel underneath. "You're being..."
"Please." I pulled slightly, trying to guide her toward a more secluded part of the garden.
"Aldric, I said—" She pulled back, trying to free her arm.
I held on. Pulled harder. My training-strengthened grip tightening without meaning to.
There was a sharp crack.
Sera cried out in pain, falling to her knees.
Oh hell no.
I'd broken her wrist.
I could see it already swelling, bent at a wrong angle, her face white with shock and pain.
"Sera, I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."
"What's going on here?"
Lucas's voice. He'd heard her cry out, come running.
He took in the scene instantly, Sera on the ground cradling her wrist, me standing over her, the guilt written all over my face.
"What did you do?" His voice was dangerous, all the easy friendliness gone.
"It was an accident...."
"Unhand her. Now." He moved between us, helping Sera to her feet while keeping his body between me and her.
A crowd was gathering. Nobles drawn by the commotion. Guards approaching.
This was bad. This was so bad.
Everyone was staring. Everyone had seen. Everyone would know I'd hurt her.
I needed to salvage this. Needed to save face. Needed to...
"It was an accident," I said loudly, for the crowd. "She stumbled, I tried to catch her..."
"That's not what happened," Lucas said coldly. "You were pulling her arm. I saw it."
He was going to destroy my reputation. Make me look like a monster in front of everyone.
I had to do something. Had to regain control of the situation.
"You're calling me a liar?" I asked, letting anger bleed into my voice. "You think you know what happened better than I do?"
"I know what I saw," Lucas said evenly. "You hurt her. Intentionally or not, you hurt her. And now you're trying to cover it up."
The crowd was whispering. Guards were getting closer. My father's reputation hung in the balance.
I made a decision. A stupid, desperate, prideful decision.
"If you question my honor," I said formally, "then I challenge you to a duel. First blood. Tomorrow at noon. Swords."
The crowd gasped. Duels were legal among nobles, but rare. Usually reserved for serious grievances.
Lucas looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "Are you serious?"
"Completely. Unless you want to retract your accusation?"
I was gambling. Betting he'd back down. Betting he wouldn't want the scandal of a duel over something so trivial.
But Lucas's expression hardened. "I accept. Tomorrow at noon."
Fuck.
"Aldric, no," Sera said, her voice pained—whether from her wrist or the situation, I couldn't tell. "This is ridiculous. There's no need—"
"The challenge has been issued and accepted," one of the older nobles said. "It must proceed."
From the crowd, I caught sight of Cedric. His face was carved from stone, but his eyes were screaming at me: What have you done?
I'd let pride and desperation drive me into a corner.
And now I had to fight my way out.
Cedric found me immediately after the banquet ended.
"What. The. Fuck. Was that?"
I'd never heard him curse before. Never seen him this angry.
"I had to..."
"You had to what? Challenge a boy to a duel because you broke your friend's wrist and didn't want to admit it?" He grabbed my shoulders, forced me to look at him. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"I'll win. I'm skilled enough to..."
"You're skilled, yes. But Lucas Hartwell is a prodigy. Wind affinity, combat training since age five, tutored by some of the best instructors in the kingdom. You think you can beat him because you've been training hard for a few years?"
"I've been training with you...."
"And he's been training with multiple masters. He's fought in tournaments, won medals, and proven himself against actual opponents. You've sparred with me and some guards." He released me, stepped back. "You're good, Aldric. But you're not that good. And your pride is going to get you hurt."
"I can't back out now."
"No. You can't." He sighed heavily. "Tomorrow morning, first light. We drill everything you know. All the techniques, all the tactics. Maybe, maybe, we can give you a fighting chance."
He left without another word.
I stood alone in the training yard, reality finally sinking in.
I'd broken Sera's wrist. I'd manipulated her using my mother's death. I'd let jealousy and possessiveness drive me to hurt someone I cared about.
And now I had to fight a duel I would probably lose, in front of everyone, to defend a lie.
I was becoming everything I'd promised I wouldn't be.
Becoming Kenji Yamamoto again, just with a sword instead of fists.
The realization made me sick.
But I'd committed. Made my bed. Now I had to lie in it.
The next morning, Cedric drilled me mercilessly.
"Your only advantages are unpredictability and desperation," he said. "Lucas is better trained, better experienced, but he's also used to tournament rules and proper dueling etiquette. You need to fight dirty. Not illegal, but aggressive. No holding back."
We practiced for hours. Every dirty trick Cedric knew that was still legal in a formal duel. Feints, unconventional angles, using footwork to create openings, exploiting assumptions about proper form.
"Use Raven's Descent early," Cedric advised. "Surprise him with the family technique. Even if it doesn't land, it'll put him on the defensive."
By noon, I was ready. Or as ready as I'd ever be.
The duel was held in the manor's courtyard, with all the noble families in attendance. Word had spread, and now this was entertainment. A spectacle.
My father was there, his face unreadable. He hadn't said a word to me about this. Hadn't offered advice or censure. Just... nothing.
Sera was there too, her wrist bandaged and in a sling. She wouldn't meet my eyes.
Lucas stood across from me in the dueling ring, relaxed and confident. He wore light armor, legal in formal duels. I wore similar.
A neutral arbiter, some count, I didn't know, explained the rules. "First blood ends the duel. Magic enhancement is permitted, but no direct magical attacks. No lethal strikes. Honor above all."
He raised his hand. "Duelists, ready?"
I took my stance, practice sword gripped tight. Remembered everything Cedric taught me.
Lucas took his own stancelooser, more flexible than mine. More confident.
"Begin!"
I attacked immediately, not giving him time to settle. Launched into Raven's Descent, the Ashford family technique. Three strikes building momentum, culminating in a powerful overhead.
Lucas's eyes widened in surprise. He barely managed to deflect the first two strikes, and the third drove him back, breaking his guard.
First blood to me. I'd cut his hand, just a shallow slice, but visible.
The crowd murmured in surprise.
But the duel wasn't over. First blood was one point. The duel continued until three points or until someone yielded.
Lucas looked at his bleeding hand, then at me. His expression had changed. The easy friendliness was gone, replaced by sharp focus.
"Impressive," he said. "I underestimated you."
He attacked.
And I understood immediately why Cedric had been worried.
Lucas moved like water. His style was fluid, adaptable, and constantly shifting. Where I had memorized forms and techniques, he had internalized principles and could apply them anywhere.
I defended desperately, trying to remember Cedric's lessons. But Lucas was better. Faster. More experienced.
He feinted high, struck low, and caught my leg. Second blood.
One point each.
We reset. Circled each other.
I tried another aggressive assault. Used every trick Cedric had taught me. Fought desperately.
It wasn't enough.
Lucas adapted to everything I threw at him. Countered my tricks, exploited my patterns, punished my mistakes.
He caught my shoulder. Third blood.
Two to one. His favor.
My pride wouldn't let me yield. I kept fighting. Kept trying.
But it was over.
Lucas disarmed me with a complex combination I couldn't follow, then struck my chest with his blade, the flat, not the edge. Merciful.
"Yield," he said quietly, his blade against my armor.
I wanted to refuse. Wanted to keep fighting even though I'd lost my weapon.
But that would just be pathetic.
"I yield," I said through gritted teeth.
The arbiter announced Lucas as the victor. The crowd applauded politely.
I'd lost. Publicly. Humiliatingly.
Lucas extended his hand to help me up. I took it, courtesy demanded it, but couldn't meet his eyes.
"You're skilled," he said, and he sounded sincere. "That family technique caught me off guard. But you rely too much on memorized forms. You need to learn to adapt."
He was giving me advice. Being kind even in victory.
It made losing worse.
I turned away, looking for Sera in the crowd. Needing to see her. I needed to know if this had been worth it.
I found her. She was standing with her father, her bandaged wrist cradled against her chest.
She was looking at someone. Talking to them.
"Are you alright?" I heard her ask, her voice full of concern.
Yes. Finally. She was asking about me. Making sure I was...
"That was scary," she continued. "I was worried he might really hurt you."
Wait.
I turned to see who she was talking to.
Lucas.
She was talking to Lucas. Asking if he was okay. Looking at him with concern.
Not me.
Not the person she'd known for years. Not her friend who'd just fought a duel over her.
Him.
Our eyes met for just a second. And the look on her face, cold, disappointed, done, was worse than any wound Lucas had given me.
She turned away deliberately, continuing her conversation with Lucas like I didn't exist.
The crowd was dispersing. My father walked past without a word. Cedric approached, looking like he wanted to say something, then apparently thought better of it and left, too.
I stood alone in the dueling ring, my practice sword on the ground at my feet, the shame and humiliation washing over me in waves.
I'd broken Sera's wrist.
I'd manipulated her with my mother's death.
I'd challenged someone to a duel to save face rather than admit fault.
I'd lost that duel publicly.
And I'd lost Sera's trust. Maybe her friendship. Maybe everything.
The one bright light in my darkness had just gone out.
And it was entirely my fault.
I left the courtyard, head down, ignoring everyone who tried to speak to me.
I went to my room, locked the door, and for the first time since my mother's funeral, I let myself truly break.
Because I'd become exactly what I'd promised I wouldn't.
A bully. Possessive. Manipulative. Willing to hurt people I cared about to get what I wanted.
Kenji Yamamoto hadn't died. He'd just been waiting.
And now he was back.
All my pride, all my joy, all my hope that I could be better this time, gone.
Destroyed by my own actions.
Just like before.