The silence of the circular hall had reached its peak when the priest spoke that final word, a silence heavier than anything that had come before it that long day, as though the stone itself had stopped breathing to listen.
*"Alexander, son of William, has no Blessing."*
It wasn’t that sentence alone that knocked the air out of Alexander’s chest, but the way it was said; total coldness, no hesitation in it, no pity, the voice of a man reading a fact from a book that never lies.
Prince Gabriel suddenly gestured with his hand, his voice sharp, cutting through that silence.
*"Priest... what are you saying!"*
William said it in almost the same instant, in fact everyone said it, even Alexander himself felt the words forming in his throat without meaning to speak them.
The priest repeated, coldly, not without a suppressed sorrow.
*"Alexander, son of William, has no Blessing."*
The prince began laughing loudly, his hand gripping the edge of the wooden railing in front of him without ever loosening, and his laughter didn’t stop while a strange silence took the place of the murmurs, before scattered laughter spread through the hall — some genuine, some just a frightened echo of the laughter of a man who held power over life and death for everyone there.
Alexander himself didn’t understand what was happening. He looked at his father, unable to tell if that was disappointment in his eyes or just deep confusion, while Daron sat in total silence, his eyes never leaving the ground in front of him.
*"Priest, are you certain of what you’re saying?"*
*"I’m sorry, son... but blood doesn’t lie. You’re without a Blessing."*
*"And what does that mean, priest?"*
The priest looked into Alexander’s face, then placed his palm on his face with a strange gentleness, a touch closer to condolence than ritual, then began stepping back slowly without saying anything further.
*"Priest? Priest... what does this mean, priest!"*
Alexander tried hard to force that old man to answer, but to no avail, the priest’s steps retreating steadily toward his seat, his bent back carrying the weight of something he didn’t want to explain in front of everyone.
The prince kept talking, his laughter still filling the room.
*"William, you were mistaken... your son has no Blessing, and yet he has a left hand. You know what that means, William, don’t you?"*
William didn’t answer, staying silent, then turned his gaze toward his son Alexander, and those were eyes both angry and sorrowful at once, as though the father himself were trying to understand who was truly standing before him.
The prince said, that smile never leaving his lips.
*"Alexander, son of William... did you sell yourself to a demon?"*
Alexander was flustered, not sure if this was a serious question or just another mockery added to the chain of mockeries that had surrounded this entire day.
*Damn you, body... you’ve given me nothing but disasters since the very first moment.*
*"My lord, I swear I’ve never done that."*
*"An oath, an oath, an oath... all nonsense. I believe only what I see, and I see a man with no Blessing who has a left hand. You’re using black magic, boy, and its punishment is death."*
*"I’m not using black magic, and I haven’t sold myself to any demon... I’m just different."*
*"Different? Boy, I really do like you... but we’re going to cut off your head."*
The priest spoke from a distance, his voice cutting through that pronounced verdict without hesitation.
*"Alexander hasn’t sold himself to any demon, my lord... I can sense black-magic practitioners, and I know their blood. That blood wasn’t tainted."*
Maximian didn’t give that moment of confusion any chance to settle. He rose quickly, his face, flushed with anger since the beginning of the session, now burning an even deeper red, his voice rising above all the swelling murmurs around him.
*"I don’t care if his blood is tainted or pure, priest! My nephew, Richard, turned to ash in front of thousands of eyes, and he doesn’t even have a grave for his family to visit! And now you’re telling us the boy who did that doesn’t even have a Blessing to justify what happened? This is far worse than I first thought!"*
He stepped forward toward the center of the hall, his finger pointing directly at Alexander.
*"If he’s not a black-magic practitioner, and he’s not the Great Priest, then what is he? A power with no name, no explanation, no limit? This is more dangerous than any Blessing or magic we’ve ever known! We’re no longer talking about a penalty for breaking a competition rule, Your Honor... we’re talking about something that threatens the balance of this entire kingdom."*
He turned toward the prince, his tone shifting from open anger to a precisely calculated urgency.
*"My lord, I demand full justice this time, not just an inquiry. I demand this boy’s execution, or at the very least his exile beyond the borders of this land, before that hand becomes a nightmare haunting all of us, nobles and farmers alike."*
New murmurs rose from the western rows, some backing him loudly this time, as though the absence of a Blessing in Alexander had pulled away the last card that had been protecting him from those who’d seen him as a threat from the very start.
*And now everything’s turned against me all at once. I’m no longer a Great Priest worthy of respect, not even an ordinary criminal deserving a fair trial. I’ve become a riddle that frightens them, and a riddle people fear doesn’t get mercy — it gets killed before it’s ever understood.*
Alexander felt his bound hands trembling, not from the cold this time, but from that cold certainty beginning to creep into his chest: that this hall, with all its judges and rituals, had never been searching for truth in the first place, only a pretext.
He looked at his father, and found William still silent, but his hand had settled on the hilt of his black sword with a grip firmer than any moment before, as though he were calculating, with the calm of a man who’d fought many wars, how much time was left before he’d be forced to use it in a place where that wasn’t permitted.
Judge Edward, who until that moment had seemed to be enjoying this spectacle more than presiding over it, struck his gavel on the desk once, trying to restore some order.
*"A dangerous request, Sir Maximian. Execution or exile requires more than justified anger and unconfirmed suspicion."*
*"Unconfirmed suspicion? My nephew is ash, Your Honor! What greater proof do you want than that?"*
Before Edward could respond, something moved among Alexander’s family’s rows. Daron rose, without asking permission, without waiting to be called upon to speak as was customary in that hall, and his motion was sharp enough to draw every eye in the room toward him instantly.
His face was calm in a way that didn’t resemble the cheerful calm Alexander had known from him all these past days, but the calm of a man who’d made his decision long before he’d even opened his mouth.
*"My lord prince... Your Honor."*
Edward looked at him with a raised eyebrow, as though this sudden interruption sparked his curiosity more than it bothered him.
*"And who are you to speak without permission in a court like this?"*
*"I’m Daron, son of William, brother of the accused."*
He said it steadily, then turned slightly toward Maximian, his eyes carrying no hesitation.
*"I’m hearing a demand for my brother’s execution based on a suspicion with no conclusive proof behind it except fear. I won’t allow that without giving him a chance the law itself recognizes, before hatred invents one of its own."*
A faint murmur of astonishment rose, while Daron continued, his voice rising slightly to reach the farthest point of that circular hall.
*"I demand a blood duel."*
A sudden silence fell, the kind where every person present knows the meaning of the phrase before it’s even explained, while Alexander alone looked around in confusion, not understanding the weight of that sentence, which sounded to everyone else’s ears like a declaration of miniature war.
*A blood duel? What in the hell does that mean?*
Judge Edward leaned forward slightly in his seat, that strange smile returning to his face, but carrying this time something closer to genuine delight rather than manufactured foolishness.
*"A blood duel... a lovely name I haven’t heard in many long years, son of William. Do you really understand what you’re asking for?"*
*"I understand it completely, Your Honor."*
*"Then explain it to this hall, since not everyone here remembers the details of a law this old."*
Daron looked directly at Maximian, then toward the prince, before speaking in a clear voice that left no room for confusion.
*"A blood duel is an ancient right that allows two disputing parties, the accused and the accuser, or those representing them, to resolve their dispute with a sword instead of a court’s ruling, when the truth is tangled in doubt rather than clear as day. Whoever wins, the dispute ends with them, and the case is closed forever, with no appeal or later claim."*
Then he added, his eyes never leaving Maximian for a single moment.
*"My brother is accused of killing Richard with an unknown power. But Richard lunged at him to kill him after being defeated in an official duel, then tried to strangle him to death. If there’s blood whose price is demanded, let it be demanded before a sword, not before a ruling issued from the anger of a man who lost a relative."*
Conflicting voices rose again, but this time something different ran through them; a sharp curiosity beginning to replace the open anger, as though the idea of a blood duel in front of a full crowd of nobles was far more tempting than any cold, paper ruling.
Maximian looked at Daron in a long silence, his jaw clenched, as though weighing the real danger of that offer against the satisfaction seeing another death from that family before him would give.
Prince Gabriel looked at Daron from his raised platform, and that old curiosity gleamed again in his eyes, the curiosity of a man who had just found a new game worth his time.
*"A blood duel, then... well, I like this suggestion more than I expected. But tell me, Daron, son of William, who exactly will fight? The right isn’t granted to whoever asks for it, but to whoever deserves to carry the sword in this moment."*
Daron stepped forward once, his voice steady, carrying no hesitation.
*"I’ll fight, my lord. I’ll fight in defense of my brother’s freedom."*
*My brother? He wants to fight for me? After all those worried looks, after all that reserve he’s shown toward my left hand, here he is now putting himself between the sword and me. Why?*
The prince smiled a calm smile, but it carried no trace of approval, something closer to a polite refusal hiding behind it a decision already made.
*"No, no, Daron... that’s entirely unfair."*
He looked around at the whole hall, as though addressing everyone, not just Daron.
*"You’re one of the finest fighters in this kingdom, everyone here knows that. If you fight, this won’t be a real blood duel — it’ll just be a delayed execution for your opponent, whoever they are. The law requires the scale to be as balanced as possible, not tipped in one side’s favor from the start."*
Then he turned his gaze directly toward Alexander, and that smile widened slightly.
*"Alexander is the one accused, and Alexander is the one who will fight. That’s the true meaning of a blood duel... that the accused himself stands before a sword deciding his fate, not hiding behind his brother’s strong hand."*
Alexander felt the cold creep back into his stomach.
*Of course... of course he wouldn’t allow that. Why did I expect anything else? This man loves nothing more than watching people fight each other. Why would he deprive himself of a spectacle like this?*
Daron objected immediately, another step forward, as though trying to physically place himself between his brother and that decision.
*"My lord, my brother is already exhausted from the competition, and hasn’t recovered from his wounds yet. This isn’t a fair fight by any measure."*
*"And fairness, Daron, isn’t one man fighting in another’s place just because he’s stronger. If you wanted to protect your brother, you should have taught him how to protect himself, not asked to carry him on your back every time he falls."*
A brief silence fell, heavy enough that Alexander felt every eye had returned to focus on him again, waiting for his reaction to a fate now hanging in the hands of a man who showed no mercy.
The prince then turned toward Maximian, his voice suddenly becoming more formal, as though this part of the conversation was shifting from personal entertainment to cold legal procedure.
*"Governor Maximian, since you’re the one demanding vengeance for Richard, it’s your right to choose who will represent you in this duel. Choose well, for this is your only chance to close this case the way you want."*
Maximian looked at Alexander for a long moment, his eyes carrying a cold calculation, not without a hidden satisfaction beginning to creep into his grim features, as though he’d just realized the justice he’d demanded might come to him on an even better platter than he’d expected.
*Why is he smiling now? He wasn’t smiling just a moment ago.*
*"I won’t choose an ordinary fighter for this honor, my lord."*
Maximian said it slowly, as though savoring every word before speaking it, then gestured with his hand toward a row of guards standing behind the western platform — a massive man, taller than most around him, his heavy armor bearing deep scars and gouges telling a long history of real battles, not mere displays.
*"I’ll choose the commander of my own personal guard... Gorman."*
The man stepped forward once from his row, without bowing, without showing any emotion, as though that request hadn’t surprised him at all, but a duty he’d been used to waiting for.
Alexander looked at that massive, silent man, and felt something like a cold certainty settle in his chest, heavier than any fear he’d known even in his darkest moments back in the old boxing ring.
*This man didn’t come to fight me in a fair duel... this man came to kill me.*