Callen's smirk widened, lazy and taunting, as he stepped off the pillar, swirling the wine in his goblet with a careless flick.
"Look at you," Callen drawled, voice pitched just loud enough to make sure every noble ear caught it. "The ruined pup of House Varnhart, thinking a few sharp words can stitch your pride back together."
Leonel stayed still, watching, letting the words slide over him. Letting them dig, but not pull him off balance.
"You want to stand here," Callen continued, taking a slow, mocking step closer, "and pretend you still matter?"
Leonel's fingers brushed the seam of his jacket, a small, steady motion grounding him against the rising hum of the crowd.
Callen's grin twisted sharper.
"Maybe you'd like a chance to prove it?"
The weight of every gaze pressed against Leonel's spine — nobles shifting, servants frozen with trays halfway lifted, musicians clutching their strings in suspended horror.
Leonel didn't bother pretending anymore. He stepped fully into the open floor between the tables, voice cutting clean through the thick, perfumed air.
"Name your place," he said. "Name your terms. I'll answer them all."
A sharp gasp rippled through the ballroom. Whispers exploded like a sudden squall, snapping around the chandeliers.
Callen blinked, surprised for just a breath before laughter bubbled from his throat.
"You?" he said, loud enough to shake the rafters. "You want a duel?"
Leonel didn't move. Didn't blink.
Callen tossed his goblet aside; it crashed somewhere behind him. No one moved to clean it up.
Across the room, the Count Drex shifted slightly, one eyebrow lifting, a signal of permission that made Leonel's jaw tighten.
Callen turned back, mock bowing low enough to make his golden hair fall across his face.
"Three days," he said, voice slick with satisfaction. "Old Court Dueling Yard. No magic beyond body enhancement. No summons. Just hands, steel, and spirit."
Leonel gave a single nod, formal and cutting.
Callen straightened, throwing a casual glance over his shoulder toward the gathered nobles, soaking in the attention like a man bathing in firelight.
"Try not to drink yourself blind before then, Varnhart," he added, tossing the words back with a crooked smile before sauntering away toward his family's side of the room.
The nobles nearest him parted like water around a shark.
Leonel exhaled slowly through his nose, feeling the knot in his chest loosen — not in relief, but in a readiness that burned clearer than the wine fumes clouding the air.
A sharp shuffle of boots crossed the marble.
Lord Varnhart stood before him, dark coat stiff across his broad shoulders, jaw set like stone.
"You think this makes you a man?" his father said, voice pitched low enough only Leonel could hear. "Think this will wipe away the debts you piled on our house?"
Leonel said nothing. There was nothing he could say.
Lord Varnhart's gaze bored into him, unreadable but heavy.
"If you cross this line," he said, the words slow and deliberate, "you walk it alone. I will not save you."
Leonel met his father's eyes fully, feeling the old anger scrape raw against the new steel inside him. He nodded once, short and final.
Lord Varnhart studied him a second longer, then stepped aside without another word.
The nobles began shifting again, conversation resuming in a jagged, nervous tempo. The tension hung thicker now, a stormcloud of expectation building overhead.
Leonel turned toward the high windows along the side wall. The world beyond was dark, the stars hidden behind a veil of cloud. Somewhere in the distance, the bells of Elaris tolled faintly for the third watch.
Three days.
Not nearly enough time.
Perfect.
Leonel tapped a knuckle lightly against the leather belt riding his hip, mind already moving beyond the heat of anger, beyond the bruises that would come if he fought like a fool.
This wouldn't be won by strength.
It would be won by preparation.
He adjusted the cuff of his jacket with a sharp, small tug and moved through the clusters of nobles without looking at any of them.
Let them whisper.
Let them wonder.
The cool air outside would clear his head faster than the stench of their perfume and polished fear.
A few nobles stepped aside instinctively as he passed, pretending disinterest but marking his every step with darting glances.
Leonel ignored them all.
At the archway near the courtyard, he slowed only slightly, catching the cold breeze against his burning face, feeling the sweat begin to dry along his collar.
Footsteps followed a beat behind — lighter, hesitant. A servant, perhaps, or one of the younger noble heirs drunk on the spectacle.
Leonel didn't turn.
He crossed the stone threshold, letting the crisp night air fill his lungs fully for the first time in hours.
Somewhere in the gardens, a few guests whispered under the shadowed hedges, their words lost beneath the distant crackle of torches.
He adjusted the angle of his stride, cutting across the gravel paths toward the rear servants' gate. No carriage, no ceremony. Just distance.
Three days.
Not nearly enough time to match Callen Drex in swordplay. The boy had been trained from birth for duels, tournaments, the art of noble cruelty. Leonel's muscles still remembered the laziness, the softness that had cost his house so much before.
But there were other ways.
Other methods.
Other tools.
The workroom came into focus in his mind — the one place in the crumbling estate that still smelled of fire and forge oil instead of dust and regret.
A plan began stitching itself together between his ribs, each beat of his heart hammering it tighter.
The dueling rules forbade outside magic enhancements.
But they didn't forbid crafted tools — if crafted by one's own hand.
Leonel quickened his pace, boots crunching over loose stone.
The Varnhart estate loomed ahead, dark except for a few guttering lamps near the east wing.
Somewhere inside, the broken forge waited — battered tools, warped alloys, cracked glyph stones, memories of better hands than his.
No one would expect him to fight fair.
No one would expect him to fight smart.
His fingers curled into a fist, then relaxed, measuring the strength still left in his body.
The bruises would come later.
Tonight, there was work to do.
Leonel pushed through the side door, the scent of cold iron and old smoke washing over him, familiar and bracing.
The broken tables.
The abandoned scroll racks.
The battered blueprint rolls gathering dust in the corner.
He crossed the threshold, drawing the door closed behind him with a quiet click, and stepped toward the battered workbench.
Three days.
Not enough time to train a body.
Plenty of time to build a weapon.
Leonel yanked an old oil-lantern from its hook, shaking it twice until the flame sputtered to life.
The cracked leather stool wobbled under his weight as he settled before the ancient wood, dragging parchment close, hands already reaching for a quill.
The first rough outline of the gauntlet flowed from memory, the marks sharp, mechanical, hungry.
Somewhere above, the storm clouds gathered thicker, pressing against the estate's sagging roof.
Leonel dipped the quill again, etching the next line carefully under the flickering lantern glow.
The world outside could laugh.
Let them.
He intended to answer with steel.