Irritated whispers sprang up around the knights, their eyes turning fiercely on Kylian. They assumed, quite correctly, that he had somehow played a role in spurring the young master’s absurd ambitions.

‘Perhaps it is Sir Kylian who has the serpent’s tongue…’

‘Does he wish to see the young master killed by His Highness, Sigurd?’

‘I never appreciated the manner in which Sir Kylian speaks!’

Kylian averted his eyes. In retrospect, he should have anticipated this. It was patently unfair for the other knights to pin Ailn’s behavior on him, of course; yet, it was also true that this situation had likely arisen because Kylian had prodded him to help Renea.

Principle was what drove Kylian. He had no desire to curry favor with his peers. Still, he had recently found himself dismayed by how much he seemed to have courted their contempt. A few days prior, he’d entered a tavern popular with many knights and noticed it turn quieter upon his entrance.

As his reputation was evidently suffering yet another bout of collateral damage—this time from Ailn’s brash challenge—Kylian wondered if he should find a new tavern to frequent.

“Do my ears deceive me?” Sigurd asked. He spoke slowly and scornfully. “Sir Fontaine, is my brother truly this much of an idiot?”

“That… I do not… Forgive me, Your Highness,” Fontaine blanched, “for that is a rather trying question for a vassal.”

“He is,” Dartune nodded.

“All members of direct lineage have a right to challenge for headship,” Ailn pointed at Sigurd, “so long as they’re of age. That includes me.” He strode up through the Great Hall, ignoring the grumbling knights from both sides, and coming to a stop right in front of the throne. “And the challenge has to be honored by the next holy day, so long as there were no challenges prior.”

“I am well aware of the precedent,” Sigurd spat, “but I am merely asking you if you understand that a duel for headship is not a game. Did you not recently have a brush with death? Perhaps you were dissatisfied that Aldous did not manage to end your wretched life?”

Sigurd stood up, towering over Ailn. He was on the dais, and he was a few inches taller from the start.

“Allow me to clarify the difference between us,” he said.

Unsheathing his sword, Sigurd manifested his divine blessing at the same time. Imbued directly onto his blade, the summoning of his holy aura seemed instantaneous.

The same as most of the knights, Sigurd preferred to use a long sword. But his aura glinted upward and outward, surrounding it with a lethal, ethereal extension. It effectively became a claymore.

His aura was quiet. Like the resonance of a finger tracing a wine glass, it emerged with a single, delicate hum. Soft at the moment of its manifestation, and fading nearly to silence, it seemed almost incongruous with his harsh, proud personality—so unassuming was its impression.

A few of the older knights seemed disgruntled by Sigurd’s impious use of his aura, and yet even they were still awed by it.

Sigurd was an extraordinarily powerful knight. The understated effect of his aura belied just how swift and sharp it was. Before his mother’s death, Sigurd had actually surpassed her in the sheer proficiency of killing shadow beasts. Hence, his moniker among the knights: the ‘Divine Blade.’

Kylian marveled for a moment, when he realized a single generation of the eum-Creids had produced its two greatest talents. It was almost as if Sophie and Sigurd had taken the abilities of Ailn and Renea for themselves.

“Face me in battle, and your death is assured,” Sigurd said. His voice was clear and serious. “‘The dog that climbs, breaks its neck.’ I’d suggest you learn to stay in your dog house.”

“‘Every dog has its day,’ Sigurd.” Ailn drew his own sword, with a shrug. “And right now you strike me as ‘all bark, no bite.’”

The lines on Sigurd’s face deepened, and his glare grew more vicious.

“I am trying to help you, Ailn,” Sigurd said, his jaw clenching. “‘Impossible aims waste arrows.’”

“‘You miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take,’” Ailn said. He turned his face slightly away, but couldn’t hide his smirk.

Sigurd’s eye twitched so noticeably it made Kylian flinch. Just what was it that made Sigurd so unusually sensitive to having his aphorisms parried?

“‘The cruelest defeats are always obvious before the battle.’”

“‘It ain’t over till the fat lady sings.’”

“What is that supposed to mean?!” Sigurd raised his voice. “If you truly wish to die, then so be it! And which moronic gatekeeper let you in?!”

“You should probably audit all the gatekeepers,” Ailn admitted. “But I’m not snitching. If that means you accept, then I’m leaving to train. See you at the wolf festival.”

True to his word, Ailn made his way out of the Great Hall, whistling all the while. The knights simply stared at him in dumbfounded silence. But before he let the heavy doors slam, Ailn left a parting note.

“You’re gonna learn the taste of dirt before this is over, Sigurd.”

The heavy door shut with a thud. Sigurd simmered with quiet rage, trying to recompose himself. But just when it seemed that he’d be able to move on from it, the door creaked open again, and Ailn popped his head in.

“Raise a big crowd for it, will you? ‘Seeing is believing,’ after all, and I want my future subjects to know how I became the duke.”

The door shut again.

His aura was quiet, but Sigurd’s frustrated scream was quite loud.

----------------------------------------

For a long while after, Sigurd had simply sat on the throne, palm latched to his temple, muttering to himself. By the time the budgeting meeting had finished, Ailn had long left the castle.

Surprisingly, he wasn’t at his cottage either.

Kylian knew he’d been foraging, and had the faint notion that he was trying to hunt. Yet, when Ailn came ambling up the hill with three rabbits in hand, it still caught Kylian off guard. The young noble had been in such dire straits just the day prior.

“Want some stew?” Ailn asked nonchalantly. He pushed open the door to the cottage, inviting Kylian in. Indifferent to his sudden surge of success, Ailn began skinning the rabbits as if it were just another routine task—whistling the same tune he had when he left the Great Hall.

“...I don’t believe I’ve heard this one,” Kylian noted, struck by melody’s inherent pomp.

“It’s a song for hailing chiefs,” Ailn said.

Kylian’s eyes narrowed in appraisal of the young scion before him.

“Do you truly intend to become duke?” Kylian asked.

“I do,” Ailn said. “I should smoke some of this rabbit meat… Is there any salt at the castle?”

At Ailn’s affirmation, Kylian paled. He felt Ailn would likely not make for a great duke, and he was beginning to regret his rashness in urging him to action so unequivocally.

“Don’t worry, things will run the same,” Ailn said, giving Kylian a sidelong glance. “You’re not here to tell me it’s too dangerous?”

“You’re one to act flippant, not frivolous,” Kylian said. “And your skill with the sword cannot be dismissed. In the pure act of swordfighting, you beat Aldous after all.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

On the other hand, Aldous had almost killed him when he used his holy aura, and Sigurd’s was even stronger. He was just as fine a swordsman as Aldous, too, while being younger and fitter.

Still, Kylian felt the knights, who even now couldn’t bring themselves to believe Ailn had beat Aldous—despite what the evidence suggested—were not giving Ailn his due.

If he were predicting the outcome of the duel purely on logic, Kylian would have certainly chosen Sigurd to win.

His intuition, though…

“I appreciate a man who has faith in his liege,” Ailn said. He was almost done skinning the three rabbits. “You will make a fine vassal.”

“You act as if you’ve already won,” Kylian frowned. “That sort of arrogance really will get you killed.”

“That sort of arrogance is just what an underdog needs,” Ailn said. “I’ll need more than that, of course. But I’m not gonna win by imagining myself losing.”

Making a shallow cut into the first rabbit’s stomach, Ailn began the careful process of gutting his quarry.

“I’m gonna need your help all month, though,” Ailn said.

“For?”

“For a lot of things. I need you to spar with me, and teach me what you remember about Sigurd’s sword habits,” Ailn said. “Then I need you to spy on him so I can have a more current sense of it.”

The usual headache was starting to come on. Kylian rubbed his thumb against his temple, squinting at the ground. Was this… mildly treasonous? He wasn’t sure. It was a sanctioned duel, after all. That said, Sigurd was his lord.

Grimacing, Ailn walked outside for a moment to grab a handful of snow, melting it by rubbing his hands together and sloughing off all the blood from the rabbit.

Then, opening his chest, he pulled out a few vegetables wrapped in cloth.

“You’ve resumed working in the fields?” Kylian asked, surprised.

“Only in the dawn. That’s why I didn’t have time to check my traps until noon,” Ailn said. “You need more than protein, you know. I’m gonna be doing a lot of calisthenics. A crazy amount. These vegetables are key.”

He sighed, unenthusiastic about the prospect.

“I don’t know what ‘protein’ is,” Kylian said. “But I agree that your meals need to be hearty. There’s no way you’d be able to beat Sigurd, unless your mind is at its sharpest, and your body is the very picture of health.”

The word health made Ailn wince. Kylian wasn’t sure why.

“Damn, I’m almost out of water…” Ailn said. “How recent was this snowfall? Three days?”

“Four.”

“Never thought I’d be wishing for fresh snow,” Ailn muttered.

Watching Ailn struggle with a lifestyle of poverty, and all its vicissitudes, Kylian began to doubt his own assessment. It wasn’t that Ailn was doing poorly for himself—but just living was taking up effort and time.

Sigurd, meanwhile, would have his needs met by the servants. Not only would he be in top physical form, come the wolf festival, he would surely have had more time to train.

Could Ailn really pull this off?

“What… makes you so certain in your own victory?” Kylian asked. To make sure his own apprehensions didn’t affect Ailn, he revealed no doubt in his voice.

If Ailn couldn’t reveal a practical basis for his confidence, Kylian would try to dissuade him. Sigurd had not been bloviating. In a duel for headship, death was far from a rare occurrence.

“It’s simple, Kylian,” Ailn said, shaking his head as if it really were self-evident. “I want it more.”

----------------------------------------

It was an industrious couple of weeks for Ailn.

He was managing to catch his meat, now, and working in the fields in the morning meant he had a steady supply of vegetables. Though he wanted to be as self-sufficient as possible, in the interest of practicality, he acceded on one point: he asked Kylian to bring him fruit.

Just like he’d said, Ailn did a lot of push-ups and sit-ups, and continued to find himself astonished by the intrinsic strength of his body.

He ran a lot, too.

Even fieldwork at dawn, preparing the soil for next spring, was strengthening his body. The more he lived in it, the more he realized he recovered faster than he ever did in his original world.

That was a game changer. He only had a month to prepare. Optimizing his conditioning was one of the few edges he’d have over Sigurd. With the increased capacity for workload, he could progress faster.

Still, it wouldn’t be an overwhelming advantage. Sigurd had a fastidious personality, and the Order’s training was pretty rigorous.

As such, Ailn devoted most of his time to sparring; not just with Kylian, but with Camille and Nicholas who had accepted his request. It was scintillating, terrifying stuff: they used real swords, just like would be used in the duel for headship.

Half of Ailn’s fatigue came from his nerves; he couldn’t help but feel that the miracles of the Saintess’s healing magic had made these knights a little too cavalier with injury.

At the moment, he was sparring with Camille, her blade coming uncomfortably close to his face as their swords locked.

A brief hesitation in Ailn’s response cost him. She took advantage with a swift elbow strike, amplified by holy aura, that grazed his chin and jolted his senses.

Blacking out for a second, he fell to one knee. Wait, did the Saintess’s magic heal brain damage?

“I wager you’re getting better, Your Grace,” Camille said. There was a certain vivacity in her tone, but Ailn was pretty sure it wasn’t because she was thrilled at his improvement. She stared at her own sword. “Using holy aura without fear of reprisal… rather expands your options.”

Letting his vision fully come back into focus, Ailn didn’t respond for a while.

“Camille,” Ailn finally said, “would Sigurd actually utilize the divine blessing in a duel? In front of everyone?”

“It would not be typical to his character,” Camille said. She resheathed her sword with gusto. “Sigurd is quite honor-bound. That said, for stakes so consequential, I’m certain he would not hesitate, Your Grace. ”

Her usually placid smile held a note of playfulness today. Ailn was certain it was because she genuinely enjoyed swordplay, and as a result, their sparring had begun to build a basic rapport between them.

More than anyone else in the family, Camille’s thoughts and feelings continued to elude Ailn. Granted, she didn’t even consider herself part of the family. Perhaps she had drawn a line, and there was nothing more to it.

Ironically, given that Ailn was much the same, that made her easier to relate to.

“I’m surprised you’re willing to help me, considering how loyal you are to the knights,” Ailn said. “I appreciate your help these last two weeks.”

He walked up to shake her hand as thanks, and after a confused moment she politely rejected it by raising both of her hands and giving a light bow. Presumably, she had intuited it as a gesture between equals, and thought it unbecoming for a knight to reciprocate.

Shrugging, Ailn continued to prod here and there.

“You don’t feel any guilt towards your knight commander?” Ailn asked.

“Well…” Camille averted her eyes. “I truly have no dog in this fight. And I wouldn’t dare to imagine my humble opinion germane to the issue of succession.”

“So, you think I’d be just as good of a duke as Sigurd,” Ailn said.

“That’s—er, you have shown many talents that I had not been aware of,” Camille said, flinching as she snapped her head back in his direction. Her tone was extremely polite. “I would not deign to know the extent of them.”

How very diplomatic.

Judging by the way she instinctively grabbed the hilt of her blade whenever she was uncomfortable, Ailn got the sense that she was here simply because she liked to spar. She probably happily jumped at the opportunity, thinking Ailn had no chance of beating Sigurd.

It was even an excuse for her to use the divine blessing in conjunction with her swordplay.

Which was fine by Ailn. He’d only started sparring Camille and Nicolas to learn how to deal with holy aura.

Despite being Ennieux’s children, and therefore direct lineage as far as blood, they did not inherit the actual divine blessing. Just like the rest of the knights, they needed it bestowed—they just happened to have an exceptional capacity to retain it.

“Let’s go for one more round,” Ailn said.

“Certainly, Your Grace,” Camille said.

That seemed to put some pep in her step. Camille wasted no time, imbuing her sword with holy aura, mimicking the manner in which Sigurd used it to lengthen the reach of his sword.

It was slower, but once fully manifested the ethereal extension of her blade reached just as far.

Ailn’s biggest worry had been that an aura-imbued sword might produce enough force to break his blade. The original Ailn had managed to break Aldous’s sword, of course, but there was no guarantee that Aldous had employed his aura in the same manner.

He’d learned that when their blades met, Camille’s aura would burst, almost seeming to spill over.

As Ailn blocked an overhead blow from Camille, he could feel the surge of energy pushing his sword back slightly, almost as if he were resisting the flow of water. The moment she pulled back her blade, her aura reformed—it took about half a second.

Camille liked to strike from above, and her longer reach forced Ailn to maintain extra distance—about two steps back. Despite being quicker on his feet, this forced him into a reactive position, as Camille would move in and out, controlling the range between them.

Nonetheless, Ailn noticed when she was too aggressive in taking space.

Two blows in quick succession from Camille forced Ailn to back up, and he looked as if he’d soon lose his balance. Hence, Camille moved in for yet another strike in a bid to cast his blade upward.

She was a moment slow, and Ailn was still sure-footed. With quick steps, the situation had reversed. Ailn was within striking range, slashing faster. It was the first time he’d seen a vexed expression on her face.

In fact, he seemed on the precipice of victory, until Camille struck him with a frantic kick—one that was imbued with holy aura.

The effect was like getting punched twice, and it fully knocked the wind out of Ailn.

“Urgh…” Ailn fell to his knees, dropping his sword and clutching his stomach.

He spit at the ground a few times, just because his fight-or-flight response was producing a lot of saliva—and he was close to throwing up.

“Got a… long way to go…” Ailn groaned.

“Are you alright, Your Grace?”

Camille came over profusely apologizing, but from the way her lips curled, Ailn could tell she was restraining a big, self-satisfied grin.