Cold morning air scraped at Leonel's skin as he stepped into the dueling yard.
The sun barely cleared the rooftops, spilling a thin, pale light across the circle of gravel and worn glyph lines. High above, nobles leaned from carved stone balconies, their fine cloaks catching the restless autumn breeze. Their voices drifted down in clipped whispers, sharp-edged and eager.
Leonel rolled his shoulders once, feeling the simple cloth of his training tunic pull tight across his back. No armor. No house crest. Just loose trousers, boots worn thin at the edges, and the bandage that wrapped his right forearm — a makeshift sleeve hiding the Runeframe Gauntlet beneath.
His boots crunched against the gravel as he crossed to his mark at the western edge. The old glyph circle underfoot had long since faded, the magic buried under years of spilled sweat and blood.
He let his gaze drift upward, catching a flash of familiar crimson and gold — the Drex colors — near the central balcony. A few rows above, a flicker of Varnhart gray, muted and half-forgotten, hunched between grander banners.
Leonel inhaled slow, filling his lungs with the scent of wet stone and iron.
Across the field, Callen Drex made his entrance with all the ceremony of a conquering hero.
The boy wore polished steel fitted so perfectly it looked poured onto his frame. His sword gleamed wickedly at his hip, the crossguard traced with thin etchings of the Drex crest. His hair, gold-bright even in the weak morning light, stirred dramatically as he strode forward, waving once toward the balconies like a knight saluting his court.
Murmurs rippled down from the stands.
"Young Drex looks sharp today."
"He'll finish it quick."
"Varnhart's son is just meat for the wolves."
Leonel kept his hands loose at his sides, the weight of the gauntlet a steady thrum beneath the cloth. No flexing. No reveals.
Let them think what they wanted.
The duelmaster stepped between them, robes scraping against the gravel.
"Terms," he intoned, voice carrying through the chilly yard. "Body enhancement magic only. No external aids. No summons. No lethal strikes unless unavoidable."
Leonel nodded once. Callen gave a lazy flick of two fingers in acknowledgment, eyes never leaving Leonel's face.
"Victory by incapacitation, surrender, or my ruling," the duelmaster finished, stepping back with a quickness born from experience.
The bell rang—a sharp, hollow clang—and the world snapped into focus.
Callen moved first.
A blur of steel and cloth, low and fast, driving toward Leonel's ribs with a textbook-perfect opening strike.
Leonel twisted just enough to let the blade sing past his side, feeling the whisper of air stir the fabric at his hip. He stepped back, avoiding the follow-up cut aimed at his knee.
Callen pressed harder, footwork crisp, balance perfect. A thrust feint to the shoulder, a low sweep intended to catch Leonel stumbling.
The edge of the world blurred into muted noise — the nobles gasping, the scrape of leather boots, the faint pulse of his own heartbeat pounding behind his ears.
Leonel gave ground, retreating in small, measured steps, letting Callen's rhythm settle, letting the boy believe the stories written on his back.
"Sloppy," Callen taunted between strikes. "You're lucky we're not fighting over gold. You couldn't afford the stain you're about to leave."
Leonel didn't answer. Words were wasted things here.
The next swing came in high, angling for his temple — reckless, overconfident.
Leonel planted his left foot firmly in the gravel, just outside the circle's old glyphline, and dropped his shoulder.
Mana surged through his veins as he snapped his right hand up.
The bandages shredded away like dead leaves.
The Runeframe Gauntlet caught the blow mid-arc, steel on reinforced alloy, and for an instant, the world stood still.
Shock runes flared faintly across the knuckles — a soft, violent hiss.
Leonel twisted, not just blocking but redirecting, using Callen's own momentum to spin the blade outward.
Before Callen could recover, Leonel stepped in, driving a short, brutal punch into the boy's ribs.
A dull thud echoed through the yard.
Callen staggered back two steps, the air punched out of him.
The watching nobles gasped sharply.
Leonel flexed his gauntleted fingers once, feeling the slight tremor of backlash in the alloy, the way the shock rune pulsed in his palm. Not dangerous yet.
Callen's eyes widened, not in pain — but in calculation.
He adjusted, shifting weight onto his back foot, circling faster now.
Leonel mirrored him, letting the gauntlet hang loose at his side, feigning fatigue.
Another attack came — a feint high, an angled strike low toward his thigh.
Leonel let the blade bite close, a controlled slip, before snapping upward with the gauntlet again — catching Callen's sword arm mid-swing.
This time he didn't just block.
Mana surged from his core, flowing through the rune lattice like a river breaking a dam.
The impact bent the Drex steel with a sickening crunch, the blade warping sideways at the guard.
The sword dropped from Callen's hand, clattering to the gravel with an almost embarrassed sound.
The crowd fell utterly silent.
Callen stumbled back, clutching his forearm, face white with shock and fury.
Leonel didn't wait.
His body moved on instinct now, blood pounding, breath tight in his chest.
Mana pooled again in the gauntlet, humming along the etched lines of the pressure glyphs.
He pushed forward across the gravel, boots sliding slightly as he drove his weight into the next strike, knuckles aiming straight for Callen's unguarded shoulder.