The dueling arena of House Varnel had not been used in generations.

Now, its cracked sandstone tiles had been scrubbed. Ancestral flame braziers had been relit. Heralds stood at attention, announcing the event to a gathering of nobles whose interest in the disgraced house had suddenly… rekindled.

Elysia Varnel stood at the center of the ring, her armor freshly polished, her stance stiff but defiant. The Trial of Flame wasn’t just combat. It was spectacle. A test of nobility, martial strength, and bloodline worth.

This was her last chance to restore dignity to her family’s name—or to lose it forever.

Beside her, calm as ever, stood Lucien Caelum.

Dressed in his butler’s coat, eyes half-lidded, gloved hands folded behind his back. To the untrained eye, he looked like a passive servant standing in the wrong place.

But something in the crowd… sensed otherwise.

“Let House Varnel present its duelists!”

Elysia stepped forward. “Elysia Varnel, heir by flame and blood.”

Lucien inclined his head. “Lucien Caelum, pactbound to the heir.”

“And House Durnhal?”

Across the arena, a heavy clanking echoed.

House Durnhal had sent a brute. A hulking warrior twice Lucien’s size, armored in crimson plates scorched with runes. Behind him, a conjurer stood cloaked in obsidian robes, fingers already burning with glyphs.

“You bring a servant,” the brute sneered at Lucien. “Shall I make you clean your master’s blood after I’m done?”

Lucien blinked. “That would be… inefficient.”

The conjurer laughed. “You talk too much, mongrel.”

“Trial of Flame — BEGIN!”

[ Combat Begins ]

The brute charged.

Not toward Lucien—but toward Elysia.

A deliberate insult. In the old code, the protector was meant to intercept. This was House Durnhal’s declaration: Your servant is meaningless.

Lucien didn’t move.

Elysia met the brute’s blade head-on, sparks flying as steel clashed. Her stance was strong, but she was being pushed back by sheer force.

Behind the brute, the conjurer began chanting—glyphs forming in the air like fiery script.

Lucien stepped forward.

The conjurer sneered—until Lucien vanished from sight.

CRACK.

The mage staggered. Blood trailed from his temple.

Lucien stood behind him, one gloved hand extended, caneblade in the other.

“You left your flanks exposed,” he said coldly. “Amateur mistake.”

The conjurer turned, furious. “You—!”

But he didn’t finish.

Lucien’s eyes glowed red.

From his shadow, the Crownless Wolf emerged.

Thorne.

Mist billowed outward, ghostly chains dragging across the floor.

The conjurer’s spell shattered in his mouth as the wolf lunged—not to kill, but to consume his flame glyphs mid-cast. They evaporated into sparks.

Lucien turned his gaze to the brute.

“Now then. Shall we assist your companion?”

[ Final Clash ]

The brute roared in frustration. “You’re just a servant!”

Lucien’s expression didn’t change.

“Indeed. Let me serve you… defeat.”

He stepped forward—and disappeared again.

This time, he moved through the brute.

A dozen cuts bloomed across the man’s armor in the span of a heartbeat.

Lucien reappeared behind him, blade lowered.

The brute dropped to his knees.

THUD.

Silence fell over the arena.

The flame braziers flared as the judgment was declared:

“Victory: House Varnel.”

[ Aftermath ]

In the quiet of the Varnel study, Elysia sat, still stunned.

Lucien poured tea beside her.

“You let me take the hits,” she murmured.

“You needed to endure them,” he replied.

She looked up at him. “You could have ended it in seconds.”

Lucien tilted his head. “That would not have taught the court to respect you. Nor would it have forced the spectators to acknowledge your resolve.”

He set the teacup down gently.

“But now they will remember: you stood. You endured. And your servant… does not kneel.”

Elysia blinked. “…You’re terrifying.”

Lucien offered a faint smile. “And yet still courteous.”

There was a knock at the door.

A young steward rushed in. “My lady… urgent missive. The royal court has summoned you. You are to present your pact-servant at the Capital.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed.

The Capital.

Where Thrones were born… and where they were stolen.

He turned toward the window. Far beyond the hills, the storm clouds gathered over the white spires of the central Dominion.

“The game continues,” Lucien whispered.

“And now… the kings will enter the board.”