Emelia smiled lightly, her tone dipped in honey as she looked at Kyle.
"Just don’t forget I’m on your side now. It’d be a shame if your plans ended up harming me in the crossfire."
Nigel scoffed, the sound sharp.
"You opportunistic bitch."
Kyle raised a hand, stopping him without even glancing. His eyes were still on Emelia.
"I’ll consider your proposal. But I won’t accept it just yet."
He said, voice calm and detached.
Emelia’s gaze lingered on him, studying the unreadable look in his eyes before she sighed and gave a short nod.
"Fair enough. I tried. I’ll take my leave."
As her footsteps faded down the corridor, Nigel huffed.
"You want me to deal with Christan now? We could end the problem before the banquet even begins."
"No. Let it go. I don’t have much patience for idiots—and Christan’s doing a fine job proving himself to be one."
A few hours passed. The sun dipped lower, casting long golden shadows across the Armstrong estate as the grand banquet hall came alive with music, lantern light, and the scent of rich foods.
Nobles from nearby regions mingled in silks and velvets, raising glasses of wine and laughter as the hall buzzed with celebration.
The Duke had spared no expense—this was, after all, a feast to welcome all his children back. It was also, everyone suspected, the stage for something greater: the naming of his successor.
Kyle entered with quiet grace, flanked by Nigel, who walked with an easy confidence that made lesser nobles straighten their backs.
Across the room, Emelia stood with a glass in hand, eyeing the brothers. Christan wasn’t far behind—radiating false charm and a barely concealed edge in his smile.
Then, the Duke stood.
A hush fell over the crowd. Nobles and retainers turned toward the head of the room where Duke Armstrong raised his glass.
"I thank you all for coming. Tonight is not just a celebration of my children’s safe return—"
Before he could finish, Christan stepped forward, clapping slowly. Loudly. Disrespectfully.
"My Lord Father. Before you go further—before you make any declaration—I think we need to talk about who actually deserves to inherit the dukedom."
He said, with a grin too wide to be polite.
Whispers broke out in the crowd. Emelia closed her eyes and sighed into her wine glass, already regretting her surname.
"I mean no offense, truly—but we all know titles should be backed by authority and strength. And forgive me, but I don’t see either of those in Nigel or Kyle."
The murmurs grew louder.
"They’ve both been gone, haven’t they? Busy with their... mysterious business. Meanwhile, I’ve stayed. I’ve trained. I’ve helped oversee the estate. Shouldn’t the next Duke be someone who understands its people?"
Kyle’s expression didn’t shift. He raised his glass, sipped it calmly, and didn’t bother interrupting. Nigel, on the other hand, was already cracking his knuckles.
Emelia slowly backed into the shadows, no longer interested in being associated with what was coming.
Christan smiled wider, mistaking the silence for triumph.
"You can’t protect the dukedom from shadows, Kyle. And Nigel can’t inherit leadership if he’s never earned the loyalty of the people—"
Kyle asked, finally setting his glass down. The tone was mild, even casual, but it cut through the room like a blade.
"I don’t remember asking for your opinion. And I doubt anyone else did either."
Kyle stepped forward once.
A chuckle rippled through the hall.
Christan’s words echoed through the hall, sharp and loud, as if he believed volume alone could grant him legitimacy.
His chest puffed with arrogance as he looked around at the gathered nobles, trying to gauge if he’d won their support. But the Duke’s sharp glare cut through the tension like a blade.
"Enough. You’ve run your mouth enough for one evening."
The Duke said, his voice flat—calm in a way that promised consequences.
Christan didn’t notice the warning tone. He was too wound up with his imagined victory, too drunk on the sound of his own voice. He looked to his father with a smug grin.
"Then let me prove myself. If words don’t matter, then let strength speak."
The Duke’s lips curled into something that was not a smile.
"Very well. We will settle this with a duel."
A stunned silence swept across the hall.
One of the nobles whispered.
But the Duke was already waving a hand for his attendants.
"Fifteen minutes. All three of you. You will meet at the arena. No more words. No more posturing. We’ll let your blades decide who stands fit to lead."
He didn’t ask if they agreed. He didn’t need to. His tone made it clear this was not a request.
Nigel’s face lit up with vicious amusement.
He muttered, cracking his knuckles.
Kyle merely gave a nod and turned toward the exit, as if he’d already moved on to thinking about other matters.
But what struck the court most was Christan’s expression. He didn’t look afraid. He didn’t pale or hesitate.
If anything, he looked like he had been waiting for this very moment for years. His confidence didn’t seem forced now—it radiated from him like a long-awaited opportunity finally within his grasp.
"I hope you’re ready. Because after this, I’ll be taking what’s mine."
Christan said, his voice laced with a sharp grin as he walked past Nigel and Kyle.
"Is delusion a side effect of cowardice, or just your natural state?"
Kyle didn’t speak. His silence was enough to unnerve a crowd. But Christan was too far gone to notice.
As the hall cleared, people murmured in anticipation. Nobles hurried to prepare seats near the arena. Duel announcements were rare—especially between heirs.
It was now or never for the duke’s house. This was the first real conflict that could shake the Duke’s household, so everyone was curious to see where it would go.
Even those who had never paid attention to politics could not help but get involved and see the end with a passion like never seen before.
The duke sighed, knowing that this was going to be a disaster.
Christan stormed out of the hall first, his boots echoing arrogantly down the corridor as if he’d already won.
The nobles parted to make way, unsure whether to cheer or pity him. As the doors closed behind his retreating figure, silence settled over the hall.
The Duke let out a long, tired sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Sometimes I wonder if that boy is even mine. No sense of timing, no grasp of politics, and certainly no trace of restraint."
He muttered, not bothering to lower his voice.
A few nearby retainers exchanged glances but wisely held their tongues.
"It’s as if he was born with every flaw a noble heir shouldn’t have. If I hadn’t seen him come out of his mother with my own eyes, I’d swear the gods were playing a joke on me."
The Duke added with a grim chuckle.
He sounded serious when he made that claim, but his eyes told Kyle that he was joking.