Chapter 93 - Duel (Part 1)
"ELENOR." The sound ripped through the polished silence of the corridor, a raw edge in the word that made heads turn. Cillian, his voice laced with a barely suppressed fury, stood out like a storm cloud against a clear sky. His sudden appearance, coupled with the striking transformation of his attire, was enough to stop Elenor in her tracks.
He was a vision of aristocratic rebellion. His jacket, a study in contrasts, was predominantly white with sharply defined black accents. The white fabric appeared to be a textured jacquard, catching the light with subtle patterns. The jacket was designed in a double-breasted style, though only one side seemed to fasten with ornate gold buttons. Broad, angular black panels framed the shoulders and upper chest, creating a visually striking silhouette. These black panels were punctuated with small, metallic studs arranged in a grid pattern, adding a touch of rebellious flair.
Beneath the jacket, a crisp white shirt featured voluminous, layered sleeves that billowed out at the cuffs, adding a touch of romanticism to the otherwise severe design. A delicate gold chain draped across the front of the jacket, connecting to a decorative brooch or button. The jacket's collar stood high, almost choker-like, adding to the outfit's regal yet unconventional aesthetic.
His trousers were slim-fitting and black, crafted from a material that looked like a fine wool or gabardine. A thin black belt with a silver buckle cinched his waist, emphasizing his lean physique. A decorative strap hung from one side of his trousers, adorned with silver hardware and adding an asymmetrical detail to the ensemble.
His boots were black leather, with a sleek, pointed toe. The outer sides of the boots were embellished with silver studs and buckles, echoing the detailing on the jacket and adding a subtle punk-inspired element to the overall look. The heel was low and practical, suggesting that while the outfit was undoubtedly stylish, it was also designed for movement and action.
Elenor, clutching a stack of papers, spun around, her heart leaping into her throat. Cillian's expression was a mask of impassivity, yet there was a dangerous glint in his eyes that sent a shiver down her spine.
"My Lord. Is there something I can assist you with?" she managed to ask, her voice betraying her nervousness. She swallowed hard, hoping to regain some composure under his intense gaze.
Cillian narrowed his eyes, his gaze piercing. "I believe there's an inner training ground here as well. Sterilize it for me."
Sterilize the inner training grounds? The thought echoed in Elenor's mind, a wave of panic washing over her. She had only recently joined the palace staff as the head maid, and she hadn't yet established any authority. I can't order the men in the training grounds to bend to my words. If the Queen ordered it, they would listen, but they will not listen to me. Her gaze dropped to the papers in her hands, her knuckles turning white as she clenched them. The impossible task he had just given her felt like a test she was destined to fail.
Cillian let out a deep, impatient sigh, the sound heavy in the air. "Just take me to the training grounds," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"Oh- al-alright," Elenor stammered, lifting her gaze and quickly turning on her heel. With a mix of trepidation and resignation, she began to lead him down the corridor, the papers rustling in her trembling hands.
-Helia Palace, Inner Training Grounds, 10.28 AM-
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The Inner Training Grounds was a vast, cavernous hall, its high vaulted ceiling supported by massive stone pillars. Narrow windows set high in the walls allowed shafts of sunlight to pierce the dimness, creating pools of golden light on the worn stone floor. Wrought iron chandeliers hung from thick chains, their flickering candles casting dancing shadows across the room.
The air was thick with the scent of sweat, leather, and metal, mingling with the earthy smell of the rush strewn across the floor to absorb spills. The constant ring of steel on steel echoed off the walls, punctuated by grunts of exertion and shouted commands.
Along the walls, weapon racks stood laden with an array of arms: longswords, shortswords, maces, axes, and polearms of various designs. Shields of different shapes and sizes leaned against the walls, their painted crests and devices adding splashes of color to the otherwise austere surroundings. In one corner, a pile of straw-filled dummies waited to be set up for practice.
At the far end of the hall, a raised platform held a throne-like chair, currently unoccupied, from which high-ranking officers could observe the training.
In the center of the room, two knights circled each other warily, their swords held at the ready. The taller of the two, a broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed beard, feinted to the left before bringing his blade around in a sweeping arc.
"Ha! Too slow, Aldric!" he called out as his opponent barely managed to parry the blow.
Aldric, a lean man with a shock of red hair, grinned fiercely. "Just warming up, Ser Gawain," he retorted, before launching into a flurry of quick strikes that forced Gawain back a step.
Nearby, a grizzled commander with a scar running down his cheek supervised a group of younger knights practicing shield formations. "Tighten those ranks!" he barked. "You leave a gap like that in battle, and you'll be greeting the Maker before sundown!"
The knights shuffled closer together, their shields overlapping with a scrape of metal on metal. Sweat beaded on their brows as they held the formation, muscles trembling with the effort of supporting the heavy shields.
In another corner, two women sparred with daggers, their movements quick and fluid. The taller woman, her dark hair tied back in a severe bun, lunged forward, her blade flashing. Her opponent, a freckled blonde, twisted away at the last moment, countering with a strike of her own.
"Good, Elara!" called out a watching instructor. "But watch your footwork. You're leaving yourself open on the left."
Near one of the pillars, a young squire struggled to don his armor, fumbling with the straps and buckles. An older knight approached him, chuckling.
"Here, lad, let me help you with that," he said kindly, his calloused hands making quick work of the complex fastenings. "You'll get the hang of it soon enough."
The constant movement and activity filled the room with a palpable energy. Knights and squires moved from station to station, practicing different techniques or waiting their turn to spar. The clang of sword on sword, the thud of bodies hitting the rush-covered floor, and the constant murmur of voices created a backdrop of organized chaos.
As Cillian and Elenor entered, a hush fell over the nearest group of trainees. Whispers rippled through the room as more and more people noticed the prince's presence, the usual routines of the training ground momentarily disrupted by this unexpected visit.
"Bro, isn't that the Blood Prince? The Silver Blade?" whispered a young trainee, his eyes wide with awe.
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"Yeah, that's the Young Lord of the Valentine! The 8th son, if I'm not mistaken. Cillian De Valentine Eriko Elmir," replied his companion, voice hushed but excited.
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A third trainee chimed in, "He's one of the Elmirians! And damn, he's so good-looking."
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"I heard the Valentines are cousins of the Imperial Family of Elmir, so he's basically royalty," added another, leaning in conspiratorially.
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"Man, I've heard so much about him. They say he's one of the best swordsmen alive. Every battle or war he's in, he always comes out the victor," said a seasoned knight, his voice tinged with respect.
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A squire piped up, "Yeah, and there's always bloodshed wherever he goes. I've heard in some places, people even worship him."
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"Can you blame them? Look at him!" exclaimed a female trainee. "I heard he rejected like 19 princesses from high-ranking empires and kingdoms."
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"No way!" gasped her friend. "I heard he gets love letters the very next day after attending a party. He's always invited to events all over the world."
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An older knight nodded sagely, "I heard he's the one they send to other countries as a delegate to attract attention."
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"You know what's crazy?" a young archer leaned in, "I heard people usually see smoke coming from his house monthly because he burns all the love letters he gets. There are so many that burning is their only option!"
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"Wait, doesn't he have a fiancée?" questioned a puzzled trainee.
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"What could he be doing here though?" wondered another aloud.
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A burly warrior suggested, "I think he's here to fight our Commander."
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"Bro, bro, bro," interrupted a excited young squire, "you know what someone from my village said? They claim he's actually the husband of our new Queen."
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"Ohhh, that must be why he's here," nodded a gullible trainee.
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"Bro, you believe that bullshit? It's totally fake," scoffed his friend.
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"No, bro, the people from my village don't lie," the squire insisted defensively.
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Changing the subject, a curious knight asked, "Hey, I heard he has lots of siblings. How many?"
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"I think around 20 or something," guessed another.
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"Man, he's so freaking cool. Look at his attire!" admired a fashion-conscious trainee.
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A skeptical voice cut in, "But bro, he's so lean. Does he even have the muscles required to fight?"
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"How old is he anyway? I think he's 15," pondered a young recruit.
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"No way, he's got to be 20," argued another.
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"Nah, bro, he's 17," countered a third.
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"I'm telling you, he's 18," insisted yet another.
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"You're all wrong. He's definitely 19," said a confident voice.
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"Bro, bro, bro. He's 23, for sure," declared an older knight.
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"Look at his height though, he ain't that tall," observed a towering warrior.
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"But have you seen him fight? I heard he moves like lightning," whispered an awestruck trainee.
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"My cousin saw him in battle once. Said it was like watching a dance of death," added another, eyes wide.
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"I heard he once took down an entire enemy squadron single-handedly," claimed a starry-eyed squire.
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"Nah, that's just a rumor," dismissed a skeptical knight. "But I did hear he's undefeated in duels."
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"Wonder what kind of sword he uses?" mused a weapons enthusiast.
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"Probably something exotic and deadly," guessed his friend.
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"Shh, he's coming this way!" hissed a trainee, and the group fell into an anticipatory silence, all eyes fixed on the approaching figure of Cillian.
My apologies for the misunderstanding. I'll rewrite this scene in a more novel-like format with detailed descriptions, dialogue, and pacing. Here's a more expansive and detailed version:
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The heavy oak doors of the Inner Training Grounds creaked open, and a hush fell over the cavernous hall. Cillian De Valentine Eriko Elmir stepped into the room, his presence as palpable as a sudden change in air pressure. The flickering torchlight caught the intricate embroidery of his jacket, casting dancing shadows across his sharp features.
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Elenor followed a step behind, her eyes darting nervously around the room. The usual cacophony of clashing steel and shouted commands had given way to a tense silence, broken only by the occasional whisper.
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"Is that...?" a young squire breathed, his eyes wide with awe.
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"The Blood Prince," his companion confirmed in a hushed tone. "The Silver Blade himself."
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Cillian's gaze swept across the room, taking in the frozen tableau of knights and trainees. His voice, when he spoke, was low and commanding, each word precisely enunciated with his distinctive Elmirian accent.
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"Clear the hall."
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For a moment, no one moved. Then, as if a spell had been broken, a flurry of activity erupted. Weapons were hastily sheathed, and armor clanked as knights and squires alike began to file towards the exit.
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But not everyone was so quick to obey.
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From the shadows near one of the great stone pillars, a hulking figure emerged. Sir Cedric, known for his brute strength and quick temper, planted his feet wide and crossed his arms over his barrel chest.
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"Why?" he drawled, his provincial accent a stark contrast to Cillian's refined tones. "You want to play dress-up without an audience, Your Highness?"
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A ripple of nervous laughter spread through the room, quickly stifled as Cillian's cold gaze settled on Cedric.
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"I gave an order," Cillian said softly, dangerously. "I expect it to be obeyed."
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Cedric's lips curled into a sneer. "Orders? Here? This ain't your fancy palace, boy. This is where real warriors train."
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The tension in the room ratcheted up another notch. Elenor's knuckles whitened around the papers she held, her breath catching in her throat.
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Cillian's expression didn't change, but something in his stance shifted subtly. "Real warriors?" he repeated, his voice dripping with disdain. "Then perhaps you'd care to demonstrate your skills, Sir...?"
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"Cedric," the big man growled. "And I'd be happy to show you how we do things here."
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A predatory smile ghosted across Cillian's lips. "By all means, then. Shall we duel?"
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Cedric's grin was all teeth as he reached for the massive zweihander leaning against the pillar. "Hope you're ready to piss your fancy pants, princeling."
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As Cedric hefted his enormous blade, Cillian calmly walked to a nearby weapons rack. He selected a simple practice sword, testing its weight with a few experimental swings.
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"Whenever you're ready," Cillian said, his tone almost bored.
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Cedric didn't wait for further invitation. With a roar, he charged forward, his zweihander cutting a deadly arc through the air.
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What happened next was almost too fast for the onlookers to follow.
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Cillian's blade became a blur of motion. In the space of a heartbeat, he had deflected Cedric's strike, stepped inside the big man's guard, and delivered a punishing blow to his solar plexus with the pommel of his sword.
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Cedric's charge turned into a stumble. Before he could recover, Cillian's boot swept his legs out from under him. The knight crashed to the floor, his zweihander clattering away across the stones.
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In an instant, Cillian's blade was at Cedric's throat.
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"I believe," Cillian said softly, "that concludes our demonstration."
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A collective gasp went up from the assembled crowd. Cedric, his face red with a mixture of pain and humiliation, opened his mouth to protest.
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"He cheated!" The cry came from somewhere in the back of the room. "There's no way he could move that fast!"
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Murmurs of agreement began to spread, but they were quickly silenced as Cillian's gaze swept the room once more.
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"If anyone else wishes to test their skills," he said, his voice carrying easily to every corner of the hall, "I'm more than willing to oblige."
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For a moment, no one moved. Then, from the crowd, a lithe figure stepped forward. It was a woman, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun, twin rapiers hanging at her hips.
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"I'll take that challenge," she said, her chin lifted defiantly.
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Cillian inclined his head. "As you wish."
To be Continued...
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