The training ground had fallen silent.
Knights who had been sparring only moments before now stepped back, clearing a wide space at the center of the courtyard. The air buzzed with anticipation as Riven and Edric faced each other, swords in hand.
Duke Valen, standing between them as the appointed referee, glanced between the two princes before speaking.
"The rules are simple," Valen announced. "The first to be knocked to the ground loses."
A knight approached with two wooden swords, offering them to the combatants.
Riven took his without complaint, rolling his shoulders lazily as he tested its weight. But when the knight handed the second sword to Edric, the younger prince scoffed.
"Wooden swords?" Edric's voice carried his disdain. "I am not a child. We should be using real steel."
The knights exchanged glances. Some of them looked uncertain, others outright amused.
Riven, without hesitation, grinned.
"As you please, crown prince," he said smoothly, tossing aside the wooden blade and reaching for a pair of real swords from the nearby weapon rack.
Edric took his own, gripping the hilt with tense fingers.
Duke Valen sighed but didn't argue. Instead, he raised his hand. "On my mark."
Riven twirled his twin blades, his smirk never fading.
Edric tightened his stance, jaw clenched.
"Begin!"
Edric lunged first.
His blade came down fast and hard, aiming for Riven's right side—but Riven sidestepped effortlessly.
Another strike—easily parried.
Edric pressed forward, but Riven barely seemed to be trying. He moved with a fluid grace, dodging and countering with ease, his swords clashing against Edric's with effortless precision.
To Riven, this wasn't a fight.
It was a game.
He didn't just block—he toyed with Edric.
When Edric swung at his left, Riven leaned just out of reach. When Edric slashed toward his legs, Riven hopped back with an exaggerated yawn.
The knights watching the duel began to chuckle.
"You're slowing down, Edric," Riven mused, parrying another strike. "Did you forget how to hold a sword?"
Edric growled, swinging harder—only for Riven to spin behind him, tapping the back of his shoulder with the flat of his blade.
"Too slow."
The laughter grew.
Edric's face darkened.
Fury boiled inside Edric.
He wasn't going to be made a fool of.
A sharp gust of wind stirred around him, rustling his clothes and kicking up dust from the ground.
The knights instantly recognized what was happening.
"He's using his aura," one of them murmured.
Wind rushed to Edric's blade, surrounding the steel with an almost invisible force.
His next strike came twice as fast.
Riven narrowed his eyes, finally taking the fight more seriously.
The wind-infused sword lashed out, nearly catching his arm.
Riven tilted his head, amused. "Resorting to this already?"
Edric didn't answer—he pressed forward, his speed now blinding.
Riven parried swiftly, his movements still smooth—but the force behind Edric's strikes had changed.
Wind whistled through the air, each slash cutting faster, sharper.
For the first time, Riven had to stop playing.
He dodged the next attack by inches, his smirk returning.
"Desperate, aren't we?"
Edric's eyes blazed.
The knights watching began to murmur amongst themselves.
"He has to use his aura? Against Riven?"
"He must know he can't win otherwise."
"Riven hasn't even used his yet."
Riven heard them.
And he decided it was time to end this.
Riven changed his stance.
Gone was the playful ease—in its place was precision, sharp and cold.
He let Edric come at him again, dodging the first few slashes.
Then—with brutal efficiency—he countered.
One step forward. A swift parry. A twist of his wrist.
Edric's sword was sent flying from his hands, spinning through the air before clattering onto the stone.
Before Edric could react, Riven struck.
A hard sweep to the legs.
The force behind it was just enough to throw Edric off balance.
And then—Edric hit the ground.
Dust kicked up around him as the entire courtyard erupted in laughter.
Riven had won.
Without using his aura.
Without breaking a sweat.
Riven stepped forward, kneeling beside Edric.
He offered a hand, but his expression was mocking.
Then, in a whisper only Edric could hear, he murmured:
"Know your place, dear brother."
Edric stiffened.
Riven's smirk grew. "You're not even close to my level." His voice was smooth, almost lazy—but there was a sharp edge beneath it.
"Now, who's sloppy?"
Edric's breath hitched.
Riven patted his shoulder. "See? I was just being merciful."
Then, with a sharp tug, he pulled Edric to his feet—roughly.
The knights were still laughing, shaking their heads as Edric staggered upright, humiliated.
Across the courtyard, Queen Evelyn watched in fury.
She had seen it all.
She had watched as her son lost, spectacularly.
As Riven mocked him openly.
As the knights—her knights—laughed at the crown prince.
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
This was unacceptable.
Edric, red-faced and seething, turned on his heel and stormed off without another word.
More laughter followed his retreat.
Riven chuckled, rolling his shoulders. "Well, that was fun."
The knights cheered, clapping him on the back as he sheathed his swords.
And as the sun dipped lower, Riven returned to training—like nothing had happened.