General Tybalt's daughter curtsied before Prince Peterby, and he kissed her hand. The girl couldn't be older than sixteen, and the prince seemed to be in his early twenties. Walter noted she lacked immaturity. Any child over ten seemed to have the same tired look as an adult because most faced the reality of picking up a hoe or a sword. Still, she looked cute and prepared. The curled locks of her hair must have taken hours of preparation by themselves.

The interview, the prince and general decided, would occur at the same inn, and the other guest rooms were purchased to empty the building.

"Shall we talk privately, a moment, Grecia?" the prince asked.

She nodded demurely.

It carried the illusion of romance.

General Tybalt, Walter, Elin, and their companions watched as the two walked away, with the prince holding Grecia's hand at shoulder level. Both had servants following close by, so the likelihood of anything progressing passed small-talk was nil. They walked the hall out of earshot.

"Lord Walter," General Tybalt said, "I have yet to congratulate you on your victory." The general stared at the distant couple, and he looked more like a worried father than a leader of an army.

Walter grunted. He knew he should be polite, but Walter didn't want to take credit for the war, or any of the killing he did, for that matter.

"Well, for one such as yourself," the general said, "that might have been little effort?"

"It's not that."

"Forgive me for saying this, but you do not strike me as the heroic type."

"I'm not," Walter admitted, "I'm someone that ended up with a bit of power."

"I must ask, as I have to know the motivations of the strong who could threaten the empire. You could do whatever you wanted. What is it that you want to do?"

Walter glanced over at General Tybalt's stare. The man didn't flinch like others did or duck his head in a flinch-of-a-bow. He scrutinized Walter, sized him up, studied him, but his opinion remained hidden.

Of all the people he met, willing to throw tribute, this one asked him that question directly.

When he arrived in Eovamund, Walter was content to follow Elin. While he could blame his infatuation on the Scales of Love and Lust, he now knew he developed a crush-at-first-sight, and the scales only made it worse. The childish little joy at his isekai status kept him hoping for something, a budding relationship, a meteoric rise into power. It's another world. Clearly, something would throw gifts at him.

Heroism, it seemed, tasted nasty, especially if he had to kill others. He entertained putting up a front, like leadership would, to inspire others to fight on. Walter didn't care. He couldn't. The more he thought about it, the more stupid it seemed. Crashing waves of monsters broke on the walls of Letun, deluged nations, and drowned floundering hamlets. What good did it do to fight other humans, to attack the elves? The mockeries, the abominations, the undead, and the demons were threat enough, so why compound the death?

Walter could say he wanted to build Elin a home, and that would be the truth. He could claim he wanted to be rich and powerful and respected and adored, and that would be truthful as well. But, no matter how Walter thought about it, some little girl out there, clinging to a torn and dirty doll, slept less than ten feet from something that wanted to kill her. Could he restfully sleep knowing this? For all he knew, she died already. It was likely.

The idea in his head started as a spark from a flint and steel, touched the tinder of his guilt, and alit something he thought he lost. He turned from the general and met Elin's eyes.

"Ah, yes, well, for a hero, one would seek women."

Walter knew that Elin knew he didn't look at her because of desire or lust. The general's words missed the mark. He knew that she knew they were about to disagree, and it might be a fight.

"Don't you dare, Walter," Elin said, "I forbid you."

"When I first met you," Walter said, "I didn't quite understand what you meant when you mentioned duty and why it was sad not to fulfill it. I think I get it now."

"General Tybalt," Elin said, "You can witness the declaration of a duel, can you not? My terms are simple, Walter. If you can defeat me, then I'll allow it."

Walter flustered, "You're challenging me to a duel?"

"From this point until its conclusion," Elin said, "We are combatants."

She spun on her heel and strolled off.

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Night fell. Where Walter slept, Elin wasn't sure because he didn't return to their room. Her heart ached because it was the first night they were apart. Seconds ticked by, each one longer than the last, and each one she internally debated rushing out of the inn and finding him. It required little imagination to think Walter wanted to run to Elin, as well.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

A window to understanding her mother opened. How much of her Lady Jeanne Agi's icy demeanor was an act, a holdout, to keep Lord Richard Folcey from stumbling any further? How much of her overbearing training was simply an overcorrection to her past mistakes?

Gaia, mother of grace, I am your child, and I need your nurturing support. I have never been as challenged as I am now. Give me the strength to walk this path and to change his, as he changed mine.

"What, by the slimy mouth of Ouroboros, is going on?" Sister Lora snapped.

As per the usual, Sister Lora, the ex-assassin, slid in and out of places without notice and managed to break into Elin's and Walter's room. Elin turned around. Not once did Elin experience Sister Lora's face turning red with anger. A tired and sly smile tugged at her cheeks.

"A duel, clearly," Elin said. She hefted her sword, Walter's gift to her, and scanned the sharpened edge. Dissatisfied with its keenness, she lowered it onto a whetstone.

"No, shit! I can see that, child! What caused the two of you to fight? I thought you two were perfect!"

"We are perfect, that's the issue," Elin thumbed the edge of her sword, "This isn't a fight, not really. This is a disagreement between a hero and an ascended. How do I explain this? It seems dramatic because of our power."

"Don't give me that crap. Are you seriously intending to hurt Walter? Are you going to swing at him with a sharp edge? Truly?"

"I'm going to swing with all my might. It's the only chance I have to reach him."

"Are you even hearing yourself? You have bonus HP, and he doesn't! You have resistance and strength! If you strike him, he'll die! You can't do this!"

"If you think you can stop me, Sister Lora," Elin checked her sword one last time, "Then I invite you to try. I'm doing what I think is best."

"Of course, I can't stop you directly! Hear me out!"

"You waste your words!" Elin growled, "Do you honestly think I'm not aware of the twin scars on his chest? Of all the women in Eovamund, do you think I don't fret over them the most?"

"Then why are you trying to add another?!"

"Because Walter," hate shrouded Elin's face, "is a liar."

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"What is it with the Folcey's and using their fists to prove a point? I don't understand what you want, Elin."

"Yes, you do. Beloved, I know what you want to do, and I demand you do not. What you feel, I once did, what I am now, you will become."

Prince Peterby and General Tybalt brought them to the nearby field, far out from the town, to prevent collateral damage. Their servants and the military prevented witnesses beyond the two of them.

Walter heard the sound before, a crisp ringing when she extracted her sword. When he first heard it, a dozen goblins died moments later. Elin was serious. The morning sun glinted off the polished blade, and it seemed to glow. For a moment, Walter thought she activated a paladin ability to reinforce it.

"If you hold back," Elin said, "You'll get hurt."

"Look, you clearly have the advantage here, so I surrender. Let's talk this out."

"No, surrender denied."

General Tybalt spoke up, "A duelist has a right to surrender. I'm calling this off."

Elin, however, didn't respond or acknowledge his statement. Neither did Walter. Both concentrated on the individual on the opposite side of the field.

Prince Peterby whispered, "The duel is clearly a farce. We're not officials to them because they stand too far above us. If we remove the legitimacy of it, then something else might happen."

"What happened to that girl that fought for what she believed in?" Walter asked.

"She grew exhausted."

"Elin, please--" Walter started.

Elin pointed her sword. "You've been lying about your power."

"What?"

She turned the blade, and the flicker warned Walter she readied to attack. Her toes gouged the grass and dirt. Blurring, she crossed the field, and the arc of her blade caught and stretched the sunlight across its entire path. No mage, under normal circumstances, could hope to incant quickly enough to counter her first strike.

No incantation left Walter's mouth. He didn't need it.

Orbs from his spell 'Magic Missile' popped into existence, like glass growing from a pinhole-sized rip in reality. Walter silently willed them, and they obeyed. He arced his hand, specifically his finger, and they followed the motion. Dozens of orbs slammed into the blade and parried her.

He proved he exceeded the limits of magic and the Grimoire of Aratron.

Elin rolled, off-balanced, and slid twenty feet on a foot and a knee before stopping. While her body couldn't keep up, her face did not betray any surprise, only confirmation.

¡pɹoʍS ʎloH

Elin's mana-infused voice ripped through the field. The sword in her hand, forged like a thicker rapier, overpowered the sun.

General Tybalt said, "How did he do that? I thought the reports indicated she lost her paladin status? Were we wrong? Or is that part of her second lineage?"

Prince Peterby narrowed his eyes.

Walter cocked his head to listen but didn't look away from Elin.

Elin studied Walter's face, then sighed, "You knew? Of course, you knew. How could you not? You know my soul, as I know yours."

"You wanted to give them up," Walter said, "I know you did. You tried. It ate you up inside, playing housemaker, and ignoring those faces, didn't it? I should have noticed much sooner. It's my fault."

"You weren't ready." Elin's face paled with nervousness, "You're still not ready. Magic Missile won't stop my sword a second time, and you might die using it to defend again."

"I know."

"Then are you? If you want to win, if you really want to help Eovamund, then you have to take back what you gave me, Black Mage of Eovamund. I will not tolerate a husband who goes into battle with monsters without all of his power. You said so yourself, even I couldn't defeat a black dragon. You didn't, either, not by yourself."

Moments bled by.

"Nah."

Elin blurred again, and each step she took tore divots out of the grass. Halfway to reaching him, silver light overpowered both the rising sun and the Holy Sword. Thunder rolled.

¡IΛ ƃuᴉuʇɥƃᴉ˥