Titus sat atop the balcony overlooking the Garrison’s courtyard. Far below, he could see his men gather in ranks for their morning assembly. He looked across his table to see the empty chair and allowed his lips to contort into a disappointed frown. He threw a glance beyond the Garrison’s heavy, wooden gates to see the distant clocktower reveal that their scheduled breakfast had come and gone, yet Bartholomew’s cold meal remained untouched. Clad in his golden silk, Titus leaned back to feel the sun’s rays warm his tan cheeks and sigh before whispering to the only other living form- the timid Petrus at his side; “It seems my dear brother needs to be reminded that I have no patience for truancy-” As he looked over the balcony’s ornate, marbled banister; he saw a most unusual sight atop the Garrison’s ramparts. Several of the men below had already seen Bartholomew’s grinning, proud form and his unusual visitor- a long-haired, dress-clad girl with bright-red eyes and tanned skin.

From afar, Titus could only see Bartholomew’s smile as he studied the form of her switching hands- his trademarked move. The Duke’s frown grew warmer as he saw the joyously disheartening sight of the girl mastering the switching and the cut-and-slash movement that followed.

“Ambidextrosity... a rare trait.” Petrus muttered as he watched the girl repeatedly display the movement. The men below- uncultured and of peripheral birth, were unaware of just how impressive a trait they were currently beholding. Both Petrus and Titus, however, were well versed in Capita’s duels and knew a scarce, unique fighter when they saw one and the girl- female as she might be, immediately caught both their attention. Titus raised his hand to stroke his scruff chin and grin- not at her jiggling breasts, like the rest of the men below did, but at the smoothness of her movements and the determination of her strikes.

Bartholomew had always loved the Ramparts. The winds would always blow such a disgustingly delicious rhapsody of scents his way whenever he watched the sun rise from atop the sturdy stone behemoth. The river’s sewage, the numerous bakeries’ pastries- the hops of the outlying breweries... it was intoxicating to him- reminding him that life existed beyond those impressive walls. But even in the gentle breeze, his mind was set on enjoying another sight- namely; Neda. The girl swung, stabbed and shifted- adapting well to the mindset of a duelist after only a few days under his tutelage.

He raised his own daggers and flashily spun them around in his hands as he motioned around the air to display his prowess. “Good, Neda- fantastic! You seem to have understood the basics, which leads us to-” Neda nearly dropping her blades at the sight of something behind Bartholomew. Naturally, he turned to see an unusually excited Titus approach them from further down the ramparts- his chin carried high and with a bright grin to rival his own. The gentle, reeking breeze ruffled his curled hair as he bent down while gripping his left pectoral through his golden-silk shirt and said:

“Mistress Neda- what a surprise. The sun has hardly risen, but you’ve raised my brother from his bed. You’ve even made him skip his breakfast.” Bartholomew squeezed his eyes shut and bit on his lower lip as he remembered that damnable ritual. He gathered both his blades in his left hand and scratched the back of his head to uncomfortably confess: “I apologize, brother Duke... I-… Neda has asked-”

Gracious as ever, Titus raised his hand dismissively and spoke: “Not to worry. It is good to see you break from your slump... I would ask, however, what is going on here? If my eyes do not deceive me, I would say it almost looks as if you’ve an apprentice on your hands.” Bart’s genuine grin faded, only to be replaced by a smile that required substantially more effort upon realizing that every soldier below them were looking up at the meeting atop the rampart.

Neda proudly proclaimed: “He’s teaching me how to defend myself with the knives! He’s really good- at least he says he is... did you come to learn, too?” She cocked her head quizzically towardsh him, only to receive a hearty laugh from the Duke and a deathly glare from the Purged Petrus in his wake. The sun shone through his red curls as he proudly proclaimed: “Me? Learn from him? If anything; I should be the one giving the lessons.” He chuckled.

Bartholomew’s lips drew into a sideways smirk as he realized that there was an opportunity to be had- a chance... Several, in fact. Bartholomew returned his slashing-dagger to his right hand and resumed flashily spinning them around atop his palms while looking to his brother with a raised eyebrow.

“That almost sounds like a challenge, good Brother Duke. I might be rusted, but I still fancy my chances against a bureocrat.” Neither Bart nor Neda saw the shift in Petrus’ already hostile presentation. Upon hearing the goading that greatly bemused his golden Master, he nearly lost his cool and assaulted the two. Titus stepped up to Neda and bowed down low while extending his hands in her direction. “Perhaps it is, Barty. We never did settle which of the Sargerrei brood would inherit the title of Grand Champion- did we?”

They very much did settle it and Titus pretending not to remember it would buy him no favors with his brother- certainly not now... That smug smile of his- that proud, puffed-out chest were, in Bartholomew’s mind, unbefitting of a man who would sit idly by as his men tortured and raped children... no- even if he had promised Kerras he would play nice- even if he had set his mind on playing along, he would be enjoying this. Neda put the daggers into Titus’ hands and watched him handle the blades with slightly less ease than his brother, but still far better than she did.

The two Sargerrei men began to pace around one-another atop the ramparts- stilling every tongue, every breath- every tremoring clatter of armor from the courtyard as they measured one-another. Bartholomew narrowed his eyes and suggested: “Let us make this interesting, Titus. A wager- just like the olden times.”

Titus scoffed and raised an eyebrow to ask; “And what, Barty, would the terms of this wager be?” Petrus’ features grew even more suspicious as Bartholomew graciously offered: “If I win, you allow me to take some of your burden. Let me lead these men- at least for the month.” Titus seemed far less bothered than his brother might’ve suspected by the offer and waved his dagger about in acceptance.

“Very well. And if I win, then you must write Father and tell him of this beautiful city of ours.” Bartholomew’s stomach churned at the offer, but he could hardly decline... to much was at stake. The wayward Sargerrei nodded his acceptance in turn and spoke: “No rules. The loser yields or hits the floor.”

Neda took a step back, nearly knocking the infuriated Purged off his feet. Titus twirled the blades around his palms and beckoned: “On your signal, then.”