“To death,” Morana answers. “Open or closed?”
An open circle allows retreat as forfeit, but requires concentration not to go out of bounds accidentally. An extra challenge for hobby duelists. It also requires concentration not to hurt onlookers.
“Closed,” Nevander says, protecting the crowd—and cutting off their escape routes. His answer begins the silent countdown. Nevander’s breath slows to match.
Three. The circle pulses gold.
Two. The circle settles.
One.
Nevander’s wings unfurl, and Morana darts skyward.
Nevander’s never seen Morana fight aloft before. Most duels are grounded. Her violet wings cleave the air swiftly, already diving as Nevander rises to meet her. He moves on instinct, not strategy, sword sweeping as a shield.
Blades collide, showering sparks.
Nevander barely dodges the sting of Morana’s offhand dagger. She stabs again, wide and hasty. Nevander slashes sideways, trying to foul her wings as he disengages.
A single violet feather tip spirals down. Morana laughs, breaking away, seeming unphased as Nevander claims the higher position. He climbs, putting a few dozen feet between them, just enough space to observe.
The rune circle commands a wall like frosted glass, rising to a curved ceiling. The courtyard’s great clock is a blur below, obscured by the clouded translucence. All outside sound and lights are muted—from Nevander’s perspective.
For the audience, the wall is nearly transparent, and every breath is clear. Seren is witness to this. Nevander can’t think about that.
Blood streaks Morana’s left gauntlet. Nevander hadn’t realized he struck true in the last exchange. She might not realize either. The shallow wound doesn’t affect the speed of her next attack.
Nevander parries the first strike easily. Then the second. Dodging the third nearly drives him into the circle boundary. He rights himself in midair, wings straining.
Morana is already diving away from retaliation.
The next few engagements repeat the pattern. Morana attacks quickly. Nevander easily counters. He’s on the defensive, and dragging this out will wear him down.
It will wear Morana out faster. Nevander can wait, conserving energy, until she tires. They’ve both learned the same thing from their exchanges—he’s stronger than her.
There’s one thing he doesn’t understand. And if he doesn’t ask now, he may never get the chance.
“Why are you doing this?” Nevander asks, hovering above.
Morana circles below. “Have you never wanted to be more than you are?”
Nagging ambition. Purpose stronger than any vow.
“Every day,” Nevander says. “But I don’t need a crown for that.”
Morana laughs, sharp. “You’re happy to serve. I’m tired of losing court games. Even bickering with Gevain bores me now.”
Nevander adjusts the flow of his magic, bringing wings, blade, breath into alignment. “I’ll tell him that.”
“I’ll tell him myself.” Morana flies a few wingbeats higher. “I’ve got nothing personal against your pet prince. This is just an opportunity.”
Even through his anger, Nevander understands. This isn’t just an opportunity, but Morana’s first and only opportunity in centuries. Longevity can be frustrating for young, ambitious fae. Morana isn’t young anymore, and the years have sharpened her frustration. Her sister is heir to Brightwood, and their mother shows no sign of retiring. Haelwen ruled strong for five hundred years. This moment of transition is a rare gap in the armor of dynasty. An opportunity worth Morana’s life.
Nevander shouldn’t drag this out.
Yet as he angles, preparing to dive, something flashes in his peripheral vision. A tiny object gleams ten feet down, near the boundary.
Instead of diving, Nevander dodges Morana’s next strike. An easy exchange of blows—too easy. As they disengage, Nevander passes the unknown object.
