Silence gripped the Sunken Spire’s High Court. Zarek looked past the dais toward Vierra and inclined his head once. Lord Viridian struck his stone gavel. “The Rite of Oathbound Steel is invoked. The Crimson Ring at the hour of the Twin Suns.” The Crimson Ring. Years ago, Vierra had thrown herself before an assassin’s hook on that same obsidian floor, taking seven iron sutures across her ribs so Garrick could parade out unmarred. Now, only Garrick would bleed. Hours later, the Twin Suns — an Ostrasian term for the brief, overlapping glow of the planet’s twin stars — cast long, distorted shadows across the Crimson Ring. The circular arena, carved from polished ebon-stone, was already packed with highborn spectators in silk cloaks and bone-carved masks. Torches flickered on the walls, painting the air in dancing hues of ochre and umber. Zarek stood at the center, clad in simple, dark sparring leathers, his form lean and ready. He held a single, unadorned dueling blade, its hilt worn smooth from years of use. Garrick entered from the opposing archway, a picture of false bravado. He wore ornate, lacquered armor, a ceremonial sword at his hip that gleamed with an almost unnatural light. Vierra, positioned in the viewing gallery beside a tight-lipped Matron Olenka, saw the subtle tension in his shoulders, the too-bright glint in his eyes. He paused, his gaze sweeping the crowd, then settled on Zarek with a sneer. The duel commenced with the traditional clang of gongs. Garrick lunged first, a wild, almost clumsy attack. Zarek sidestepped with fluid grace, his blade a blur as he parried Garrick’s desperate thrusts. The fight was a stark contrast: Zarek, economical and precise; Garrick, flailing with brute force and little skill. He was losing, and he knew it. Vierra watched, a cold certainty settling in her bones. Garrick was never one to lose without a dirty trick. It came in the third exchange. Garrick, feigning a stumble, dropped to one knee. As Zarek moved in for what should have been a decisive strike, Garrick’s free hand shot out, not with a weapon, but with a small, intricately carved pouch. He crushed it, and a fine, iridescent dust billowed into the air between them. It pulsed with a faint, unnatural violet light. Zarek recoiled, but it was too late. The light enveloped him, shimmering like oil on water. A guttural cry ripped from his throat. His entire body seized, muscles locking in a grotesque spasm. He dropped his blade, hands clawing at his scalp, pupils dilated until the irises vanished. He thrashed, stumbling backward, his movements jerky and uncontrolled, as if battling phantoms only he could see. His spine snapped back in an arch, pitching him hard against the flagstones as violent tremors shook his limbs. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Olenka’s face remained impassive, but Vierra saw a faint, almost imperceptible curve at the corner of her lips. Hallucinogenic magic. Olenka’s dark touch. The cold discipline Vierra had maintained for months shattered beneath a surging, venomous rage. She moved before she could second-guess, a blur of motion. She launched herself over the railing, landing with a jarring thud on the arena floor. Garrick, still staring down at Zarek with a bare-toothed grin, spun around as his jaw dropped. “Vierra? What in the blazes—” “The Rite of Oathbound Steel permits a champion’s substitution when foul sorcery strikes down a sworn duelist,” Vierra projected across the tiers, snatching Zarek’s fallen blade from the floor. “The dust in your sleeve violates the Sovereign Edicts. I take his place.” Garrick scoffed, a nervous laugh that died in his throat. “You? A woman? This is preposterous!” “Your cowardice is what offends this court,” Vierra said, closing the distance with measured strides. “You stole the High Seat on borrowed blood, Garrick. This is no duel. It is an execution.” He lunged, a desperate, wild swing. Vierra met it with an iron down-block that rattled the bones in his forearm, wrenching a grunt from his throat. She twisted, her blade flashing, a deliberate, shallow cut along the inside of his knee. He yelped, stumbling. Before he could recover, she spun, using the momentum to slam the pommel of her sword into his temple. The clang of metal against bone echoed through the stunned silence of the arena. Garrick swayed, his eyes glazed, a thin line of blood trickling from his hairline. He raised his sword again, but his movements were sluggish, his form unraveling. Vierra didn’t grant him mercy. She disarmed him with a swift, brutal flick of her wrist, sending his ceremonial blade skittering across the ebon-stone. Then, with a chilling precision, she drove the flat of her blade into his solar plexus, knocking the air from his lungs. He doubled over, gasping, collapsing to his knees. Vierra stood over him, her chest heaving, her knuckles white around the hilt. She raised the blade, not to strike, but to press the tip against his throat, just above the ornate gorget of his armor. “Tell me, Garrick,” she whispered, her voice a dangerous silk, “how does it feel to be so utterly, hopelessly broken?” He choked, breath rattling in his bruised ribs as raw panic settled into his gaze. Then, through a bloody cough, a gurgling laugh escaped him. It was a wet, rattling sound, devoid of humor, yet utterly chilling. “You fool,” he spat, his voice thick with blood. “You absolute, blind fool. Olenka already holds the floodgates. You are too late.”

The Dueling Ring