Read Chapter 18: A Blow for Peace

The silver veil weighed almost nothing in Elara’s hand. From the royal box, she could see the morning sun gilding the tourney field below, turning the packed earth the color of old blood. Alaric stood at the far end, sword drawn, his silhouette sharp against the dawn. The Butcher of Halemoor faced him, a slab of muscle wrapped in dented plate, a greatsword resting on his shoulder like it was made of straw.

The King’s herald raised his trumpet. The note hung in the cold air, and then it fell.

The Butcher moved first, which was a surprise. He was faster than his bulk suggested, closing the distance in three enormous strides, his greatsword carving a horizontal arc that would have taken Alaric’s head from his shoulders had he not dropped low. Alaric’s riposte was quick, a flick of his blade toward the Butcher’s exposed knee, but the big man’s greaves turned it aside with a shriek of metal.

Elara’s hands gripped the velvet rail of the royal box. Beside her, Duke Ashford sat in his appointed seat, a thin smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He did not look at the fight. He looked at her.

“Nervous, Your Highness?” he murmured, low enough that the guards flanking them could not hear.

“Bored,” she said, without turning. “I expected more spectacle from a man with your reputation.”

Ashford’s smile widened, but he said nothing more.

Below, the duel had settled into a rhythm. Alaric was the better swordsman—she could see it in the way he moved, economical and precise, never wasting a step. But the Butcher fought like a siege engine, relentless, each blow designed not to score a hit but to batter Alaric’s guard down through sheer force. Metal rang against metal, a discordant bell that set her teeth on edge.

Alaric feinted high, spun low, and drove his blade toward the Butcher’s side, where the plate gaped at the joint. The point skittered off, drawing a thin line of red, and the Butcher roared—not in pain, but in fury. He swung his greatsword in a wild overhead chop, and Alaric was forced to roll aside, his boots slipping on the dew-damp earth.

The Butcher pressed his advantage, kicking up a cloud of dust that momentarily obscured them both. When it cleared, Alaric was on one knee, his sword raised in a desperate parry. The Butcher’s blade came down, and Elara heard Alaric grunt with the effort of holding it at bay.

This was wrong. The Beast was stronger, but he was tiring. A man his size could not keep up that pace for long. She saw the Butcher’s shoulders heave, saw the sweat streaming down his neck. Alaric had been drawing him out, waiting for the moment his strength flagged.

But then she saw it. The Butcher’s free hand slipped to his belt, and there—a small leather pouch, hidden beneath his tunic’s hem. He flicked it open with his thumb as he brought his greatsword down again, and a cloud of fine white powder exploded into the air between them.

Alaric recoiled, his free hand flying to his eyes. The powder caught the morning light, sparkling, and Elara knew instantly what it was: ground glass, or worse, quicklime. A dishonorable trick, banned in every trial by combat in the histories.

“No!” she shouted, but her voice was lost in the roar of the crowd.

The Butcher moved in, his greatsword swinging low to take Alaric’s legs out from under him. Alaric, blinded, stumbled backward, his sword tracing a wild, defensive arc that the Butcher easily dodged. He was going to lose. He was going to die, here, on this field, and Ashford would walk free, and everything she had built—the treaty, the fragile peace, the hope she had allowed herself to feel in the quiet hours of the night—would crumble to ash.

She did not think. She acted.

The veil was in her hand before she knew she had moved. It was a length of silver silk, woven with tiny threads of metal that caught the light like a mirror. She had brought it as a distraction, a contingency for a moment when Ashford’s eyes might need to wander. But this was not the moment she had planned for.

She hurled it over the rail.

The veil caught the wind and unfurled, a glittering ribbon of light that twisted and turned in the air. It fell not toward the Butcher, but toward the sun, and for a single, perfect moment, the morning light caught it and refracted into a blinding flash that struck the Butcher full in the eyes.

He staggered, his greatsword dropping to the dirt as his gauntleted hand flew to his face. It was only a heartbeat of blindness, but it was enough.

Alaric’s sword came up. He was still blinking, his eyes streaming tears, but he saw enough. He drove his blade into the gap beneath the Butcher’s arm, where the plate was thinnest, and the big man screamed as the steel bit deep.

The Butcher went down on one knee, his sword forgotten in the dust. Alaric kicked it aside, reversed his grip, and brought the pommel of his sword down on the back of the Butcher’s helmet with a sickening crack. The big man crumpled, unconscious, a heap of silver and red in the morning light.

The crowd was silent. Then the King rose from his throne, his voice ringing across the field.

“The trial is concluded. King Alaric is cleared of all charges. The charge of attempted murder against Princess Elara of Valdris is dismissed.”

Elara let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. She turned to look at Ashford.

His face was a mask of stone. He rose slowly, his eyes fixed on the field below where Alaric stood over the fallen Butcher, and then he turned to Elara. For a moment, she saw something in his eyes that was not anger, not fear, but calculation. He was already planning his next move.

“Your Grace,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “It seems justice has been served.”

“It seems,” he said, “that the sun was in my champion’s eyes.”

The King’s voice cut through the murmur of the crowd. “Duke Ashford. You will relinquish your title and holdings immediately. You will be escorted to the border and forbidden from returning to Aurenne under pain of death.”

Ashford’s jaw tightened. He turned to face the King, and for a moment, Elara thought he might argue, might force the issue. But then he inclined his head, a gesture of such cold formality that it was almost an insult.

“As you command, Your Majesty.”

The guards closed in around him. He did not resist. But as he was led past the royal box, he paused, looking up at Elara.

“A veil,” he said, his voice low. “How clever. How very Valdris. I trust you will not require it again, Your Highness. The next time we meet, I will not be so blinded.”

He was gone before she could respond, swallowed by the guards and the crowd.

The King turned to Alaric, who had retrieved his sword and was standing at attention, his face still streaked with tears from the powder. “This matter is settled. The forged letter will be burned. Duke Ashford’s lands will revert to the crown. But the peace treaty—given the accusations made, and the tensions that remain—is hereby suspended until further notice.”

Elara felt the words land like a blow. The treaty suspended. Everything she had worked for, everything she had bled for, in a single sentence undone.

Alaric met her eyes across the field. He did not speak, but she understood. This was not an ending. It was merely a shift in the battlefield.

The crowd began to disperse, the murmur of conversation rising as the nobles and knights filed out of the tourney grounds. Elara remained in the royal box, watching as Ashford’s small, guarded form disappeared through the gates.

She thought of the veil, lying somewhere in the mud of the tourney field, caught between the sun and the sword. She thought of the letter she had burned in her chambers that morning, the one from her father, written in his cramped hand, warning her of dangers she had only begun to understand.

Ashford was gone, but she knew, with a certainty that curdled in her stomach, that he had not acted alone. The amethyst seal she had found in the Duke’s study, the one that matched the ring on her father’s hand, had not been placed there by accident.

She turned to leave, and as she did, she caught the eye of the King’s seneschal, a man named Harrow, who had been standing at the King’s side throughout the trial. He smiled at her, a thin, practiced smile, and then he was gone, lost in the crowd.

Elara paused. Harrow had been at her father’s court, once. Years ago. Before the war.

She filed the thought away and descended from the royal box, her mind already racing ahead to the night that would follow.