Chapter 17: First Blood Decides
The snow was already trampled before anyone gave the order to clear space.
Boots shifted back instinctively, soldiers stepping away without being told. Not out of excitement. Out of instinct. Something irreversible had just been set in motion, and no one wanted to be too close when it settled.
Aren stood still at the center of it.
Captain Roderic Hale faced him from several paces away, sword drawn, posture immaculate. The man looked every inch the officer—armor fitted cleanly, stance drilled into muscle memory through years of repetition. Confidence sat easily on him, not as arrogance, but as expectation.
This was supposed to be routine.
A subordinate overstepping.
A challenge that would be denied.
Authority reasserted.
That was how these things usually ended.
The voices came quickly.
"This is out of order."
"Stand down."
"Command authority cannot be challenged like this."
Officers pushed forward from the edge of the forming ring, faces tight with restrained anger. One of them reached out as if to physically interpose himself between the two men.
"This will not happen," he said sharply. "We are not a mercenary band. This is an army."
Aren did not turn.
Neither did Hale.
The circle wavered.
For a breath, it seemed the challenge would die there—not resolved, not honored, simply buried under procedure.
Then Seraphina Valecrest stepped forward.
She did not raise her voice.
She did not shout for silence.
She did not need to.
"It will proceed."
The words were quiet. Calm.
They struck harder than any order.
The officers froze.
"Commander," one of them began, voice tight, "this sets a precedent—"
Seraphina turned her head just enough for her gaze to settle on him.
"This challenge was issued under my command," she said evenly. "And I accept it."
The man swallowed. "With respect—"
"You are dismissed from this decision," Seraphina said.
There was no heat in her voice.
That was worse.
The officers stepped back one by one, arguments dying unfinished. They knew when not to push. They had survived too long not to.
The duel was no longer a question.
Seraphina's gaze shifted back to the two men.
"First blood," she said. "No pursuit beyond it. No killing intent."
Hale inclined his head stiffly. "Understood."
Aren nodded once.
The circle widened.
The squad stood at the edge of it—Rovan rigid as stone, Corin's hands clenched tight around his spear shaft, Lethan leaning forward despite his injured leg, eyes never leaving Aren.
They were not spectators.
They were witnesses.
Seraphina raised her hand slightly.
"Names," she said.
Hale stepped forward first, sword lifting into a formal guard.
"I am Captain Roderic Hale," he said clearly, voice carrying. "Sword of the Central Advance."
The title settled over the field like armor.
Aren drew his blade.
The sound was quiet.
Deliberate.
He lifted his gaze.
"I am Aren," he said.
"Sword of Commander Seraphina Valecrest."
A murmur rippled through the watching soldiers.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Seraphina lowered her hand.
"Begin."
Hale moved immediately.
Not reckless. Not rushed.
His first strike was clean, angled to test Aren's guard rather than break it. Steel rang sharply as Aren deflected, feet sliding half a step back in the snow.
Hale advanced.
Pressure.
That was his style.
Each strike followed the last with disciplined precision, blade paths tight, footwork efficient. He wasn't trying to overwhelm Aren with strength. He was trying to establish control—to force Aren into reaction and dictate the pace.
Aren retreated.
Once.
Twice.
The watching soldiers tensed.
"He's giving ground."
"No—look."
Aren wasn't panicking.
He was measuring.
Hale pressed harder, confidence rising as Aren continued to give space. His strikes grew more assertive, arcs widening just enough to threaten rather than test.
"You hesitate," Hale said quietly, breath steady.
Aren said nothing.
Hale lunged.
Aren shifted.
The blade slid past Aren's guard by the width of a finger, missing flesh by nothing at all. Hale overextended slightly to recover, boot digging deeper into the snow than intended.
It was a mistake.
Aren stepped in.
Not with brute force.
Not with speed.
With alignment.
Steel flashed.
Hale felt it before he saw it—a sharp sting across his forearm, heat blooming beneath the armor seam. He recoiled instinctively, eyes dropping to the red line spreading quickly through his sleeve.
Blood.
The circle inhaled as one.
Seraphina did not move.
"Continue," she said.
Hale's expression hardened.
The confidence cracked.
He attacked again—but faster now. Harder. His strikes lost some of their precision, driven by irritation rather than control. He pressed forward aggressively, trying to reassert dominance through force.
Aren stopped retreating.
He redirected.
Each strike Hale threw met resistance—not strength against strength, but placement against momentum. Aren's blade was always where Hale needed recovery space, denying him the ability to reset properly.
Hale's breathing grew heavier.
He pushed again.
Too hard.
Aren saw it.
Silent Crossing.
Not fully committed.
Just enough.
Aren stepped into Hale's advance and cut across the line of motion, blade slipping past guard and stopping a breath from Hale's throat.
Aren halted.
The edge hovered.
Close enough that Hale could feel the cold steel against his skin.
Hale froze.
His balance was gone. His momentum broken. His sword out of line.
Control—lost.
Seraphina's voice cut through the silence.
"That is enough."
Aren stepped back immediately, blade lowering.
Hale stood frozen for a heartbeat longer, then slowly withdrew his sword, chest rising and falling hard. He had not been disarmed.
He had been contained.
The duel was over.
Not because someone had fallen.
But because the question had been answered.
Seraphina turned toward the gathered soldiers.
"Forward tactical authority," she said calmly, "is provisionally reassigned."
Her gaze settled on Aren.
"Effective immediately."
The reaction was subtle.
Soldiers straightened.
Postures adjusted.
Eyes shifted toward Aren—not with awe, not with fear, but with something far more dangerous.
Trust.
Rovan exhaled slowly, shoulders easing for the first time in days.
Corin nodded once, hard.
Lethan swallowed, jaw tight, then lifted his head higher.
Captain Hale sheathed his sword without protest and stepped back.
He had not lost his life.
He had lost his claim.
Aren stood still, blade lowered, breath steady.
The system stirred.
Not loudly.
Not theatrically.
It unfolded with weight.
[Achievement Recognized: Authority Claimed Through Combat]
[Condition Met: Trust Earned From Allied Forces]
[Reward Granted]
— Swordsmanship (Medium Level)
— Swordsmanship (High Level)
The change was immediate.
Not strength.
Clarity.
Movements that had once required conscious correction now aligned naturally. Angles made sense without calculation. The weight of the blade felt more honest in his hand, as if it finally belonged there.
Aren did not smile.
He simply understood.
The Plains were quiet again.
But something had shifted.
And everyone standing there knew it.