A few days passed, each similar to the last. Generally, the day commenced with practice in the morning between Ian, Euryphel, and other princes from the Council of Princes. After, Euryphel would enter into a series of meetings, leaving Ian to his own devices for most of the day. In the evening, the prince found time to unwind and reflect, as well as ramble about the tangled political landscape spanning the Ho’ostar peninsula and Selejo.

Ian spent his time in the afternoons trying to conceive of a weapon to rival that of the glosSword. He’d grown rather attached to his glosSword, Bluebird, in the short time he’d played the role of the Godoran Corona. Before then, he’d written off weapons as a useless dependence, but he’d come to see the vast utility of a weapon that could defend, surveil, increase his range, and attack autonomously.

This was especially true given that the weapon was effective against inanimate matter, possessing its own energy source. Ian was acutely aware of his most-obvious vulnerability: dependence on living–or once living–matter. The loop layer where he was buried underground remained etched into his mind. He certainly didn’t plan to find himself in a similar situation, forced to use part of his own flesh and blood as raw materials to escape.

One afternoon, he received an invitation from Prime Ezenti to meet for lunch. Ian was caught off-guard: Aside from practicing together, he hadn’t had much contact with the man. Moreover, Ezenti seemed quite vocal about his dislike for both Euryphel and ‘the decemancer.’

But Ian had no reason to refuse, and so he went.

Ezenti’s personal office was in one of Ichormai’s towers, its main window looking out onto the city and offering a stunning view of the Bay of Ramsay. As Ian entered the room, Ezenti was stern but polite, pouring Ian a cup of tea and placing a tray of small sandwiches on the main table. Both of them sat on plush cushions, a palpable tension in the air.

“The only reason for my disdain, decemancer, is that you have all this power and no idea what to do with it. Do you understand?”

Ian’s head snapped up. What a great way to start the conversation, he thought, irritated. He would’ve expected Ezenti to at least start with some simple pleasantries, but the gruff old man cut right to the chase.

“You speak as though I asked for said power,” he said. “I assure you that I never desired to become a peak decemancer.”

Ezenti snorted. “Of course you didn’t. But that’s an immature way of looking at it, to speak bluntly. You are a peak decemancer, but you don’t act like one. And Euryphel has no idea what to do with you, either. Now that’s the real mystery, for me,” he said, narrowing his eyes and grinning, showing teeth slightly yellowed by age.

Ian hummed in assent. “It is a bit odd,” he admitted. “He hasn’t given me any definitive tasks. But I was under the impression that this was because he was trying to keep me out of the limelight, so to speak.”

“It’s one thing to keep you out of combat,” Ezenti replied. “It’s another to give you nothing to do at all.”

Ian narrowed his eyes. “It’s not as though I’ve been idle,” he said defensively.

Ezenti continued on, completely ignoring Ian’s response. “Before you reignite another war, the prince should kill you, offer your head to the Eldemari, and solidify the peace between the SPU and Selejo.”

Ian snorted. “You speak as though my head would be enough to end a hundred years of warmongering.”

Ezenti sneered. “You misunderstood my words. Offering your head would only be a necessary gesture.”

Ian was growing impatient with Ezenti’s ambiguous way of speaking. “Then what did you mean, saying that he should solidify the peace between the SPU and Selejo?”

Ezenti sighed gruffly and looked out the window. “It’s no secret that the Eldemari has been interested in taking Euryphel as her consort. The two of them are barely related at this point, but their affinities are strong. The Eldemari’s End affinity, in particular, seems to point to a stronger bloodline inheritance than Euryphel’s. After all, one of the core ancient ancestors of the Selejo line was an End practitioner.”

This was very much news to Ian, who listened with a blank expression. He had no idea Euryphel was being pursued by the Eldemari, a woman more than fifteen years his senior.

“How long has she expressed interest in the prince?” Ian asked.

“Just after he became Crowned Prime,” Ezenti replied. “As soon as she saw a recording of the duel that placed Karen Euryphel Selejo in his seat of power.”

“There’s a recording?” Ian wondered out loud.

“Not a public one, no. The Crowned Prime had those taken down. Do you want to see?” Ezenti asked.

Ian considered for a moment before nodding. “Of course.”

Ezenti smiled grimly. “I don’t have the video,” he admitted, “but I have my memories. Do you give me permission to share the memory with you, Skai’aren?” Though he said Ian’s courtesy name with a slightly mocking tone, Ian thought it an improvement over just calling him ‘decemancer.’

Several days ago, Ian would have probably said no to the prime’s offer. But after having practiced with Ezenti, he felt much more comfortable letting the man into his head. After all, he now had experience kicking the man out.

“Fine,” Ian said, waving his hand.

Ezenti reached out his hand and grabbed Ian’s left wrist. In an instant, Ian was no longer in the room overlooking Zukal’iss, but in what appeared to be a dueling arena. In a place like the SPU where professional dueling was banned, the arena likely didn’t get much use.

But today, the seats in the arena were full. However, unlike in other duels Ian had seen where the crowd was boisterous and excited, the crowd here was silent. It was more like people were waiting for a funeral than a fight.

From Ian’s–originally Ezenti’s–point of view, he was seated on an open balcony close to the arena’s staging grounds. His excellent, unobstructed vantage point was shared by what seemed to be the other members of the Council of Princes a decade past. There were some familiar faces, though a few princes Ian had definitely never met.

Everyone wore grim expressions, and Ian felt a startling sense of unease. The emotion came from within him, though it wasn't his own.

It must be how Ezenti was feeling, Ian realized.

After what felt like an eternity, O’osta Kestrelius Selejo and Karen Euryphel Selejo entered the dirt floor of the arena on opposite sides. The arena staging grounds were spacious, spanning almost two-hundred meters in length.

Ezenti had sharp eyes, allowing him to see Euryphel’s diminutive form from afar. The prince was young and whip-thin, still looking very much a teenager. He was expressionless as he stood on the opposite side of the arena from O’osta, his posture unreadable, neither tense nor relaxed.

If the spectators had been quiet before, they now became physically still, as though some pressure was keeping them fixed in place, almost afraid to move. Ian felt Ezenti’s heart begin to pump a bit faster with anticipation and concern. He was surprised to find the Prime’s worry directed squarely at Euryphel.

While O’osta was further away from Ezenti’s seat, the projection screens set up around the stadium held magnified close-ups of the two opponents as they stood on the field.

Ian recognized a younger Ko’la standing at the center of the arena floor, gesturing for the two combatants to walk forward. They both stopped once they reached a point halfway between their side of the field and the Dark practitioner. They turned around in opposite directions to face the audience.

On the close-up projection of Euryphel, Ian noticed that his eyes were bloodshot, perhaps the sole indicator that the prince was other than coldly collected. O’osta, on the other hand, had a distasteful expression on his face. Ian noted that it wasn’t cruel, or malevolent; it was more regretful than anything else.

It seemed that O’osta didn’t want to fight the young seventeen-year-old scion of the late Huron Sethuvius Selejo. Probably not out of guilt, as he’d killed the former Crowned Prime to fuel the rise of his own Kestrelius family. More than likely, it was because fighting a stripling like Euryphel was beneath him: There was no honor in defeating a seventeen-year-old, but it was also in poor taste to refuse the blood challenge of another prince, not to mention the son of the man he’d killed. O’osta was in the unfortunate position of being forced into a duel that could only result in unfavorable social outcomes.

A few seconds passed, the two opponents breathing slowly and deeply on opposite sides of the stage. Finally, Ko’la began to speak.

“This is a duel without rules or restrictions. It will end only when one side admits defeat, or when one side has perished. It may also end if one side is incapacitated, and the other ceases his attacks.”

Suddenly, Ko’la disappeared from sight, but his final words echoed out over the stadium: “Commence!”

O’osta turned around, brandishing a set of small throwing knives between his fingers. His expression was cold as he took a few steps forward, frowning at Euryphel’s rapid advance.

The prince had kicked off the ground as soon as “commence” was uttered, his form a blur. He moved in all sorts of odd, confounding patterns, as though fighting against an invisible adversary.

Ian felt Ezenti’s unease grow stronger, like butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

Ian also noticed that Euryphel’s control of the wind wasn’t nearly as good as it was now. At this time, the young prince's End affinity, the source of his wind elementalism, likely failed to exceed even 80%. He was slower, and his movements were less crisp. He couldn’t change direction as sharply.

Even so, the prince continued forward as though performing an elaborate dance. His movements might be less swift and less powerful, but there was a purpose behind each movement, a dazzling decisiveness.

Ezenti narrowed his eyes, surprise starting to take hold as Euryphel finally came close to the stationary O’osta. Euryphel’s movements didn’t seem to change, but at the same time, every step and bend he took was just sufficient to avoid one of O’osta’s blades.

Frowning, O’osta eventually gave up on throwing the knives and advanced toward the young prince, intending to disable him at close quarters. Both he and Euryphel drew shortswords, each around the same length, as they darted around one another. O’osta wasn’t as fast, his water elementalism not disposed toward speed. However, his movements were sinuous and well-practiced, clearly the result of years of hard work. Moreover, he accompanied each flash of the blade with tendrils of razor-thin water sourced from a small waterskin on his belt. The water tendrils hissed through the air like steel wires, alarmingly solid as they lashed past Euryphel and scored the stadium floor.

But Euryphel moved with godly athleticism, able to dodge every single attack coming his way. As his movements became more wild and aggressive, his composure began to slip, lips curving into a ferocious, maddened smile. Ian felt Ezenti’s concern skyrocket yet again.

His expression intensified as he continued to dodge the now tens of razor-thin water whips coming at him from every direction. Ian had to admit that the display was ridiculous, impossible, heaven-defying: there was simply no way that Euryphel should be able to dodge and deflect everything.

And yet, he did.

As a minute passed, O’osta began to show signs of annoyance, his expression darkening. Euryphel had yet to attack, focusing all his efforts on defense, so the man didn’t seem to fear that he’d lose; rather, he was shocked at the young prince’s perfect evasion.

Ian could understand his confusion, especially after fighting with Euryphel in the present. What Euryphel was doing here was in defiance of a human’s reactive ability. He was reacting preemptively, which made sense, given his Regret affinity’s ability to see into the future. But seeing wasn’t sufficient if one couldn’t act. Euryphel was moving so fast at this point that his form was a blur, the wind rocking him back and forth in rough, stilted motions: a coarse tool used for a task requiring surgical precision.

Watching Euryphel at work, Ian felt his own sentiments align with Ezenti’s: this, here, was genius. Genius that Ian hadn’t seen during the morning practice sessions in the present day.

If I were O’osta, at this point, Ian thought, I would know that I couldn’t let this youth leave with his life. The hateful expression on Euryphel’s face was enough to know, if it was ever in doubt, that this fight was extremely personal. If O’osta let the prince off now, he’d return even stronger later.

Ian expected that Ezenti would have made a similar observation: All initial hopes that Euryphel would be let off with a sound beating and a stern warning had been shattered. Likewise, Ezenti’s sense of anxiety and foreboding increased as the match lagged on. However, unlike the third prince, Ian knew the outcome of this battle already, and let himself appreciate the finesse of Euryphel’s movements with unworried interest.

Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a blade scratched O’osta across the leg, just a glancing blow, not even drawing blood. The late Crowned Prime still wore a startled expression when a blade came from a completely new direction a moment later, piercing upwards through his jaw, the tip of the blade likely ending somewhere in the prime’s mouth.

Euryphel continued to dodge the maddened water tentacles and O’osta’s expertly-wielded shortsword. But after a few seconds, it was clear that something wasn’t quite right.

Even though Euryphel’s attack looked grievous, it hadn’t actually hit anything vital, failing to pierce any of the major vessels in O’osta’s neck. Moreover, O’osta was adept at manipulating bodily fluids: Staunching blood flow to prevent himself from growing faint or choking was trivial.

And yet, O’osta still began to asphyxiate. His face began to grow slowly more red, then purple, as though he couldn’t breathe. At this point, he wore an expression of unconcealed fury, lashing out with his water razors in desperation.

By now, Euryphel’s expression was no longer manic, but grave, his lips curled into a frown. Ian wondered why he didn’t just disengage and let the Crowned Prime suffocate.

Then, to Ian’s surprise, he watched as multiple of O’osta’s water razors lacerated Euryphel’s body. He blocked them with a shield of wind, but it offered minimal defensive protection against the thin, piercing whips.

He felt Ezenti’s heart sink, felt his fear, his resignation. And then, profound surprise.

For this was when Euryphel began to laugh. The skin over his body was covered in deep, weeping, razor-thin slices, but he didn’t seem to care as blood streamed over him and fell onto the dirt floor.

By taking the razor attack, Euryphel had apparently wagered his life on a final move. On the projection screen, Ian saw the shortsword buried to the hilt in O’osta, piercing through his heart. Had Euryphel failed, O’osta would have killed him immediately, tearing him apart from the inside now that he’d finally shed blood.

Ian frowned, realizing that this observation came from Ezenti’s thoughts. He actually didn’t know much about O’osta’s fighting style, other than that the man’s techniques all seemed to revolve around first inflicting a minor wound of some kind. But if it were true that shedding blood was all that O’osta required to deal a killing blow...

He swallowed. What Euryphel pulled off here is nothing short of a miracle within a miracle.

The entire arena seemed to share the sentiment. From start to finish, the silence had been deafening. Even now that the match had ended, it was as though the entire world were holding its breath while waiting for the punchline to a joke.

O’osta Kestrelius Selejo had been killed by Huron's seventeen-year-old son, just like that?

A moment passed. Euryphel dropped the sword, letting O’osta tumble to the ground. The man’s eyes were lifeless, but his purple countenance wore an expression of disbelief.

Euryphel’s dark laughter ceased almost as soon as it came. As he looked down at the man in front of him, he wore an expression of utmost disgust, his lips tightly sealed. Ian then watched as the prince began to blink rapidly...and as a tear fell down his right cheek, almost lost among the countless gushing rivers of blood.

All at once, his expression relaxed, as though a great tension had been released. He reached for the sword sheath at his waist as though to stab his blade into the ground for support, only to remember that it lay embedded in O’osta. Instead he fell to his knees, cushioning his legs with wind. He leaned forward, his hands on the ground in front of him, bending low, as though kowtowing.

The scene ended like that, leaving Ian with the vision of Euryphel’s prostrate form kneeling in a veritable lake of blood.