His gaze moves across them slowly, not searching, not questioning, but marking.
“That assumption is wrong.”
The silence that follows sharpens instead of softening, the tension condensing into something more focused, more dangerous.
A figure steps forward from the edge of the chamber, his robes dark, his posture rigid with the kind of control that comes from long practice rather than comfort. His expression is smooth, but there’s a tightness beneath it that betrays how much this moment matters.
“Bold words,” he says, his tone measured, but edged with something harder as his eyes flick briefly to Maltos’s body before returning to Verr. “But words do not establish legitimacy.”
The challenge lands clean.
Verr doesn’t rush to answer. He lets it sit, lets the room feel the shape of it before he responds.
“No,” Verr says at last. “They don’t.”
He steps forward.
Just one pace.
The shift is immediate.
“But this does.”
The implication doesn’t need to be explained. It settles into the room with a weight that forces every eye back to him.
The noble’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t retreat.
“Victory in a duel does not make you a ruler,” he says. “It makes you a survivor.”
“Then it’s fortunate,” Verr replies, his voice even, steady, unshaken, “that I am both.”
A ripple moves through the chamber again, sharper this time, more defined.
The noble opens his mouth to press further, but Verr doesn’t allow the space.
“You can challenge me,” Verr continues, his gaze locking onto him fully now, unyielding. “Formally. Publicly. Here.”
The words hang in the air, heavy with consequence.
The noble hesitates.
Only for a second.
But it’s enough.
Because everyone sees it.
“I thought not,” Verr says quietly.
The man steps back.
And the balance shifts.
When Verr turns back to me, the room follows again, pulled by the gravity of his decision before he even speaks.
“This is Lyria,” he says.
My pulse kicks once, sharp and immediate, not from fear, but from the weight of what I already understand is coming.
