“Arlette, my little nightflower, you look especially lovely today.” Dylan, son of Highlord Frederic, strode towards Arlette with outstretched arms and a huge smile.

Arlette turned away from the people she had been conversing with and fought down a grimace. “Hello, Dylan.” Her voice sounded calm as usual, but Dere thought he heard something on the edges of her words.

Dylan grasped at his heart. “Your coldness wounds me again. It strikes deep at my very soul, yet my resolve will not be broken.” He aimed his most charming smile at Arlette as he closed the distance. Arlette, keeping her composure, held out her right hand, and he bent down to kiss it with a playful flourish.

“Arlette, why don’t you introduce me to your friend here?” Dere, who approached the pair while the exchange went back and forth, broke into the conversation.

Arlette smiled at Dere and hid her relief. Dylan glanced at him, smile still on his face. “Yes, Arlette, please, introduce your date?” He said the final word with an emphasis. His smile remained, but his cold, hostile eyes gave away everything Dere needed to know.

“Dylan, this is Robert Girard, fourth son of Timothe Girard.”

Cold eyes glared at Dere’s placid face as Arlette introduced his alias. “My apologies,” Dylan said, barely maintaining an apologetic facade. “I haven’t heard of your family.”

Arlette sucked in a silent but sharp breath and Dere put together that Dylan had just hurled a grave insult in the world of Clovin's nobility. He pretended, half-heartedly, to look insulted. “Oh, no offense taken, my family has earned its reputation through generations of proven honor and a strict adherence to the ideals of Clovic. I would only expect us to be recognized by families who value such things.” Dere hadn’t the slightest clue what adherence to the ideals of Clovic meant, but he suspected Dylan would know. By the way Dylan narrowed his eyes, he suspected correctly.

Arlette turned to him, warning in her eyes, which Dere, of course, ignored. She risked a glance at Dylan whose smile had dissipated. “The words of an irrelevant family.” Dylan spat, face turning red.

“Or an honorable one.” A cool smile curled Dere’s lips.

Dylan’s eyes went wide. “Look here you impoverished curd. I’ll cut you open for those words and take the whore for myself.” He reached for his sword. Before Dylan could draw, Dere slapped him with his glove. “If you want to draw swords,” Dere said, voice calm and collected. “I suggest we do it properly.”

Dylan’s handsome face turned blood red, the same color as Horon’s during battle. “As you wish.” The rest of the party, who bore witness to the exchange, began murmuring. Dylan looked around at the curious faces with fury and stalked away.

Dere whirled around and faced Arlette, victorious smile lighting his face. “Well, that went well.”

Arlette’s face promised murder. “In what world did that go well?” She kept closing and opening her hands while looking at his neck.

“In a world where the Highlords are having a private meeting, one I need to get into. Embarrassing Dylan in a bout of swordplay might become my ticket in.” Dere glanced at Highlord Sylvian, who looked upon the exchange with a booming laugh and a big smile. “You mentioned Sylvian and Frederic are the bitterest of rivals. And since Dylan’s a dick who thinks he owns you, he seemed like a suitable candidate.”

Arlette faced Sylvian for a second and turned back to Dere. “Maybe, maybe, but it's still foolish. Dylan’s a brat, but he’s one of the best swordsmen in the Kingdom. He won’t be allowed to use his powers in a duel, but even so…”

“I am a shadow of my former self, weaker than a shadow actually, but I can still manage an uptight brat.” She frowned at his words, confused by what he said. His voice had a resolve, though, that Arlette wasn’t used to hearing. With a deep sign, she nodded. “It’s not the proper way to do things, but it's not like we have much choice now, anyway. Ask permission for Florian to be your second. He’s Sylvian’s head knight and retainer.” She paused for a second. “Oh, and Dere, don’t meddle in my affairs again.”

Dere gave her a somewhat apologetic smile and twisted around towards the onlookers. “I’ll be needing a second for my bout. With permission, I request Florian, retainer of Highlord Sylvian!” Some gasps and a few approving chuckles broke out from the crowd. Sylvian was the loudest of all, booming laugh echoing around the courtyard and threatening to deafen some of those who stood next to him. He put his arm on the back of the gloomy dark-haired figure standing next to him and pushed him forward. Florian walked out of the crowd to join Dere, clear annoyance bristling through his body.

“Tell us your name, boy.” Sylvian roared, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

“I am Robert Girard, fourth son of Timothe Girard.” Unsuccessfully, Dere tried to match Sylvian’s volume. However, his voice still carried through the crowd well enough. Arlette tried to compose herself, furious at Dere for bellowing a fake man’s name to a hundred people. If anyone suspected, though, they didn’t say. Some of the crowd even cheered. Through the onlookers, Dere caught Highlord Frederic’s disapproving glare. He hit him with a wink.

Arlette grabbed Dere’s arm and pulled him down to whisper into his ear. “A duel in Clovin is first to draw blood. Wound him, don’t kill him. Not even Sylvian will approve of that.” Dere nodded his understanding. Arlette took a second to watch the onlookers construct the necessary circle with their bodies. “Don’t mess this up.” She murmured so that only Dere could hear.

“I seldom ever do.” Sighing, Arlette released him and gave him one last nervous look before disappearing into the crowd.

Dere stretched himself out, going through some basic motions while he waited for Dylan to reappear, presumably with his second. From behind him, he heard a sharp whisper. “What’s your game, boy.” Dere turned to see Florian glaring at him, suspicion evident across his face.

“He harassed my date.” The way Florian looked at him, Dere could tell he didn’t buy the answer in the slightest. Dere broke into a guilty smile. “And, well, I needed an in with Sylvian.”

To his surprise, Florian didn’t seem upset. “You certainly chose the best way to do it.” He said, sounding somewhat bored. “He’s already enamored with you, and you haven’t even won yet.” Dere smiled and continued with his stretches. Florian straightened up a bit and tried to find Dylan. “Do you think you can win?”

It was an honest question. Florian wanted to know. Dere gave him the widest grin of the night. “Absolutely.”

Florian chuckled and patted him on the back. “I like you kid. Good luck.”

As Dere finished stretching, Dylan reappeared. Alongside him strode another blond man, this one taller and leaner, dangerous as far as Dere could tell. Dere thought back to who Arlette had pointed out. Either she didn’t mention this particular man, or Dere had zoned out while she introduced him. Both were possible. Shrugging, he ignored the new man and gave Dylan his cockiest grin. Dylan sneered back at him, anger still coloring his handsome face an ugly tomato red. “Are you ready for your thrashing, Girard?”

“Ah, I see you remembered the family name. Fear not, you won’t forget again. I’ll carve it into your skin, so even your dim head will remember.” No hint of malice or anger infringed upon Dere’s lighthearted tone. He said it with casual indifference.

Removing his embroidered coat and sneering at Dere, Dylan entered the circle, hand on the hilt of his sword. Dere did the same. They stood across from each other. Dylan’s visible anger and Dere’s easy amusement almost seemed to collide in the air.

Florian stepped in between them. The tall blond man with Dylan did the same. The crowd watched, excitement mingling with the smell of good food and wine. Florian spoke up. “First to draw blood wins. Any use of non-physical channeling will result in disqualification and stain your family's honor. This is a contest of swordsmanship. Now, draw!” He and the other man stepped out of the circle. Dere and Dylan drew their blades. In his hand, Dylan held an ornate rapier, sharp and decorated with gemstones. Dere’s sword seemed much simpler, a sidesword, well-made but unspectacular. A discerning eye might have made out something wrong with it, a flicker of its true nature, but few in the world could do that and none here.

They circled each other, light footsteps matching the other’s rhythm. Dere smirked and beckoned. Dylan attacked. The rapier dove first for Dere’s stomach, then turned upwards towards his neck. Dere simply batted it aside with a casual flick of the wrist. With a skilled maneuver, Dylan reversed the rapier’s trajectory and tried to catch him on the hand. Dere needed to only move it back a few inches for the rapier to cut through mere air, missing him by a comfortable hair. Dylan tried another time, sending the rapier downwards towards Dere’s forwardmost leg. A simple parry sent the sword aside, and, in response, Dere's own sword flew towards Dylan’s exposed chest. To the man’s credit, he backed away in time, dodging the blade by a few inches.

Catching his breath, Dylan shuffled backwards a few steps, eyeing Dere. Dere, for his part, bounced off one foot then the other and winked at the man. Arlette hadn’t lied, he was a skilled fencer. He moved with inhuman speed and grace, almost matching Dere’s own, a testament to two decades of practice. Shame for him, really, that Dere had been fighting much, much longer.

The crowd murmured, excited by the brief flurry the two exchanged. They threw comments between each other, minor bets over who would prevail. The ones among them who most knew swordsmanship watched quietly and pieced the bout together like a puzzle.

Howling, Dylan stormed forward and unleashed a flurry of blows, caring not whether they injured or killed. In a dazzling display, Dere parried, dodged, and counterattacked, never letting Dylan feel comfortable or confident and never making a concerted attack. The fight dragged on. Dylan continued stabbing and thrusting in a frenzy, using everything he learned in his decades of study, yet he could land nothing.

The crowd murmured and roared, the ones who didn’t understand screamed at Dere to attack, to stop the cowardice. The ones who did understand watched in awe as he moved, enthralled by the display.

Dylan fumed and sweated. His face grew redder and redder as his anger and exertion continued to rise. Dere dipped and dodged, muttering an occasional insult aimed at his opponent's mother. One last time, Dylan backed away from Dere to catch his breath. Dere, a little sweat wetting his brow, let him. Across from him, Dylan stood, anger swelling and swelling.

“So,” Dere said as Dylan glared. “Where shall I carve the family surname. I was thinking the forehead, but the ass has a certain poetic appeal."

Dylan roared and charged forward once more. This time, though, it was different. His blade still sought Dere’s heart but, from his opposite hand, a gout of flame built up. For the first time, Dere made a real move. He darted in, deflecting the sword above him and out of the way. As he deflected the blade with one arm, he grabbed Dylan’s free hand and pointed it downwards with the other. The hand shot out flames towards the ground, blackening it with Banto’s Re’s sacred fire. Still moving, Dere leaned into Dylan, blocking his sword arm from swinging down. Secure from a counterattack, Dere sent his own blade slashing downwards, towards the hand that he still held.

Dylan's left hand fell to the floor with a sickening squelch. The Highlord's son roared in pain and collapsed while Dere sheathed his own blade.

The building went silent except for Dylan’s screams. The crowd watched the two of them, stunned. Dere ignored them and pushed through the onlookers, until he stood in front of Highlord Sylvian himself. Drawing his blade, Dere knelt down and presented it above his head. “I wish to pledge my services to you, Highlord.”

Sylvian looked at him, expression unreadable. Then, a slow smile curled across his face, and his enormous laugh filled the courtyard once more. He drew his sword, a battle-worn blade, and placed it on Dere’s shoulder. “I name you, Robert Girard, my retainer.” His voice had an air of formality and authority that he hadn’t shown before. “Stand.”

Dere stood and fought off the grin that threatened to ruin his plan. “That was some of the best swordsmanship I’ve ever seen.” Sylvian commented as Dylan screamed in the background, some of his family’s servants carrying him inside the manor. Quieter than before, Sylvian murmured to Dere. “And I couldn’t think of a better whelp to use it on, or a better family to shame. You wanted to impress me, well done.” Their conversation ended, for a time. The crowd dispersed from around them and returned to their drinking and merriment, unfazed by what just happened. It seemed, in Clovin, a man losing his hand in a duel was just part of the party.

From a distant part of the room, a pair of burning eyes bored into Dere's skull. He met them. Highlord Frederic glared at him, eyes filled with a special kind of hate. Dere gave him one last wink.

“You’ve made a powerful enemy today.” Behind him a familiar booming voice spoke: Sylvian.

“Believe me when I say this. I have far scarier enemies.”

A noncommittal grunt was Sylvian’s only response. “Come. I have a meeting to attend, and it's your duty as my new retainer to accompany me.” Face calm and cool, Dere nodded, rejoicing inwardly. He began following the Highlord to Besson’s personal manor. After a few strides, though, a cool hand touched his shoulder. He stopped and turned around to see Arlette.

She whispered to him. “For a follower of Dere, you’re not exactly subtle.”

Beaming at her, Dere responded. “I have a sneaking suspicion Dere would have approved of that.” She shook her head and smiled. The first genuine smile of hers he had seen. It was off center, just a little, and wrinkled her dimples and eyes. “You know,” Dere said as he walked backwards away from her. “Your real smile is much prettier.”

“Oh, shut up.” She said, rolling her eyes at him. Dere laughed and chased after the receding Highlord. Behind him, she kept smiling.