The clatter of frantic footsteps from knights and servants alike heralded the approach of King Alphedor, his dark cape billowing behind him like a storm cloud over the grounds of the courtyard. Laurence trailed close, his hands twisting and fidgeting in front of his chest as his eyes anxiously swept over the gathered crowd.

"Make way," boomed a knight, voice cutting a path through the observers who quickly folded back upon themselves to allow the two royals through. 

At its end stood Barton, his calming aura absent, replaced with a firm set to his jaw. Opposite him was Avril, gaze half-lidded with perceived boredom.

"Explain," Alphedor commanded, his tone leaving no room for hesitance.

"Your Majesty," Barton started, his timbre dense with respect. "Concerns have arisen—a matter of security." He stole a glance at Laurence, who hid his hands behind his back and squeezed them together tightly. The prince’s short breaths belied his roiling inner turmoil.

"Security? Whose?" Alphedor's voice remained steady, yet the air seemed to tighten.

"Prince Laurence's," Barton replied, his stance widening ever so slightly. "I've questioned—"

"Questioned what, Sir Barton?" Alphedor interjected.

"This knight's capability," Barton admitted, meeting the king's gaze without flinching.

"Capability, he says," Avril echoed with a small snort. “As if a solitary soul in this yard could compare—”

"Avril," Alphedor said curtly, like his use of the young man’s name was its own admonishment. 

"Your Majesty knows I live to serve," Avril stated factually, his voice smooth and unintimidated.

"I see," the king mused, staring down Avril consideringly before ultimately deciding, "Then you will prove it." 

Avril’s eyes widened minutely as Alphedor turned to Barton and decreed, "I will sanction your duel. Should you best Avril, you’ll henceforth be my son's personal knight."

Laurence openly gaped at his father, while Barton stood up straighter, grinning broadly. Those gathered around them couldn’t help but murmur in intrigue. 

The king then commanded, “Your duel will consist only of swordplay; no seals or—” he glared pointedly at Avril, “Other abilities will be permitted.”

A couple of knights who had previously been training were more than willing to hand off their weapons to the subsequent fighters.

Avril's grip on his borrowed wooden practice sword was light, his fingers curling reluctantly around the hilt as if it were an old nemesis. His lips curved into a tight smile as he commented, “I’m not very fond of swords. I much prefer hand-to-hand combat.”

“You are a knight, Avril,” Alphedor reminded, his tone taking on a threatening quality. “Therefore, you WILL wield a sword in defense of my son.” 

“Of course,” Avril agreed easily, tossing the wooden blade from hand to hand to acclimatize to its weight.

Across the sparring field, Barton barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. 

"You ought to be careful," Barton quipped, twirling his own sword with practice ease. The wood felt more than familiar in his calloused hands; a testament to years of service and skill. "It’s easy to hurt yourself with these if you don’t know what you’re doing."

The taunt hung between them, a spark waiting to ignite. 

Avril seemed to bristle, a notable twitch to the corner of his mouth.

With speed that belied his lithe form, he lunged, the practice sword a blur of motion aimed at Barton's midsection. Air sliced in its wake, and Barton's breath hitched as he instinctively swerved to block the hit at the last moment, their swords meeting with a loud clack. 

"My dislike does not equal inability," Avril corrected sharply, his voice cutting through the startled exclamations of those surrounding them. 

Barton’s eyes were wide, taken aback by the strength behind the attack. 

He was experienced with the use of a heavier broadsword, so he was gripping his weapon with both hands. Yet the deceptively sturdy Avril, despite his shorter stature, was wielding his weapon one-handed. Even so, the younger man’s arm did not so much as tremble as they forcefully braced their weapons against each other.

Impressed despite himself, Barton decided not to underestimate Avril again.

Without another word, their duel began in earnest as they leapt away from each other in unison to prepare to charge or defend. The crowd shifted, the circle widening as the duelists carved out their stage.

Avril aimed low, his sword thrusting towards Barton's center mass once more, but the older knight was ready. With the hilt of his own sword, Barton knocked the attack away and countered with an arc aimed at his opponents head. The move promised nothing less than a concussion if it met its mark. 

Avril crouched low, agility his ally as he ducked beneath the strike. In the same fluid motion, he swept a leg at Barton's ankles, aiming to topple the man who stood like an oak in his path.

Barton's feet left the ground, his leap allowing the leg sweep to harmlessly stir up dust where his ankles had just been. Not a heartbeat passed before he aimed a harsh blow at Avril's shoulders, using his falling momentum to his advantage.

Avril twisted, his movements a blur of pink and platinum gold as he parried the strike at the last conceivable instant. His free hand shot out like a viper, jabbing two fingers right into Barton's neck. 

A gasp rippled through the onlookers as the seasoned knight stumbled back, surprise etched into the lines of his face as he coughed roughly from the unexpected blow to his windpipe.

"Careful there," Avril quipped, his voice darkened with satisfaction at having landed the first real hit.

Laurence winced sympathetically, but quickly schooled his features. He couldn’t be seen showing favoritism, despite the fact he wanted nothing more than to cheer Barton on with all his heart.

King Alphedor remained inscrutable, his gaze never wavering from the spectacle of his son's protectors locked in combat.

Avril's following assault was relentless, a tempest of dust and fury as he continuously drove his weapon forward as if it were a spear. Still catching his breath, Barton found himself faltering under the barrage, his boots scraping the cobblestones as he retreated. Spectators shuffled further away with each backward step the knight took. 

Amidst the sound of shifting feet, Avril's concentrated silence screamed louder than any war cry. His face betrayed nothing but intent, an unsettling calm in his gaze.

With a dancer's grace, Avril leapt; a silver flash aimed straight for the older knight's chest. Barton managed to twist away, nearly not far enough. The tip of Avril's wooden sword grazed his jacket, the whisper of contact a prelude to the blonde’s swift follow up.

Without hesitation Avril advanced again, a blur of motion, each strike precise and calculated to drive his opponent to the brink.

Barton's response came sluggish, his sword an extension of a will that refused to yield even as his body’s waning stamina cried out in protest. Unfortunately, there was only so much human flesh and spirit could endure against such unbridled tenacity. 

Avril's blade found its mark once more, plunging into Barton's chest with a controlled thrust that sent waves of pain radiating through the veteran knight.

"Ack—!" Barton's exclamation was cut short as Avril's sword was flipped around to smash its hilt into his chin. The impact reverberated through Barton's skull, jarring teeth and sending his world spinning.

Completely disoriented, Barton's sword sliced through the air, aimless and desperate as he sought to stave off the inevitable. But Avril was luminescent talent, blindingly dancing on the edge of sight.

"Stand down—!" The command, unheard by most, slipped from Laurence's lips in a breathless whisper, his heart thrumming in his ears.

Avril's eyes, twin uncut quartz as cold as the depths of winter, remained locked on Barton's faltering form. He sidestepped another erratic arc, and finally drove a boot into Barton's sternum. The impact sent the larger knight reeling backward, a groan escaping him as he hit the ground with a thud that echoed around the courtyard.

The crowd held its breath expectantly as the dust settled. 

"I yield," Barton gasped, propping himself up on one elbow, his chest heaving. The words were gravelly, strained with the admission of defeat, but laced with an undeniable undertone of grudging respect.

Frantic whispers rippled through the ranks of knights and servants alike, a collective release of tension they hadn't known they'd been holding.

"I now recognize that Prince Laurence—," Barton continued, turning his head towards the young man whose future hinged upon this moment, "Will be safe in your hands. I entrust him to you, Avril."

Avril tossed the wooden sword carelessly to the ground, glad to be rid of it. "Proving was never my intent." He said simply. "My intent is to serve."

"See that you do," King Alphedor finally spoke. His face revealed nothing, betraying no hint of approval or disapproval for the victor.

Laurence's gaze met Avril's for a fleeting second before he dropped it to glare at the ground in disappointment. What manner of guardian had his father bound to him?