The fireplace lights a small room. Long shadows trail from hunting trophies adorning the walls.

The owner of this room is a young man. Tall and lean, a body deceptively strong. His eyes are blue and clear as glass. He would be called handsome, beautiful even, if not for the frown carved across his face. He pulls on his armor, the leather worn but well cared for.

Vest, bracers, grieves, helmet. He weighs the helmet in his hands, then scoffs and puts it aside. He leaves his blood-red hair on display, its length tied back with a simple ponytail.

He frowns as his bangs obscure his eyes. He sighs and moves them out of the way, as always, vowing to cut them off for the offense.

He takes up the weapon beside him. Where his armor is plain his weapon is not. The spear, if it even deserves to be called that, looks more like a solid bar of steel that the blacksmith forgot to melt. He spins the spear, testing its weight and balance. It's an old ritual at this point, but the young man still performs it.

It has been a month since his sixteenth birthday. A month of anxiety and uncertainty. His father had once set out to find him a "proper" wife. For better or worse he become bored of it almost immediately, but Mael endured many humiliations that day. The young man can only imagine what he will do today. For today is a-

Someone enters the room, not even bothering to knock for courtesy. frown growing sharper, the young man turns as the intruder makes his presence known.

"Lord Mael!" he says, "His excellency demands your presence in the courtyard!" It is Ser Dolan, a promising young squire recently turned knight. His armor is polished to perfection, Mael could see his reflection in the shining plate. Ser Dolan fixes his helmet as it too big for him, leaving only his nose visible.

Mael sighs and shakes his head. He replies to the knight with a fake smile on his face and venom in his tone, "Ser Dolan! Is my father so eager to see one of his sons get humiliated? Before the entire castle no less?"

"I don't know my lord." Ser Dolan says, "Lord Lorcan already arrived at the courtyard.” Mael doesn't reply to him, lost in his world. Lifting the visor of his helmet, the knight continues, "They are waiting for you, my lord."

Lorcan, his brother, always eager to obey. Clenching his fists Mael leaves marks on his spear, almost snapping it in half. Foolish boy. Why is he so eager to take part in this madness? Does he not understand that he will lose no matter what?

The young knight turns away and waits for him at the door, but Mael sees his plated fingers trembling. The young lord shakes his head and calms down. It will be over soon. The more time he wastes the more chance that his father would snap at his younger brother.

He grimaces and walks towards the door, "Lead the way, Sir Dolan."

The path to the courtyard is short, it's located near the main gates, the place that people see first when they enter the castle. His father intends for this to be a public event, as public as he can get. The young lord expects a big audience. The chance to see The Holy Blood fight is a rare occurrence.

Ser Dolan walks first, his steps are loud and strong as he hums some marching song. Unlike him, Mael's steps are silent and light. As they move from the main tower to the main gate, the ceiling changes from the paved stone to the blue sky.

The feeling of water on his hair distracts Mael from brooding as he looks up. The sky is dark and lightning and thunder start to strike as raindrops fall from the sky.

Commoners stand and watch as he walks forward. Servants and warriors alike stand together, they pack the corridors as Mael hears them whisper among themselves.

"Rain? There was not a single cloud in the morning."

"The gods weep, seeing this display."

"What was the Duke thinking..."

"Who do you think will win?"

"I made a bet on lord Mael."

"Everyone did."

"Poor lord Lorcan..."

Mael curses inside his head. The gossip and stories of this day will circulate for years, damn father for this.

Finally, Ser Dolan and Mael come to the courtyard. As a young lord expected, people filled the courtyard. Some of the children even climbed on walls to have a good view. Their expressions are innocent and joyful, they don't understand what will happen here.

Mael sees that his brother is here. He is standing near his father, with a note of pride in his eyes.

Lorcan, son of Senan. His younger brother. Where Mael is already a man. Lorcan is still a boy. His muscles are not as well defined, he is shorter, hair cropped and spiked, rather than long and flat. His expression is earnest, like a pup. He is only fourteen winters old after all, not even a man. his face even still has some baby fat left.

And there he is, the initiator of this farce. Mael grimaces as he sees his father. The ruling Duke of Galicia, Senan son of Fergus. His messy, grey hair drapes over his eyes, arms thinned and face sallow. Old age and wounds took their toll on him, leaving a once-proud warrior nothing more than a cripple. He is clothed in a rag with big holes in it. It was once a fine tunic, now it just a reminder of his madness.

He trained Mael since childhood, raising him to be a perfect warrior. Someone who will succeed where he failed. He taught him spear work but little else, raising Mael more akin to a knight than the heir to his throne.

The Duke sits, the chair from the main hall serving as a makeshift throne. Mael pays him no mind. Instead, focusing on the weapon his father wields. The fabled spear of Setanta, Gae Bolg.

The Spear glows with an ancient power. The red light encompasses and protects His wielder even from the rain. The young man sees steam form over his father's head, not a single drop of water on him or his clothes. His sycophant is standing behind him, a fat man dressed in silk and velvet. The castellan of the castle.

The Duke looks at his son, eyes still hidden behind his bangs. Mael notices a small shift in his expression, his lips forming some parody of a smile.

"I see my eldest has come!" he croaks and claps with his marred hands, "finally, all this waiting and company started to bore me."

Mael stares at him and forms a crooked smile of his own, and bows hiding his anger.

"I apologize for not coming sooner," he says. "If I knew that your excellency forgot to bring jesters. I would surely change my attire to entertain you more."

They stare at each other with matching expressions. The courtyard fills with silence. Not a single soul would dare to interfere when The Holy Blood squabbles amongst themselves.

Then, the Duke laughs. His laugh is a crooked thing, more fitting to a villain of the puppet show, instead of the Holy Blood. He laughs for a solid minute before stopping. Mael doesn't know what is so funny about the situation and to be honest, he doesn't want to know.

"This is not the time for a joke brother! This is a serious matter!" Lorcan decides to intervene. His words echo through the courtyard, silencing even the commoners whispering among themselves.

Hearing the voice of his second son, the Duke's expression warps into a scowl. He shakes his head and reprimands Lorcan with practiced ease, "Silence, boy!"

"Sorry father, I acted out of turn," Lorcan accepts the insult and apologizes. He didn't even blink when his father reprimanded him, so used to it he is. Mael would laugh at the absurdity of it all if it wasn't so pitiful.

The Duke whispers to a fat man behind his throne, urging him to do something. The castellan opens up an old scroll. His chins wobble as he reads it, attempting to sound solemn and grand, "As ancient custom demands! Brothers will duel to determine who will wield Gae Bolg and become heir to the dukedom of Galicia!"

He takes a pause then, trying to impress upon the people the importance of this matter, or to gather his breath, "The duel will go on until one of the combatants' surrenders! Or is unable to continue the fight!"

An ancient custom. Mael scoffs and spits on the ground. For centuries Dukes of Galicia picked their successor without resorting to such savage practices.

Guards form a circle in the courtyard, to keep the crowd at bay. Their grim expressions and tower shields serve as a good reminder of the situation. But the crowd doesn't care. Men let their children sit on their shoulders, to give them a clear view. The rain grows stronger.

The crowd waits like they are watching a circus act, or a cockfight, eager for blood. Mael supposes it's the truth now. Proud Scions of Setanta, now reduced to animals fighting in a ring. All for their father's entertainment.

He has no illusions about the duke's reasons, he could've just picked one of them to be his successor.

Spinning the spear Mael prepares for the fight. All but a single person here knows how it will end.

Lorcan is waiting for his brother to attack. He cut his bright red hair short but he doesn't wear a helmet, showing off his lineage. Mael would condemn him for it if he didn't do the same.

The younger brother smiles, his face is bright and welcoming. Does he not realize the situation he's in? That their duel is nothing more than a ploy to humiliate him?

All Mael can do is try to give him a fair fight. His brother is younger than him after all. In serious sparring matches, he always lost before he even had a chance to strike back. His older brother will give him that chance now.

Mael holds his spear in two hands and assumes a stance, blade tip to the ground shaft to the skies. He leans forward, ready to lunge.

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Lorcan hides behind his shield, laying low. Mael can only see his eyes, calm and focused.

The large round shield he holds gives him a chance, as slim as it can be. He assumes a defensive stance, right out of the book. He hides his short sword behind his shield, ready to counterattack.

If he wants to stay on the defensive, Mael is happy to oblige. He charges forward, he is quick so quick that most of the crowd doesn't see his move. He starts his offensive with light jabs.

He strikes at Lorcan’s shield first, testing his reaction. He blocks the first strike with ease, as expected. The second strike is faster, it's a blur to the untrained eye but Lorcan is his brother. He manages to block it with his shield in time. Mael notices a shade of uncertainty in his eyes. Lorcan charges forward. Shield clashes with the spear. Then the sword strikes like a snake, a quick thrust that will end this fight.

Mael blocks it with his bracers, redirecting the strike so it slips off, without piercing leather. Lorcan strikes again, his sword becoming a steel blur. Mael takes a step back and blocks it with his spear. Their fight becomes a dance. Sword clashes with the spear, again and again. Despite all his efforts, Lorcan can’t land a clean hit, and Mael doesn’t want to end the fight so quickly.

Looking at this, Duke Senan starts to lose his patience, his fingers leave marks on his wooden chair. His expression changes, teeth grinding, blood drops from his mouth. His body shakes and he starts to chant something under his breath, “Blood… Power...Brothers…” But no one paid mind to an old Duke. all eyes are focused on the fight in front of them.

Mael jumps back, Lorcan follows. Brothers resume their dance of steel. Spear clashes with a sword, again and again, notches form on them. Lorcan grows impatient, his brother proves too quick for him to repeat his early feat. He can’t pin him with his shield and finish him.

"For Scata's sake end this already!" The Duke decides to intrude. He spits blood as he shouts, his fingers are filled with splinters. Lorcan flinches and charges forward. Mael grimaces as he sees his brother forget all caution.

It would be easy to finish it right now, a step forward and stab to his left arm, leaving him defenseless. But Mael refrains from it and lets Lorcan's sword clash with the shaft of his spear. The force is enough to make him take a step back.

Lorcan tries to push further, but he can't.

"Use your shield," Mael whispers to him, giving him tips like when they trained together. Before father decided that Lorcan held him back and forbade them to spar.

The shield strikes Mael and forces him to take a step back. The blow will leave a slight bruise as Mael suppresses the pain. Lorcan smiles and hears the crowd cheer as they see the underdog make a move.

"Silence!" one word is enough to deafen the crowd, and stop their "duel" at once.

Mael and Lorcan look at their father, lowering their weapons, as he stands up from his chair. The Duke's anger is clear as Gae Bolg explodes with a red light, His crimson shine reminding them of the old stories.

Senan points the fabled spear at his oldest son. Invoking Gae Bolg's ancient authority, as he shouts, "Stop holding back already Mael!" He still stands in the place, as he lowers the spear.

The red light becomes smaller. The Duke shrieks, his fingers trembling on the shaft of the spear, “Now be done with this. It's starting to bore me!"

The "duel" ended right there turning into humiliation. Mael couldn't hold back without looking like he mocks his brother. He couldn't disobey the direct order from the Duke either.

Lorcan is determined to prove himself, but it is fruitless. He tries to put some resistance and he would've won against most of the knights. But his opponent is not a mere knight.

Mael hits his shield, the strength of blow is enough to outright pierce it. Before Mael could finish the fight, Lorcan strikes at Mael with his sword and forces him to block. He grimaces seeing the big hole in his shield. He drops it and seals his fate.

Steel spear pierces his leg. Holy Blood intertwines with the rain, making it look like a river of red pours from his leg. Mael hears a gasp in the crowd, he bitterly smiles, is this not what they wanted to see?

Lorcan grimaces but doesn't allow the pain to affect him as attacks his brother. He is precise, quick, but his efforts are in vain. Mael dodges every attack and stabs his left arm. Once more Holy Blood drops.

Rain falls even heavier, the gods condemning this act.

He is armed with only a short sword against the spear. There is no reason to go further. Pointing the spear at him Mael demands Lorcan to surrender. Blue eyes lock with brown.

"It's over," Mael states, "You lost, brother."

"I still have my sword," Lorcan replies, frowning, while Holy Blood trails from his wounds. The blood loss should've taken its toll. The faster he surrenders the faster his wounds will be treated.

It is time to end this farce. Mael strikes at his right shoulder, easily avoiding his blade in the process. It's simply a matter of reach, the spear has an inherent advantage against the sword.

This time Mael doesn't hold back, piercing his shoulder he forces Lorcan to kneel. The pain is enough for him to drop his sword low and groan. He looks at the ground, avoiding his brother's gaze.

"Surrender, Lorcan," Mael is unable to hide the notes of annoyance in his voice at the stubbornness he sees.

Lorcan starts to breathe rapidly as the situation finally gets to him. What could he do against his older brother? Despite being of the Holy Blood himself he was a second child. As the old stories claim, the blood manifests in full power in the first child, the rest getting less with every birth.

Mael takes the spear out of his shoulder, the tip is dripping blood on the ground. Lorcan looks at it surprised as if it is the first time he sees blood. And then, his body falls forward into the wet ground.

The first son looks to his father, the man who sent brother against brother. The man who is only a shell of a once noble ruler. He looks pleased, his bangs moved away for once, revealing brown eyes so feverish they seem almost red.

He sounds satisfied, glad even, as he claps with his marred hands, "Good, good... as I expected, he was no match for you."

He stands up and walks towards Mael with Gae Bolg in hand. The spear of legends still protects his wielder, uncaring of what sort of man he is.

The Duke stops before Mael, the reek of his unwashed body hits harder than his brother's shield. Senan doesn't pay any mind to the son left bleeding on the ground as he gives Mael a smile of pure, loving, pride.

"Yes, this is perfect! Everything is in place! I knew the gods were right to put me on this path!" He rambles while frantically walking in place.

"Your excellency," Maels grinds out. "Did you not see that your son lies bleeding behind you? He needs help immediately!"

"No matter, he will be dead soon," The Duke says, he doesn't even look at his second son.

"What!?" the older brother says, shocked at his callousness. "Are you letting your son die!? Lorcan was only here at your behest for Scata's sake!"

He waves away Mael's words, unconcerned. "He is not my son," he says, nervously twitching "Take this!"

The Duke tosses him the Gae Bolg like a stick and immediately groans. His old wounds immediately open and start to bleed. The blood falls from his chest, legs, and arms as he focuses on Mael. His eyes are wide and unblinking as he shouts an insane order, "Prove your lineage, and whet the spear with Holy Blood!"

No, surely he doesn't mean what Mael thinks he does. Mael looks at his father, seeking another meaning. Any other meaning. But he shows his back to Mael, going to his younger son.

The boy is groaning in pain as his father tries to lift him. The Duke doesn't look at Mael as he commands "Help me raise him, the hit should be clean, right through the heart!"

This was not a farce meant to humiliate Lorcan or even for simple entertainment. It was the Duke ordering an execution. To kill his son. He continues to ramble while trying to raise Lorcan, "A fair fight between those of The Bloodline. A duel to the death. The victor claims life and feeds the blood to Gae Bolg."

Cold crawls its way into his heart. This, all this, for some old superstition or ritual? He had read old stories where people sacrificed their lives for Sacred Weapons. Infusing their blood into it. They were, however, only stories, and the thought of killing his brother for some old tale is madness.

The very madness that captured his father it seems. He manages to shoulder Lorcan upright, and wake him from his slumber. His burning gaze turns back to Mael as he taps the chest of his second son, "Here, pierce his heart with Gae Bolg,"

"Father..." Lorcan whispers, still weak from his wounds. The old man frowns at him but keeps him standing. Mael looks at him blankly, while disgust roils in his heart, knuckles whitening from the anger. This plot of his, kinslaying, sacrificing his son for some ritual...

It's unworthy of the Holy Blood.

"What are you waiting for, Mael? This is your destiny!"

Mael doesn't respond, there is no use to reason with a lunatic. Gae Bolg is familiar to him. It carries the same as his old spear, a replica gifted by his father. He walks towards the Duke.

Twin pairs of brown eyes fixed on him. And then, only one.