Hohenfels

Arne sat in the Castellan’s office, nervously rubbing his temples.

“Why do you think Maximilian insisted on a public match, Uncle?”

“That is an excellent question, but not one we will be able to answer until after the fact,” Lord Hartmut replied sagely.

“I realize that, but knowing that they’re planning something is… disconcerting.”

“They are always planning something, Arnold. It is their nature.”

‘Well, if that isn’t God’s own truth…’ Unfortunately, it did nothing to reassure him – quite the opposite, actually.

“How should I handle the duel now? Perhaps it would be better if–”

“Are you running away?” Lord Hartmut interrupted. His grandfatherly expression had been supplanted by something much colder. Anger. Disappointment.

Arne barely managed not to flinch away. He was indeed looking for excuses. Fighting in the arena, in front of what was guaranteed to be a huge audience, while being unable to wear his amulet… He dreaded it with every fiber of his being.

He knew that pulling back now was not an option. His honor would be tarnished forever, and with it the reputation of House Hohenfels. But…

“It’s your gift, isn’t it?” the old warrior asked, now with a more neutral mien. Displeasure and compassion warred within his restrained aura.

Arne nodded, unable to muster a dignified reply.

Lord Hartmut leaned back in his chair and sighed. “You remind me of my grandfather.”

Arne’s great-great-grandfather Sigismund, the second son of a count from the North, had once laid claim to a tall rock in the Eastern boglands after repelling the Khan’s hordes in the name of the Emperor. He named it ‘Hohenfels’, built a castle on it, and stubbornly held it for such a long time that he was finally granted the title of Margrave.

“He was a great man. Conqueror, strategist, warrior… These words could never adequately describe his sheer presence. His gift was many times stronger than even your father’s, and he used it masterfully.”

“...He did?” Arne asked hesitantly. It was clear that Lord Harmut was going somewhere with this, but he was not in the mood for theatrics.

The Castellan leaned forward again, fixing Arne with an intense look.

“I suspect your gift is much like his. He once described standing in front of a crowd as thousands of needles pressing into his skin, turning even the simple act of breathing into a torturous ordeal.”

That was not quite Arne’s experience, but it was similar enough to hit home.

“How did he… deal with it?”

“There is a window in the Margrave’s study, back home at Hohenfels castle. It looks over the inner bailey and deep into the bog beyond. Do you know which one I’m talking about?”

“Yes. It is my favorite view,” Arne admitted, despite his irritation with yet another tangent.

“That makes things easier,” Hartmut smiled. “And it shows that you are even more similar to Margrave Sigismund than I thought. You see, it was his favorite view as well – and more than that.”

He paused dramatically, causing Arne’s impatience to become almost intolerable.

“He taught your grandfather a trick for handling his gift. I doubt he ever understood it,” Hartmut chuckled, “but you might, so I shall pass it on to you in his stead.”

By now, Arne was biting down on his tongue to avoid interrupting the old man’s drawn out monologue.

“If you find yourself facing a crowd, simply imagine them standing down in the bailey, while you look down on them from up there.”

‘That’s it? That’s the grand reveal?’ Arne felt like he had just wasted ten minutes of his life. It sounded like a less vulgar version of ‘just pretend they’re all naked’.

“...Thank you for sharing your wisdom, Uncle.”

“You’re welcome. Off to bed with you now. You’ll need the energy tomorrow.”

= = = = =

Arne trudged towards the colosseum like a criminal on his way to the gallows. His worst fears were confirmed – news about the duel had spread like wildfire, and the plaza was teeming with curious nobles heading towards the arena.

Next to him, Friedrich radiated guilt and regret like a particularly depressing bonfire.

“I’m sorry, Arne,” he murmured for the tenth time. “I didn’t realize.”

“What’s done is done. Nobody could have expected that they would make it a public spectacle.”

If anything, the fault lay with Arne. Sending Friedrich instead of someone with political acumen had been a risk, but at the time, it had been worth it compared to the only appropriate alternative – owing Matthias yet another large favor.

In hindsight, Arne could have forced the Falkenstein prince into the position, had he realized his involvement earlier. But it was too late now, and such considerations would only distract him from the tribulation at hand.

Already, the indistinct auras of onlookers bore down on his mind. He had left his amulet at home to slowly get accustomed to the pressure instead of having it all crash down on him once he took it off, but he regretted that decision more with every reluctant step he took. As always, the banesilver saber on his hip begged to be drawn, but he would have to leave it on the side. The ornate smallsword his maternal uncle had gifted him would see combat before the saber did.

The side entrance of the colosseum, reserved for official occasions, offered an all-too-brief reprieve.

Arne dropped off his coat and saber on a bench at the entrance of the arena proper, now dressed in a shirt and simple pants as the duel code demanded. Prince Ludwig entered from the opposite side, his poise remarkable despite the panic in his aura. Next to him, Prince Maximilian seemed deeply worried and nervous.

The mingled auras of the audience made it difficult for Arne to identify any undercurrents, but he was reasonably sure that there was an undercurrent of anticipation in Maximilian’s aura, something Arne was not very happy about.

Curiosity. Excitement. He tried to tune out the dozens upon dozens of spectators, not even willing to look up. Instead, he did his best to seem calm, collected, and dignified.

= = = = =

Klara watched with minimal interest as the seconds inspected the other party’s weapons. Her standing afforded her a seat close to the action, and her reputation ensured that the surrounding seats remained empty.

The outcome of the duel was already determined. Ludwig’s humiliation was nothing but a formality, even with the blessing the combatants were currently receiving from one of the priests she had seen at the cathedral. It would help Ludwig survive the duel and maybe make him a little faster, but it did not improve his odds of actually winning.

She idly wondered why this fight was held here in the first place. She had expected the matter to be resolved this behind closed doors to avoid public humiliation of their heir, but she would not complain about the opportunity to see a Sonnenstein writhe in pain – even if it was by the hands of a Hohenfels.

“Good morning, Princess Klara. May I take this seat?”

Klara gave a reflexive nod, surprised that anyone would approach her in public.

It took her a moment to identify the newcomer as the young woman who had inserted herself into her argument with Arnold back at the soirée. ‘Christina? …No, that’s the colorful one. Katharina, maybe?’

Whatever her name was, she had dramatically eased up on the makeup. Even her clothes and hairstyle seemed less gaudy than before. Not so much as to look like a completely different person, but enough to be difficult to recognize at a glance. It suited her much better.

“Thank you,” the young woman smiled, sitting down elegantly next to Klara. “Since I have failed to introduce myself appropriately the last time we met: My name is Katharina von Silberthal, and I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Highness.”

‘Hah, I was right.’ “...Likewise. You have my gratitude for saving my life,” Klara said, hoping that her regret did not show on her face. Katharina may have inadvertently caused Eisenberg to lose Erzfeld, but that did not take away from the debt Klara owed her.

“I am glad I could be of help,” the young lady replied with a brilliant smile. Klara found herself pleasantly surprised – she had expected a lot more dancing around the topic, more faux-denial, more silkling games.

“If there is anything you need, tell me. I shall do everything in my power to repay this debt.”

Once again, she defied Klara’s expectations by answering without missing a beat. “In that case: Would you be willing to join me for tea every now and then?”

“W-well, that is– uhm,” the dumbfounded princess replied. What was going on? Nobody ever asked her something like that! Especially not sophisticated Western ladies!

Katharina bowed her head in apology. “Please forgive my inappropriate request, Your Highness.”

“Ah, no, I mean– I’ll be there. But is that not way too small a favor…?”

“Not at all, Your Highness. I’m afraid I have ulterior motives,” Katharina admitted. “I’m sure you are aware of my association with Arnold von Hohenfels, yes?”

‘Oh. Right.’ The reason Katharina had helped save her life was because she was accompanying ‘Prince’ Arnold.

“I am,” Klara admitted, still a little confused. “Which makes me wonder: Why would you want me to join you for tea? Would that not jeopardize your position?”

Silklings might not have minded duplicitous friends, but Arnold certainly was not one of them, despite his many failings. Which meant that Katharina was either about to make an enemy out of him, or something was afoot.

“It would not,” she confidently claimed. “I want to forge connections with the major powers in the East, and Prince Arnold is aware and supportive of that plan.”

‘He is?’ “Why?”

Katharina smiled lightly. “I suppose that is a good topic for our first tea–”

She flinched when Prince Maximilian’s voice rang out through the colosseum.

“Allez, Messieurs!”

Both women turned their attention to the arena, where Arnold and Ludwig had taken up their positions and were now circling each other. Ludwig’s movements were hesitant, almost fearful, while Arnold moved with the deadly grace of a trained fighter, his cold eyes fixed on his opponent. Anyone with a basic understanding of combat knew how this engagement would end.

Klara glanced over at Katharina. She was focused on the combatants, but her expression was calm and only mildly interested. Even so, Klara noticed her hands clutching the edge of her seat.

A clash of blades, a cry of pain, a groan from the audience. Arnold had landed a clean stab in Ludwig’s shoulder – first blood.

Then another lunge, this time aimed at the Sonnenstein prince’s upper arm. Second blood.

It seemed like Arnold was not too keen on drawing this matter out. It was an execution, but at least it would be quick. Significantly less humiliating than anything she would have put Ludwig through were she in his position.

Ludwig launched a desperate attack of his own, but was swiftly parried and punished with a stab to the right lung. Third blood – it was over. He sunk to the ground, clutching his chest.

There was little reaction from the audience, who had expected something more engaging.

Klara turned to Katharina again to continue their conversation, but stopped when she noticed Katharina’s hands. While her expression remained neutral, her knuckles had gone white. What was she worried about? The duel was over, and its result had been clear from the start.

Down in the arena, Prince Ludwig was carried off to receive medical treatment, and Arnold turned to leave. His steps were urgent, almost as if he was fleeing – why?

When he reached the arena’s exit, he handed his blade to his brutish second and picked up his coat. From the corner of her eye, Klara saw Katharina relax.

Then, a powerful aura swept over the colosseum, silencing all conversations.

“Is this the honor of House Hohenfels? Provoking a duel just to humiliate the heir of a virtuous house out of spite and envy?”

Leonhardt von Wessen, future Margrave of Westmark, had risen from his seat and grimly stared down into the arena. His voice was stilted, as if he had rehearsed the line beforehand.

“Shame on you, Lord Arnold.”

His words hung in the silence like a sword from the ceiling. Arnold slowly placed his coat back on the bench.

“Just leave”, came a whispered plea from Klara’s side. “Please…”

Friedrich dropped the smallsword and drew his weapon in fury. “How DARE you–”

His angry shout was cut off by another burst of aura, much stronger than Leonhardt’s. It was cold and oppressive, its intensity causing multiple spectators to faint on the spot. Even Klara had to brace against it, barely managing to keep it from suppressing her own.

Prince Arnold had drawn his saber and caressed the blank blade with his left hand.

“So that’s how it is,” he said, his quiet, distant voice ringing in Klara’s ears as if he had shouted. He turned around to face Leonhardt and the audience, his expression a mask of disdain.

“What are you waiting for? Come and die for your masters, Lion of the West.”