VON

Von noticed a crow not far away as he stood in the crowd of the coliseum. His mouth was cotton dry and his breath carried the scent of ale, the world spun beneath him. Shoulder’s bounced off of him like pinballs as the crowd jumped and cheered as the young Lord Uriel took his place in the center of the sand-pit arena, adorning his fur lined golden chestplate, the Cayne family deer planted on his heart.

Von clicked his tongue. The North cheers for a man who fights against a weak spoiled brat. They chant Uriel’s name and give him fame, but he himself couldn’t even get so much as a nod of acknowledgment. He was the one who fought real battles! The one who bled for the North’s safety, yet here he was, lost in the crowd, while the people fawned over a brat playing soldier! He’s the one who keeps these people safe! He’s the one scarring his body and risking his life. And for what? His brother has given him no real power. He has no titles beyond The Second Son and no fame beyond being known as a drunken fool.

His flaring emotions subsided somewhat when the crowd died as High Lord Edgard raised his hand, looming over the crowd like some sort of giant. But he wasn’t a giant and neither was his brother who sat behind him. They were just normal human’s stepping on top of taller pieces of earth. What is it about humans that makes them think being taller means being stronger?

“This is a Duel of Honor!” Edgard’s voice was weathered but sharp, cutting through the wind.

Duel of Honor. Von snickered, drunk on hate and ale. What a joke it was to call this duel a duel of honor. The North has gone soft. A coward like lord Uriel get’s to marry the second daughter and he gets stuck with the child?

Edgard finishes his speech about the rules of a Duel of Honor and the respective traditions. Von learns the victim’s name is Hildrian. High Lord Edgard nods to each contendant and even Von could tell the old man thought little of this event. The duel of honor was once sacred. An event saved for only the strongest warriors. Now any street urchin can slap a person and proclaim it a duel of honor.

The horns sounded, cutting through the roar of the crowd. Birds scattered like black flecks of ink against the sky, yet one crow remained, perched and still. Its beady eyes fixed on the scene below, watching, waiting. Von’s gaze lingered on the bird. Crows were harbingers of war, not the petty brawls of spoiled nobles. What business did it have here?

In the arena, Uriel stood, sword sheathed, his golden hair glinting in the sun like a polished trophy. He didn’t even bother taking a stance, his hands resting lazily at his sides. Hildrian, in contrast, crouched low, his sword trembling in his grip. The tension between them was palpable, but the cowardice of the so-called “honorable duel” was written in every smirk Uriel flashed at his opponent.

Von clicked his tongue. The crowd’s cheers grated against his ears. They chanted Uriel’s name, showering him with fame for toying with someone beneath his station. Von’s stomach churned, and he wasn’t sure if it was the ale or his disgust.

The arena grew silent as Hildrian lunged, his sword aimed straight for Uriel’s chest. It was a desperate, clumsy move, and Uriel’s smile only widened. In a single, fluid motion, he unsheathed his sword, deflecting the attack with a resonant clang. As Hildrian stumbled forward, Uriel’s blade whipped low, striking the back of the man’s calf with its flat edge.

Hildrian grunted and whirled around, his sword cutting through the air in a wide arc. His strikes came fast but wild, each swing more reckless than the last. A horizontal slash grazed empty air; a vertical one slammed into the sand as Uriel danced out of reach, his movements light and effortless. His golden hair swayed like a banner in the wind, his smirk as sharp as his blade.

The crowd cheered wildly at Uriel’s display of dominance, but Von’s lip curled in disdain. Uriel looked like a fool playing a game with a man who didn’t belong here. Hildrian’s strikes became slower, his breaths heavier. Sand clung to his sweat-soaked clothes, and his once-strong posture sagged under the weight of exhaustion and humiliation.

“Enough of this!” A voice bellowed from the crowd, the words rippling through the stands. The energy of the spectators shifted, their initial fervor giving way to murmurs of disapproval. They had seen enough; they weren’t entertained by this farce.

Uriel’s expression didn’t change. He stepped forward, quicker than Hildrian could react, his sword slicing the air to stop inches from the man’s throat. Hildrian froze, his sword clattering to the ground. Knees hitting the sand, he panted like a beaten dog, his gaze fixed on the dirt.

High Lord Edgard rose from his seat, his aged yet imposing figure silhouetted against the sun. His voice boomed, commanding the arena. “The victor is—”

“I request a Duel of Honor!”

The arena fell silent at Von's words, his voice cutting through the air like the blade he didn’t yet hold. Thousands of eyes turned toward him, the collective gaze heavy as he stumbled forward, brushing past the crowd that parted reluctantly in his wake. He swayed slightly, the drink still coursing through his veins, but his expression burned with a clarity that had been absent moments before.

From his high seat, High Lord Edgard froze mid-sentence, his brow furrowing deeply. His lips pursed as though the interruption was a personal affront. "Von Ironstone," he said at last, his voice carrying over the stunned audience. "Do you truly wish to invoke the sacred rite?"

Von steadied himself, planting his boots firmly into the shifting sand at the edge of the arena. He drew a breath, his chest heaving beneath the weight of his cloak. "Aye," he replied, his tone sharp, cutting, and dripping with contempt. "I cannot stand idly by as the North forgets its honor. A true Duel of Honor should not be a mockery performed by cowards." He pointed directly at Uriel, his gesture as much an accusation as a challenge.

The crowd erupted into murmurs, a wave of disbelief and intrigue rippling through the stands. Von’s reputation as a warrior was a mystery to anyone beyond the Red Curtain, but this sudden declaration promised something far more entertaining—and dangerous—than the farce they'd just witnessed.

Uriel’s smirk faltered, but only for a moment. He recovered quickly, turning his head toward High Lord Edgard with a mocking bow. "Surely his grace would not humor this drunken fool," he said, his voice smooth and filled with false humility. "Von has already drowned his honor in ale."

Von’s fists clenched, the knuckles whitening. "If you think me unworthy, then refuse," he shot back, his voice echoing with venom. "The crowd will see you for what you are—a spineless coward who hides behind titles and dances away from real fights."

The murmur of the crowd grew louder, some cheering, others jeering. Edgard raised his hand to silence them again, his expression thunderous. "This is a grave matter, Von Ironstone. A Duel of Honor is not invoked lightly. If you lose, you risk your name, your station, and your life. Are you prepared for such a wager?"

Von took a step forward, no longer able to avoid the disappointed gaze of his brother. Those same icy blue eyes he had seen his whole life. Never had they looked at him with any sort of warmth. Even now all the “Great Son” could think of was his own reputation.

No more.

Stolen story; please report.

"I've been prepared my whole life," he growled. "Unlike him, I know what it means to fight for something real."

Edgard leaned back in his throne, regarding Von with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity. Then he turned to Uriel, whose confident façade was beginning to crack under the pressure of the crowd's expectant roars. "And what say you, young lord Uriel? Will you accept this challenge?"

Uriel hesitated, his smirk replaced by a forced neutrality. He glanced at the crowd, then at Von. Finally, with a reluctant sigh, he nodded. "Very well. I accept. Let the drunkard swing his blade. He’ll learn quickly why the second son will never rise above his place."

The coliseum erupted in cheers, the energy palpable as the duel was set. The arena attendants hurried to clear the sand-pit, while Von stepped forward, shedding his heavy cloak and drawing his blade. His weapon was plain but deadly, the kind carried by those who fought wars, not games.

As the two men squared off, Von spared a glance toward the crow, still perched and watching. A dark omen—or perhaps a silent ally. Either way, it made his lips curl into a grin. For the first time that day, Von felt the clarity of purpose cutting through the haze. This wasn’t about The North, or Uriel, or even the mockery of the Duel of Honor.

This was about proving to himself—and everyone else—that the second son could fight battles that mattered.

The horns sound and like parrots, the crowd roars for the fourteenth time today.

Von smiled upon seeing Uriel crouched, his sword resting on his elbow, pointed at Von. A stance meant for more flare than fighting.

“Come on, boy,” Von provoked, taunting him with a gesture.

Uriel, however, stayed calm; creeping closer to Von until he was close enough, and then whipped his sword across Von’s chest. Von stepped forward, slipping past the blade and tried to slam his fist into the golden boy's face, but Uriel spun like a ballerina to Vlad’s back, using the momentum of his swing, and then pulled his sword towards Von’s spine, tearing a piece of Vlad’s loose tunic as he stepped forward.

The crowd cheered at the bout like thirsty visitors finally getting a cold drink.

Von scratched his head. The boy was quick and sharp. More than he had given him credit for.

“What’s wrong, drunkard? Can’t keep up?” Uriel smiled, his stance more relaxed, confident.

Von frowned, then charged. Uriel panicked, eyes wide, as he slid out of the way of Von’s shoulder but Von’s lengthy arm stretched to his left, his palm slamming Uriel’s face into the sand. Confidence had already slowed the boy.

Von let Uriel rise to his feet. He didn’t come to beat the boy, he came to prove a point, to show himself. Uriel spat out a mouthful of sand, his face flush with anger and embarrassment.

“You’ll regret that,” Uriel snarled, his sword flashing in the midday sun as he readied another attack.

“Come then,” Von said, spreading his arms wide, sword in one hand and the other gesturing for Uriel to strike. “Show me how a proper lord fights.”

Uriel rushed forward, his blade cutting arcs through the air with precise, calculated swings. But Von’s movements were simple, efficient—each parry timed to the rhythm of Uriel’s strikes. For all his training, Uriel’s style was rigid, predictable, and Von exploited every hesitation.

The crowd roared as the two exchanged blows, but Von could hear the shift in their tone. The cheers for Uriel’s earlier confidence were replaced by murmurs of disbelief as the supposed high and mighty young lord failed to land a decisive strike. Von’s counters were brutal, his blows heavier, driving Uriel further back with each exchange.

“You’re quick,” Von admitted, his voice carrying over the clash of steel, “but quick doesn’t mean much when you’re weak.”

Uriel’s frustration boiled over. With a loud yell, he launched a reckless overhead slash, putting all his strength into a single strike. Von sidestepped with ease, bringing the flat of his blade against Uriel’s back and sending him sprawling into the sand again.

“Enough!” Uriel’s voice cracked as he scrambled to his feet. His polished armor was scuffed, his perfect hair disheveled. “You think this is about strength? You’re nothing! Just a drunk with a chip on your shoulder!”

Von tilted his head, his grin feral. “Maybe. But even drunks know how to finish a fight.”

Before Uriel could respond, Von surged forward. His shoulder collided with Uriel’s chest, knocking the air from the younger man’s lungs. Uriel staggered, but Von didn’t let up. His sword’s hilt crashed against Uriel’s hand, forcing him to drop his weapon.

Uriel fell to his knees, clutching his bruised hand, his eyes wide with shock and fury. Von planted the tip of his sword at Uriel’s throat, leaning in close enough for the crowd to hear.

“Yield,” Von said, his voice low and commanding. “Before you embarrass yourself further.” He took a victory glance above–to High Lord Edgard, but more importantly, his brother.

A fatal mistake.

Uriel swiped his sword from the sand, infused it with his aura—giving it a faint glow—before swinging it towards Vlad’s neck. Von tripped backwards, infusing his own aura into his sword to parry Uriel’s. But he added too much aura to his sword, he had made it too sharp. His sword split Uriel’s and time seemed to slow as his sword continued against his will, cutting into Uriel’s neck, separating the head from its shoulders. Those pretty green eyes faded as the head fell onto the sand with a thud, leaving a trail of blood as it rolled to Von’s feet.

The silence that blanketed the coliseum was deafening. The cheers and jeers had evaporated, replaced by stunned disbelief. Von stood motionless, his sword still lowered, blood dripping from its edge. His breath came in uneven gasps as his eyes fixed on Uriel’s lifeless body.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

He dared a glance at the High Lord Edgard’s expression—it was unreadable, his fingers gripping the armrest of his throne with white-knuckled force. And then, inevitably, Von’s gaze drifted further, to his brother.

There it was—disgust, anger, and, worst of all, vindication. The unspoken accusation hung in the air between them: You always ruin everything.

The whispers in the crowd began to grow louder, a storm of murmurs cascading down from the stands.

“Did he… kill him?”

“Was that allowed?”

“No! That’s a duel of honor, not to the death!”

Von clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. His chest burned with shame and anger. He didn’t mean for this to happen. It was Uriel’s fault—his recklessness, his arrogance. He wasn’t used to fighting anything he wasn’t planning to kill. Von had only defended himself, hadn’t he?

He took a step back, his boot sinking into the blood-stained sand. The weight of the crowd’s judgment pressed down on him, heavier than the blade he carried.

“My lord,” a voice called out. It was one of the arena attendants, his face pale, his hands shaking as he gestured toward Von. “Your orders?”

Von opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. He was no lord. He was no hero. He was… nothing.

It was Edgard who finally spoke, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. “Enough.”

The crowd silenced instantly, every eye turning toward the High Lord.

“By the laws of the Duel of Honor, Von is the victor,” Edgard declared, his tone measured, calculated. “He acted in defense and followed the rules of combat.”

For a moment, relief flickered in Von’s chest, but it was short-lived as Edgard’s gaze bore into him like ice. “However,” the High Lord continued, “this victory is tainted. A life has been lost needlessly, and the consequences will be addressed.”

The crowd murmured again, uncertain but subdued. Von could feel their eyes on him, the weight of their judgment heavier than ever.

Edgard stood, his voice rising to address the entire coliseum. “This duel will not be forgotten. And neither will the blood spilled here today.” His words lingered, a grim promise that would follow Von wherever he went.

The High Lord turned and gestured for his attendants. “Clear the arena. And see that the boy’s body is returned to his house.”

As the coliseum began to empty, Von stood frozen, his hands trembling. He looked down at his bloodied sword, his reflection distorted in the steel. This was supposed to be his moment—to prove he was more than the drunken second son, the failure everyone believed him to be.

But now, as the weight of Uriel’s death hung over him, Von felt further from victory than ever before.

When the crowd had finally dispersed and the sand was stained only with silence, Von dropped his sword and walked away, his steps heavy. The crow still watched from its perch, a silent observer to the ruin he had made of himself.

It cawed once, sharp and piercing, as if mocking him.