Chapter 10 - The Judgment
The first rays of sunshine that invaded the crack in my room's window did not bring the majestic awakening that a newly-crowned tournament champion should feel. The only thing I felt was an existential, and quite literal, emptiness in my stomach.
I spent a good deal of time locked in the inn's latrine, paying with interest and monetary correction the price of having drunk two flasks of Restoration Potion in such a short time. My crack at that moment was in tatters, besides burning a lot, as if I had shoved pepper up there.
Except for the flaming glutes, I managed to wake up refreshed and without major problems. While I was stretching, I heard dry and rhythmic knocks at the door.
— If it is that priest with one more blue flask, I swear by all the gods that I will throw him out the window, potion and all... — I grumbled softly, rubbing my wrinkled face against my hands and getting up with the same gracefulness of a zombie.
I straightened my wrinkled tunic as best as I could, trying to compose the posture of someone minimally victorious, and unlocked the door.
As soon as I opened the door, my morning irritation evaporated, giving way to a pang of sobriety. It wasn't the medical commission. Much less my parents.
Standing in the hallway, with the rigid posture of a marble pillar and his chin held high at a calculated angle of superiority, was a tall, slender man. He wore an impeccable overcoat in shades of navy blue and white, adorned with intricate gold thread embroidery — the unmistakable colors and crests of the royal capital, Aluvia Magna. In his gloved hands, there rested a thick parchment, sealed with the crown's heavy crimson wax crest.
— Lord Lycon, of Aritel? — the man's voice sounded polished, high-pitched, and sharp as an ice blade, carrying a weight of authority that made my stomach churn once more, but this time for a completely different reason.
— Yes, that is me. — I told him while greeting him formally.
The envoy gave a nod of approval with his eyes before breaking the heavy crimson wax seal with a dry snap, unrolling the parchment with millimetrically rehearsed movements. He showed not the slightest emotion, but cleared his throat slightly, not out of necessity, but to impose the weight of his next words.
— I bring a direct decree from the Crown — he announced. His gaze focused on the paper and he began to read in a loud, projected, and theatrical voice, as if he were delivering a speech to an entire court and not in the humble hallway of an inn.
— "By determination of His Majesty, King Beren of Aluvia Magna, and by virtue of the... overwhelming events that occurred during the Grand Finale last night, it is decreed that the subsequent ceremonies and competitions are postponed until the dawn of the following day." —
The man paused calculatedly. He rolled up the parchment with one hand and his cold eyes left the paper, landing directly on me. His gaze felt as heavy as lead.
— The official message ends here, Lord Lycon — he added, slightly changing his tone to something more direct and intimidating. — However, the main order is not written. The King demands your immediate presence at the palace. His Majesty summons you for a private audience, in order to personally discuss the "matters" of yesterday... and the condition of Princess Evadne. —
My stomach, which was already not having its best days, tied itself in a tight knot. There went my chance to rest.
After seeing my face pale at the summons, the envoy tucked the parchment inside his overcoat with a fluid and pragmatic movement. He then cast one last critical look at my pitiful state, lingering purposefully on my wrinkled tunic.
— I still have the duty to notify the other noble retinues staying in this wing about the postponement decree — he continued, his tone of voice allowing no room for questions. — I will give you the exact time it takes me to fulfill this formality. —
He adjusted his gloves, smoothing the fabric over his fingers with slow coldness.
— Pull yourself together and put on appropriate attire to appear before His Majesty. As soon as I finish notifying the other lords, I will return to this door to personally escort you under the royal guard to the palace. —
With a brief and stiff nod, he turned away from the room in a sweeping movement that made his navy-blue cape cover almost the entire hallway where I stood, leaving me alone as it billowed with his steps.
— I don't think I should have participated in this tournament... — Even though I didn't have the slightest choice in the matter — I thought, listening to his purposefully loud footsteps, trying to muster some hope that I wouldn't be punished — — I think this is the end of me. —
With the little time I had, I started rushing to get ready. The pressure on me was orders of magnitude greater than anything I had ever endured in my entire short life.
When I had finished nearly all my preparations, only needing to comb my hair a bit better, I heard the same rhythmic and imperative knocking as before.
I dropped my comb immediately and ran to open the door. As soon as I got there, I stood in the most formal position I could remember. His eyes swept over all my clothing, posture, and everything I presented in that moment within a tiny fraction of time. Still, he observed every minute detail I displayed, noting that I was far more presentable and formal than before. Finally, he gave a slight nod of approval with his chin before readying his dry, cutting voice to say:
— The notifications to the other lords have been duly delivered — Then, he took a step to the side, clearing the hallway, and extended his gloved right hand in a formal gesture toward the stairs.
— The royal escort already awaits us in the inn's courtyard. Shall we proceed, Lord Lycon? — he asked, even though his voice delivered it as an order.
I nodded my head as I said — Yes — walking toward the courtyard.
Upon arriving there, the scene was surprising. 10 soldiers, divided into two rows, were there to "escort" me — Is this an escort or the arrest of a renowned criminal?! — I exclaimed in my thoughts, before concluding — I think it's both. —
As soon as I took my first step out of the inn's courtyard, the ten soldiers assumed their positions with terrifying synchrony, closing in around me and forming a literal cage of polished armor and raised spears. The envoy walked ahead, clearing the path through the cobblestone streets with his agile and imposing strides, while I marched isolated in the center of that relentless phalanx. The metallic, rhythmic clanking of the royal guard's boots echoed through the alleys, drowning out the sound of the awakening city and making me feel less like a lord and much more like an extremely dangerous convict who might destroy everything if not heavily guarded.
As we advanced toward the wealthier districts, the few merchants and commoners who were already up and about on the streets stopped whatever they were doing to watch the scene. Some widened their eyes and covered their mouths, whispering to each other as I passed by. My hearing, sharpened by the tension of the moment, ended up picking up scattered bits of the murmurs:
— ...my cousin was there! He said that in the middle of all that hurricane, the boy launched a strike with no element at all. It was pure mana! —
— Pure mana? But what sense does it make to use that? A wind or water spell hits just the same and does way more damage. Almost nobody uses that in practice... —
— I don't understand this witchcraft, but I heard some of the guard's mages talking! They said that, since the Princess's shield was also made of mana, his strike went straight through because it was the same thing! It shattered the royal protection as if it were glass! —
— With cleverness like that... could he be some kind of "Junior Prodigy"? You know, like that genius boy from Eudoria who invented pure salt and that brown sugar out of nowhere? —
— Are you crazy to compare them? The Eudoria boy created spices and changed the whole world, there isn't a kingdom that doesn't know his name! This one from Aritel just conjured a hurricane and almost decapitated the crown's heir. That's not a prodigy, it's a walking calamity! —
— You're the crazy one! He almost decapitates the crown's heir and conjures a hurricane [...] You're the one being crazy about this, airhead! —
Hearing all that only made me realize how distorted and monstrous my image had become overnight. While some gossiped, others merely shrank against the walls, intimidated by the crown's ostentatious presence. I tried to keep my head high and my expression neutral, forcing an unshakable posture, but inside, every curious glance weighed like a sentence.
When we finally turned the last street and caught sight of the foundations of the palace of Aluvia Magna, whatever courage still dwelled in my chest threatened to collapse entirely. The building was an intimidating colossus of white stone and dark stained glass, with pointed towers that seemed to tear the morning sky and walls that exuded an ancient authority. The massive solid iron gates opened with a deep, dragging rumble, resembling the jaws of a colossal monster opening wide to devour me. The envoy did not slow his pace as he crossed the threshold, and I, pressed by the wall of soldiers, had no choice but to be swallowed by the fortress, silently hoping to walk out of there with my head still attached to my neck.
As soon as we entered the throne room, the setting was that of a true trial. Above me were King Beren and Queen Arsís themselves. In the left row stood Crown Prince Alexander, Princess Rosalind, and Princess Evadne herself, with green bandages made of moss to immobilize her arm.
On the right were Duke Arthur, Arthur Junior II and Duchess Maria, Baron Alan, Baron Eric and his parents, Baron Thorgal and Baroness Elena.
In the center of the hall, and of everyone, was me, surrounded as if I were in a lion's den.
A disturbing silence echoed for 20 seconds over the hall. Some of the nobles displayed a concern dressed in pride on their faces, while others, mainly Lord Alan, only showed pure anger.
The king cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention there, before delivering his first words — I thank you all for your presence. I kindly ask that you avoid formalities to assist me in the evaluation of this lord. — — First, I ask my daughter, Princess Evadne, to explain her view of the situation. —
Princess Evadne took a slight step forward. Her posture was perfectly erect, worthy of royalty, although the weight of her left arm — firmly immobilized by the thick green moss bandages — caused a slight stiffness in her shoulders, something she tried to mask at all costs. Hatred boiled in the depths of her eyes, but her expression remained locked in a mask of cold porcelain.
— As you wish, my father — her voice sounded melodic yet sharp as broken glass, subtly ignoring the request to avoid formalities — My view on what happened is crystal clear. What we witnessed in the arena yesterday was not a duel of technical and refined magic, but the savage exhibition of an uncollared animal. —
She shot a cutting glare in my direction, pressing her lips together in disgust.
— This... boy... did not fight to win a tournament. He fought to obliterate. He conjured a hurricane that nearly tore off the coliseum's wards, and when my barrier collapsed, the raw mana blade he launched was not a subjugation attack. It was a lethal strike. Had the pressure of the very wind he created not diverted the final impact toward the wall, I would not be here with my arm in bandages. I would be dead on the arena floor. —
Evadne raised her chin, turning to King Beren and Queen Arsís with implacable dignity.
— Noble magic demands refinement, control, and unconditional respect for the laws of our caste. Young Lycon demonstrated the absolute opposite of this. He profaned the conventions of dueling. I do not ask for his life, Your Majesty, for the blood of a savage would needlessly stain the halls of this palace... But I state with absolute conviction: someone so devoid of etiquette, control, and limits is not worthy of bearing the title he holds. He must be stripped of it and disinherited. Let Aritel be taught the difference between the power of a true lord and barbarism. —
Before the hall could even fully absorb the weight of the sentence suggested by the princess, Baron Alan could not contain himself. Leaning his body weight away from his newly healed leg and with his face burning a purple-red hue, he took a clumsy step forward. Whatever etiquette the princess had tried to maintain was thrown out the window by the boy's rage.
— Disinherited is not enough, Your Highness! — bellowed Alan, his voice shrill and trembling with emotional fury as he pointed an accusing finger in my direction. — He tried to kill us! Ask anyone who was there! I saw it in his eyes, Your Majesty, it was pure killer instinct! He tore my leg open and laughed in my face! An unstable monster like that should go straight to the gallows before he ends up killing one of us! —
The king raised his hand, as if in a gesture of discomfort, before stating — Baron Alan, I ask that you contain your anger. It should not be a reason to lie blatantly. I have my sources; Baron Lycon tried to help you, but you refused the help quite ungraciously. —
Baron Alan took a step back, as if he had been slapped in the face. The shame of being publicly contradicted by the king himself made him swallow hard, clenching his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He lowered his head, unable to retort, but huffing like a cornered dog.
After being pressed, he turned briefly to his wife, with a mixture of pity, anger, and happiness on his face, before turning to his daughter, Evadne — I understand your anger, but the magic taught here is only a part of the true magic. We do not have a full understanding of it, so we cannot claim our methods are better. —
She did not dare answer her father, but her jaw clenched tightly, and she looked away with an icy expression of pure indignation.
After the king let out a long sigh, probably because he expected more from his daughter, he turned toward Arthur Junior — As for you, Duke Arthur Junior, do you support the request to disinherit the Baron? —
During this time, I let out a sigh I didn't even know I was holding — He knows I tried to help Alan... and he understands magic much better than her daughter — I thought, feeling a tiny spark of hope reignite in my chest.
It was then that Duke Arthur Junior II spoke up.
He took a step forward with a calculated and graceful slowness. Unlike Alan's emotional explosion or Evadne's proud rigidity, Arthur seemed to be floating in a sea of tranquility. He made a deep and perfectly symmetrical bow toward the throne.
— Your Majesty is, as always, the pillar of wisdom in this kingdom — Arthur began, his deep, velvety voice devoid of any real emotion resonating through the hall with surgical politeness.
He straightened his torso, keeping his hands elegantly clasped behind his back. His dark, empty eyes swept quickly over me before turning back to the King.
— I perfectly understand the distress of our esteemed Highness, Princess Evadne, and of the... impetuous Baron Alan. However, before the crown, I must be the voice of reason. I do not support the request for Lord Lycon's disinheritance. —
The statement caused a surprised murmur to ripple through the row of nobles on the right. Alan himself stared at him with wide eyes of betrayal. Arthur, however, didn't even blink. He was playing his own game.
— What occurred in the coliseum, Your Majesty, was undoubtedly an event of colossal force, but, in my humble view, it was merely a terrible and unpredictable accident — he continued, weaving his words with political mastery, exempting himself from any direct conflict with me. — The anomalous density of young Lycon's mana caused a collapse that not even the ancient architecture of our arena could foresee or contain. Condemning a lord permanently for a circumstantial tragedy that still requires a more... thorough investigation, seems hasty to me. I suggest caution, Your Majesty, and not severe punishment. —
He gave another bow, short and formal, and retreated to his place in the line, with the imperturbable expression of someone who had just ensured that, should I make it out of there alive and with my powers, I would definitely not see him as an enemy.
Silence fell heavily over the hall once more, and all eyes rose again to the throne of Aluvia Magna.
The next to speak was Prince Alexander, after all the pieces had clicked in his head. He took a step forward, as if he were His Majesty himself — If I may — he began — Everyone was in a competition. The purpose of it is to crown the best participant. Therefore, there was no wrongdoing on the part of Baron Lycon; unless, of course, being good is considered a wrongdoing. —
Alan and Evadne were about to try and say something, but were summarily cut off by the prince — I agree with Duke Arthur Junior's view. However, I would add that, for the benefit of the kingdom, he should be registered in the adventurer's guild directly at Rank C, to make the most of his potential. I assure you that his talent far exceeds that of many in this hall. —
The weight of those words dropped like a lead anvil on the assembled nobles. The direct insinuation by the Crown Prince that my talent "far exceeds that of many in this hall" was a calculated and devastating affront.
Princess Evadne stiffened her posture so much I thought her spine would snap. Her eyes flashed with fury at the humiliation of hearing this from the prince himself. Baron Alan looked ready to collapse, his face contorted in a mix of indignation and shock. Duke Arthur Jr., on the other hand, merely adjusted his posture with his robotic elegance, his dead eyes and faint smile showing someone watching a chessboard move exactly as he had predicted.
In the center of the hall, my brain needed a few seconds to process the proposal. — Adventurer's Guild? Straight to Rank C? — I screamed in my own thoughts, feeling a shiver down my spine. — I barely survived the tournament and now I'm going to be thrown out to hunt beasts and explore high-level dungeons?! — — I guess... That could be cool. More time outside equals less time with Alistair, so that's great! —
Before the King could even ponder his son's words, indignation shattered the silence from the right row. Baron Eric, Alan's father, took a heavy step forward. His face bore the same choleric redness as his son's.
— With forgiveness from Your Highness, the Crown Prince, but this is an outrage! — bellowed Baron Eric, forgetting the King's order to remain calm. — My son has his leg mangled! Princess Evadne is in bandages! And the crown's response will be to reward this barbarian from Aritel with a direct registration to Rank C? This is not taking advantage of talent, this is giving a free pass to a rabid dog! —
Duchess Maria, mother of Arthur Junior, elegantly opened her fan, covering half her face, but her eyes showed profound disdain for Baron Eric's emotional outburst. Duke Arthur himself cleared his throat, his voice as deep and controlled as his son's — Baron Eric, losing one's temper in the presence of Their Majesties is the true lack of manners here — intervened Duke Arthur, with a sharp look. — I concur with the view of my son and Prince Alexander. Nobility should not discard a formidable weapon simply because it does not yet possess a polished scabbard. The crown would gain much more by forging the boy than by destroying him. —
— I ask for permission to agree with my brother, although I understand the pain of Lord Alan and my dear sister, Evadne — Rosalind's voice was as soft as a morning breeze, but it carried undeniable weight. She gave me a gentle, yet evaluating look. — It is undeniable that young Lycon lacks the refinement and etiquette that we nobles value. The brute force he demonstrated lacks elegance... But the world outside these walls, my lords, is not elegant either. The boy is not a rabid dog, Baron Eric; he is simply a tempestuous wind that has not yet learned to blow in the right direction. The Adventurer's Guild may be the master he lacks. —
The speeches divided the court once and for all. Baron Thorgal and Baroness Elena whispered to each other, visibly scandalized, while Princess Evadne glared daggers at Rosalind, feeling betrayed by her own sister, who, with all her gentleness, had just called her magic and the capital's defeat something "necessary for the real world".
Amidst that whirlwind of agitated nobles, political defenses, and Rank C proposals, I remained motionless in the center of the hall, breaking into a cold sweat and waiting for the only voice that truly mattered there.
All the nobles, panting or impassive, gradually turned their eyes back to the top of the hall, waiting.
I was already tired of this "lack of elegance" talk — Geez, the princess cornered me and wanted me to do what? Lose, right? — Out of anger, I gathered all the courage I had to try and plead a defense:
— Excuse me, my lords — I began — While I understand the uproar, I would like you to understand my position. Princess Evadne's astuteness cornered me. I had no option but to use every card up my sleeve. If this turns into a punishment against me... I would have to reevaluate my points with the nobility of this kingdom. —
The king looked at me with a mix of astonishment and curiosity; he was just waiting for what the others would say before uttering anything.
The words that came out of my mouth seemed to freeze the air inside the throne room. I myself, the millisecond I finished speaking, felt my stomach do a double backflip. — By the gods, did I just threaten the high nobility of Aluvia Magna to the King's face? — I thought, feeling a drop of cold sweat slide down the back of my neck.
The silence that followed was so absolute and heavy that the sound of a pin dropping would echo like thunder.
Baron Alan, predictably, was the first to explode.
— Insolence! Treason! — he roared, his shrill voice echoing off the marble walls as he took a limping step forward. — Your Majesty, did you hear that?! It is a direct affront to the crown! A mere provincial little baron daring to dictate terms to the elite of this kingdom! He must be thrown into the dungeons immediately! —
Princess Evadne squeezed her right fist so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Her mask of aristocratic coldness finally cracked, revealing the purest, most venomous contempt.
— "Reevaluate your points with the nobility"? — Her voice hissed, low and sharp, ignoring the pain in her bandaged arm. — Your arrogance only proves my initial argument, Lycon of Aritel. You act like a vain mercenary, devoid of any notion of hierarchy or loyalty. You profane our traditions in the arena and, now, you dare to place yourself above the laws of this hall! —
On the other side of the room, Duke Arthur Jr. II's reaction was the exact opposite. He didn't shout. He didn't protest. On the contrary, he brought his gloved hand to his lips to disguise something unprecedented: a genuine smile that finally broke his robotic expression. He let out a very short, nasal laugh that sounded almost sinister.
— Truly fascinating... — murmured Arthur Jr. almost to himself, his dark eyes gleaming with a sick, calculating interest as he evaluated me. — Threatening to flip the board when surrounded by all enemy pieces. What dazzling audacity. A social suicide executed to perfection. —
Princess Rosalind widened her eyes slightly, visibly shocked by my courage (or stupidity), and brought her hands to her chest. She looked as if she wanted to pacify the situation again, but realized that, this time, I had personally thrown barrels of gunpowder onto the fire in which they wanted to burn me.
Chaos took over the sides of the hall. Baron Eric yelled in support of his son, Duchess Maria fanned herself hysterically with her fan, and the throne room seemed a second away from turning into a political battlefield.
And, in the center of it all, above the noise, King Beren remained on the throne. He absorbed every shout and every insult with that same mix of astonishment and deep curiosity. He didn't seem offended by my audacity; he seemed to be measuring my exact weight while letting the nobles thrash about.
After long seconds of the king's silence and the nobles' chatter, he finally replied with something — Gentlemen, didn't you notice that this is a threat of flight? — he started, reading my desperate intention plain as day — What would happen to our court if he fled to an enemy country, such as the Kingdom of Solano? We must keep him here, and the enmity of the court probably does not bother him. — He gave a brief pause, merely waiting for the other nobles' comments.
If my audacity had already inflamed the court, the King's cold, analytical interpretation of my "threat of flight" instantly drained the blood from the face of every noble present, including mine.
— I... I hadn't even thought of that! — I reflected in internal despair, realizing that my attempt to defend myself sounded like military blackmail to the ears of a strategist monarch. — Flee to Solano?! Do they now think I'm a spy or a potential deserter?! —
The mention of the Kingdom of Solano — Aluvia Magna's ancient and bitter rival — acted like a bucket of ice on the nobles' bonfire. Baron Alan, who a second ago was demanding my execution, fell silent abruptly. His mouth opened and closed a few times, without emitting a sound. The idea that the "barbarian from Aritel" who had shattered his shield could be recruited by the enemy army swallowed his pride.
Baron Eric cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure, but his voice failed. — T-to Solano, Your Majesty? B-but he wouldn't have the audacity... —
— Audacity, Baron Eric, was exactly what young Lycon just demonstrated in this hall — retorted the deep and perfectly balanced voice of Duke Arthur (father). He exchanged a meaningful look with his son, Arthur Jr. II. — And, forgive my bluntness, but recent events prove that his lethality is real. If a hostile neighbor like Solano got its hands on a mana framework of that density and polished it militarily... the borders of our kingdom would be at serious risk. Your Majesty's analysis is, as always, flawless and concerning. —
Even Princess Evadne seemed to recoil in the face of the situation's gravity. The thirst for revenge in her eyes fought violently against the aristocratic notion of protecting the kingdom. The hatred was still there, but now it came mixed with the bitter realization that the King was right: I was too dangerous to be expelled. If she asked for my disinheritance, she would be handing a siege weapon straight into the hands of the enemy.
Prince Alexander, for his part, merely nodded slowly at his father, as if the King were simply confirming his initial reasoning about harnessing my talent. Princess Rosalind maintained a frightened look, understanding just how close the court had come to losing a prodigy out of pure pride.
In the center of the room, realizing that the king had just turned my "cornered teenager's tantrum" into an international diplomatic incident, I tried to steady my legs, which now threatened to tremble.
The nobles, still digesting the strategic weight of the king's observation, seemed at a loss for what to suggest next. Anger had been replaced by caution. If they punished me too much, I would flee; if they didn't punish me, their pride would be shattered. The hot potato was, once again, in the crown's hands.
The hall remained in an agonizing silence, everyone waiting for King Beren to conclude the line of reasoning he himself had paved.
— Finally — he began to conclude — I believe we must assign a trusted royal guard to assist and protect him. Therefore... — He unrolled a parchment with a quill that contained golden ink — I believe that the practical effects for the noble individual Lycon, baron of Aritel, shall be: Lycon of Aritel will be registered and promoted directly to Rank C of the court; A trusted court guard will be assigned to care for, protect, and watch over Lycon of Aritel; He shall be banished from the Capital for 1 year. Any contact must be made via letters or by direct summons from the King.
Next, he started the voting — Those who support the sentence, raise your hand. —
The silence that followed the reading of the sentence was much milder than the chaos of minutes ago. King Beren, with a single decree, had stitched together a perfect political solution: he turned a dangerous prodigy into a controlled asset of the crown, and appeased the bruised pride of the nobles by physically kicking me out of the capital.
Prince Alexander was the first to raise his hand, with an affirmative nod and a slight smile of someone who saw his own idea being polished by his father. Princess Rosalind raised her hand right after, sighing in relief seeing that diplomacy and life had prevailed over execution.
In the right row, Duke Arthur (father) and Lord Arthur Jr. II raised their gloved hands in perfect and frightening synchrony. The boy from South Port didn't take his eyes off me, the calculating smile still playing on the corner of his lips. To him, the outcome was a true masterpiece of strategy.
Princess Evadne clenched her jaw. Hatred for me still burned in her eyes, but the relief of not having to share the palace halls with me for a whole year seemed to sweeten the bitter taste of defeat. With a stiff and reluctant movement, she raised her right hand, agreeing with her father.
Seeing that the royal family itself and the Dukes had complied with the order, the other nobles had no choice. Baron Eric raised his hand, swallowing hard. Baron Alan, humiliated and unsupported, did not raise his hand, limiting himself to crossing his arms and turning his red face to the wall, trembling with impotent fury. Gradually, almost all the hands in the hall went up, confirming the sentence.
In the center of it all, I just took a deep breath. Air finally returned to my lungs.
— Banished from the capital for a year? Thank all the gods! — I screamed mentally, almost wanting to drop to my knees and give thanks. — I didn't want to spend another minute near this nest of aristocratic snakes! Rank C is going to be a nightmare, and I'll have an armed royal babysitter watching me 24 hours a day, but... I made it out alive. And with my title. —
I bowed my head in a deep reverence, the most formal and sincere one I could manage after so much stress. I didn't dare say anything else that might give the King an opening to change his mind.
— I accept the sentence, Your Majesty — I murmured with my head bowed, sealing my fate and the end of that tortuous trial.
— I declare the proceedings closed — Shouted His Majesty — All participants are dismissed. Finally, I declare Lycon, of Aritel, banished from the tournament, due to physical unviability of the venue. —
As soon as King Beren's implacable voice echoed off the marble walls, the heavy silence that dominated the hall finally broke, giving way to a collective rustling of noble fabrics and armor. The dry sound of the royal guards' spears striking the floor sealed the official end of the audience.
The King and Queen Arsís rose from their thrones. Without casting another glance back, the monarchs left the room through a side door carved in gold, followed closely by Prince Alexander and Princess Rosalind, who offered me one last discreet wave of encouragement before disappearing into the shadows of the corridor.
With the departure of the crown, the nobles' dam of restraint burst.
Baron Alan didn't waste a single second. He spun on his heels and marched toward the large double doors, limping heavily, but huffing with the fury of a bull. His father, Baron Eric, followed closely behind, shooting me a look of pure venom.
Princess Evadne was escorted by two healers. She walked past me keeping the greatest possible distance, her chin held high and her eyes fixed on the exit, refusing to give me the satisfaction of one last eye contact. To her, I was already a banished ghost.
The only one who took a little longer was Duke Arthur Jr. II. While the others hurried to get out of my tainted presence, he walked with that same exasperating calm. Passing just a few steps from me, he stopped briefly, tilted his head in a polite bow, and murmured, softly enough that only I would hear:
— A masterful game, Lord Lycon. May your adventure be... amusing. —
And with a slight smirk, he joined his family, disappearing down the corridor.
When the hall finally emptied, leaving only me and the royal guard soldiers at the edges, the adrenaline plummeted from my body all at once. My legs gave way a little and I had to rest my hands on my knees, letting out a long, exhausted breath of air.
— Banished from the tournament for destroying the arena... Promoted to adventurer... And with a royal guard dog on my tail for a year — I summarized mentally, laughing nervously as I massaged my throbbing temples. — I came here to prove Aritel's worth and left with an exile disguised as a promotion. My parents and Alistair are going to kill me before I even reach my first Guild contract. —
I adjusted the collar of my tunic, feeling the invisible weight of that new reality on my shoulders. I was no longer just the heir to Aritel. Now, I was a Rank C adventurer sanctioned by the crown.
