The smallest and most infamous of the fencing rooms at Deva Castle was usually a quiet place. Duels didn’t happen here, only practise bouts, which drew no audience. It was an unspoken agreement between the men training here that they were all preparing for the real thing, not to make themselves look good. If they did fight, it would be to the finish: until either side surrendered, was unable to continue the fight, or dead.

Generally, the men who worked out here were, while noble, barely considered gentlemen. And though there had been an influx of outsiders trying to get a look at Duke George Louis’s right hand when David had first started practising here, they had since mostly drifted away again.

The other lords currently working out were therefore not particularly happy when David suddenly attracted a new kind of audience: Three young ladies in flowery dresses walked in. They looked around, faces half-hidden behind their brightly decorated little fans as if they were scared of their own daring at entering the infamous place. When all the men turned to stare at them, they stopped in their tracks and hesitated.

David groaned softly.

“Young ladies,” Lord Bloom broke the silence. “This is hardly appropriate. For your own safety, I have to insist you to leave this place.”

One of them curtsied. “Oh, I’m sure Lord Feleke will keep us quite safe.”

The girl smiled sweetly and batted her long, kohl-blackened eyelashes at David. He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying something a gentleman shouldn’t ever say to a lady’s face.

The other men promptly glared at him, so after a second, he sheathed his sword and approached the three belles. With a bow, he asked: “If you would allow me to accompany you back to the main halls?”

“Such gallantry,” one of the girls stage-whispered.

“How unexpected to find it here of all places,” the other one whispered back, again, not really bothering to be quiet.

David shuddered. Lane had warned him that everything at Deva Castle was political. He just hadn’t expected this to include even young girls who pretended to be silly and giggly. But perhaps it applied especially to them?

He couldn’t wait for Lane to come to Deva.

The one who had spoken first took the arm he had offered her and with a triumphant smile at the rest of the men, walked out again. She was clearly quite good at this game, for all that she couldn’t be more than eighteen: Somehow, she managed to give the appearance of leaning on David, while not really giving him a choice regarding the direction they were going.

One of her friends linked her arm with his free one.

“May I inquire after your names, my ladies?” David asked.

“I am Lady Berenice Pettau, Lord Feleke. And these are my friends, Lady Charlotte de Burg and Lady Anne Picot.”

David groaned inwardly. Picot, for all that her father was Lord Warden of Breachpoint, was the lowest ranking of the three.

What on earth did they want with him?

“I’m most honoured, Mesdemoiselles,” he lied. “Perhaps I could trouble you to tell me where we are going?”

“Why, to the arena, of course,” Lady Pettau informed him, as if that were obvious. “Count deVale claims you have been avoiding him since he returned from the south. The betting pool is getting quite large.”

“The betting...” David trailed off. Of course there was a betting pool. Lane and he had caused quite a stir, after all. And for all that Lane liked to call him spineless, deVale wasn’t known to back away from a fight even when it was more prudent to do so.

“Lord Feleke, on your honour,” Lady de Burg said, “have you been avoiding the count?”

David sighed. “I would prefer not to hurt a man who stood with the dukes of Loegrion against the High Inquisitor.”

He could see all three of them smile at that as if he had made a joke.

Lady Pettau patted the arm she was hanging onto and changed the topic. “Is it true that one of your brothers was bitten more than a year before Duke Stuard lifted the general warrant on werewolves?”

“That is true, yes, milady.”

“But wasn’t it your duty as a hunter to kill any werewolf you knew of?”

He answered her innocent smile with a frosty one. “Milady, I would happily face the Rot again and the whole Inquisition before I’d hurt one of my brothers. Werewolf or not.”

He had no idea who had prompted these young ladies to drag him away from his sword-practise, but he wouldn’t mind if the whole palace learned this much.

“What if he had turned out dangerous?”

“Happily, that question never arose.”

“Is it true that you killed High Inquisitor d’Evier with your very own hands?”

“On the contrary, milady, I used a sword.”

He probably shouldn’t make bad jokes about the matter, but he had been asked these questions way too often. Andrew, or even Greg, might have known a more gallant way to handle the ladies’ curiosity, but he didn’t.

“Is that what you intend to do to Count deVale?”

“As I said, I would prefer not to hurt him.”

“He is a very good duellist, you know,” Lady Pettau mentioned. “He competes a lot and wins most of his matches, too. How many duels have you fought in?”

David really wanted to pull his arm away from her. “These days, I rarely compete,” he admitted after a moment with a half-shrug. “If I fight, it’s usually not for sports.”

“But you haven’t been to war, before Oldstone Castle.”

“No, milady. Mostly, I used to fight Highwaymen. Sometimes other hunters. And now the Valoise.”

“Other hunters?” all three girls shrieked. “Why?”

David sighed. “Contrary to what the fame of Countess deLande and the history of House Feleke would have you believe, very few people turn to hunting werewolves while they have better options. High bounties can be quite hotly contested, especially on solitary werewolves. It was not uncommon for us to get attacked after a kill by angry or desperate competitors. Likewise, Highwaymen are interested in the bounties but generally prefer to save themselves the trouble of dealing with the werewolves.”

He lengthened his strides a little, hoping to distract the ladies in their elaborate dresses. Unfortunately, this just meant they reached the corridors around the arena faster.

“Ah, you found him, ladies! Excellent!”

David almost collided with Marquess Picot as he rounded the next corner. The marquess smiled widely when he saw him. Lady de Burg let go of David’s left arm at the older man’s appearance, but Lady Pettau clearly didn’t intend to release him just yet.

“Lord Feleke, the man everybody is looking for! Count deVale is cussing a blue streak, calling you a coward and worse! You aren’t going to let that stand, are you?”

“I don’t think I have a choice at this point, do I?” David asked back surly.

Of course Picot was involved in this. The man was famous for being more interested in the grander or smaller court dramas than the affairs of his city.

“So you have been avoiding deVale?”

“He’s worried he’ll hurt the count,” Lady Pettau said sweetly before David could. She clearly didn’t believe him.

Great. Now he had better win, or people would think he was just a coward. Hurt deVale at least a little bit.

“Don’t go soft on us just now,” Picot said, clapping David on the shoulder. “You are up to this challenge, aren’t you?”

“It’s a foolish challenge,” David grumbled. “But let’s get it over with.”

“Splendid!”

They had almost reached the arena. David could hear an excited murmur echoing along the hall. By the sound of it, the arena was packed.

“You look troubled, Lord Feleke,” Lady Pettau teased.

David ignored her. He was mentally preparing for the duel. It had been a while since he had seen deVale in the pit, and as he had told the three belles, he rarely fought with the aim to simply cause the first wound.

Maybe he should just run deVale through and be done with it.

The count had never done anything to him personally, though, and he had stood with George Louis, even fought in the south recently. It seemed a little crass to kill him just because he wouldn’t take Lane’s No for an answer. Or had he ever hurt her beyond ignoring her will? Not that that wasn’t bad enough. But Lane hadn’t actually asked David to do anything about it?

And why bring this up again now?

There was the man himself: deVale was alone in the centre of the fighting pit, pacing up and down with a sword already in hand, which he was swinging in wild agitation. He had taken off his jacket and waistcoat, and his prim, starched white shirt showed dark sweat stains in the back.

All around, the seats of the arena were packed with lords and ladies, both young and old rather than just the eligible hopefuls who usually gathered here. Commoners in the robes of the palace staff stood at the very back.

David frowned. Something weird was going on here. Surely, this squabble between him and deVale couldn’t be that fascinating that half the palace had turned out to watch? Especially since it had been nearly nine months since he had “won” the right to court Lane?

Lady Pettau gave him another sickly-sweet smile. “I do hope you don’t mind an audience, Lord Feleke.”

“Not at all.” David searched the ranks for George Louis, and sure enough, there he was, leaning against the ring. When he saw David and his entourage, he started in their direction.

“I fought in plenty of tournaments when I was younger,” David added. “I used to be rather good at the jousting.”

“Used to send His Highness flying every time!” Picot chuckled helpfully, loud enough that George Louis could hardly pretend to overhear it.

“Quite true, Marquess Picot, quite true,” the duke said. “If I may have a private word with the Honourable Feleke?”

David very nearly shook out his arm when Lady Pettau finally let go of him. Instead, he turned the motion into a sweeping bow. It didn’t even earn him an eye roll.

“I hope you’re aware that deVale is a rather important supporter of our cause,” George Louis said, voice lowered only a little.

“So?”

“So don’t kill him, please. If you have to, throw the match. We all know it won’t make Countess deLande change her mind.”

David stared at the duke. That had very much sounded like an order, and spoken loud enough that his entourage waiting not far away had probably heard.

David took a small step forward.

“Are you trying to give me an excuse in case I lose?” he asked, surprised and insulted, voice pitched so low that George Louis had to lean in.

“I’m trying to keep you alive,” the duke replied through clenched teeth. “I don’t know who’s been whispering to him, but deVale is furious.”

“How sweet of you,” David grumbled.

“Don’t underestimate him!” George Louis hissed back. “DeVale is dangerous when he gets angry! And he’s an excellent fighter! Why do you think he promised to challenge anyone who dared court deLande?”

“And I’m what, weak tea?”

“Overconfident is what you are,” the duke growled. “Just be careful!”

David straightened up. It hurt, more than he cared to admit, that George Louis of all people didn’t think he could take on deVale, a man who had fought far less than David. At least if one only counted serious fights.

George Louis seemed to realize that he had made a mistake, because he warned: “Do not kill him just to prove a point.”

David wanted to, he really did, and it scared him a little. He had never been this blood-thirsty before. George Louis shouldn’t be able to get a rise out of him this easily. He shouldn’t give a damn what the duke thought of him.

He took a few deep breaths, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, to fight down his emotions just as his father had taught him ages ago. He needed to be calm for this fight, all the more so if even George Louis thought deVale might best him. Had the count truly improved that much? He hadn’t been too much of an opponent back when they had last fought.

Admittedly, that had been half a decade ago.

David looked over towards where deVale was still pacing up and down. He had to be very sure of himself: the only protection he wore were his leather gloves. His clothes would allow for ease of movement, though. His sword was an actual sword, quite similar to David’s own, not one of the Valoisian epees.

So they probably wouldn’t be fighting for first blood alone.

That went against the current fashion, and David thought that it suited him more than deVale. He shrugged out of his own jacket and waistcoat, and took off his tie, too. Lastly, he handed George Louis the amulet the duke had gifted him.

DeVale glared at him when he finally stepped into the ring.