The Golden Duke’s Forbidden Lover

The Blessed Blade and the Sovereign Shadow

The portal swung open, and an instant later, a brilliant flash of silver steel thrust directly toward Ares’s face.

Clang—

The longsword clattered against the flagstones. Ares, his heart hammering against his ribs, stared down at the blade that had come within a mere half-inch of piercing his eye, sweating cold in silent trepidation.

"My word! Who might you be? You didn't even shriek in terror," a crisp, youthful voice chimed with sudden delight.

The youth, fully clad in padded fencing whites, stripped away his iron mesh mask to reveal a countenance remarkably similar to Vincent’s. Having just ceased his rigorous exertion, Victor Valerius’s soft, boyish cheeks were flushed a vibrant crimson. He possessed a pair of sharp, prominent canines, and his words carried a slight, breathless lisp. He appeared quite self-conscious of this minor impediment, consciously pursing his lips as he spoke. Like his twin, a pair of intricate braids descended from his temples.

Harley remained unperturbed. "Master Victor, this is the citadel's newest guest." He repeated the precise explanation he had given Vincent.

Upon learning that his instruction was to commence on the morrow, Victor’s buoyant expression instantly collapsed. "So..." he drew out the syllable, eyeing Ares with profound skepticism, "You have come to teach me to read... books?"

Ares replied with enduring patience, "More accurately, literature and rhetoric. Should it please you, I am equally prepared to instruct you in the historical disciplines. Furthermore, I possess a modest acquaintance with the thaumaturgic sciences and alchemy, and can resolve your inquiries in those fields, should you proffer them."

Victor’s face puckered like a steamed bun, looking thoroughly allergic to scholarship. "Ugh. I shall never proffer such pedantic questions. Aside from devouring tomes as thick as masonry, what else can you accomplish?" He crossed his arms and began pacing around Ares, his posture mirroring a spectator asking a street busker if he could ride a monocycle in addition to tossing colored balls. The inherent arrogance of the Golden House was manifest in his every stride.

Ares stood tall and elegant, bearing the scrutiny with quiet dignity. "The power of erudition is not confined merely to bludgeoning an adversary with a heavy volume; its capabilities are far more vast. If you afford me the opportunity, I shall demonstrate its utility."

"I harbor no desire to watch you read," Victor countered, his eyes darting as a sly grin crept across his features. "Aha! Since you proclaim 'knowledge' to be so formidable, you can surely demonstrate its might through the art of fence." He tapped his sword. "A wager, then: a single bout. Whosoever first plants his blade upon the other's breast shall claim the laurels."

Harley’s brow furrowed. "Master Victor, this course is highly improper."

Victor shrugged, throwing a wicked smirk toward Ares. "If you are white-livered, you need only confess it. I shall merely brand you a craven who dares not heft steel, and nothing more." He issued his haughty challenge without a flicker of conscience regarding his unfair advantage.

An ordinary pedant, prideful of his letters and having devoted his existence to quiet research, would have been driven to a furious apoplexy by such insolence. Yet Ares merely shook his head with serene composure. "Master Victor, such a contest poses a significant risk of injury to yourself. For the preservation of your safety, I must decline."

"Ha! A pretty speech, yet it merely cloaks your terror." Swift as a viper, Victor flicked his blade upward, aiming directly at Ares’s breast. He fully expected the scholar to blanch like a frightened maiden, but before the point could traverse more than a few inches, the iron blade erupted with a sudden, brilliant manifestation of white light, freezing entirely in midair.

"What sorcery is this?!"

Amidst the radiant glow, a long, slender hand clasped the forte of the weapon. Ares’s forefinger traced the cold iron edge up to the hilt, and with absolute focus, he intoned the sacred liturgy etched into the pommel, cadence by measured cadence: "... Let it be thus; Amazing Grace, Heaven protect the world—"

The words had scarcely left his lips when the hilt grew abruptly scalding, forcing Victor to release his grip. The boy’s eyes widened in astonishment. "What manner of hex have you cast upon my blade?" He had never heard of an instantaneous cantrip capable of arresting a weapon’s momentum and disarming its wielder.

Ares offered a gentle smile. "This is no sorcery, Master Victor, but rather the inherent virtue of your own weapon. Your sword is an ancient relic once wielded against the Shadow Fiends, bearing the solemn benediction of the late Archbishop Kingsley Meek. Consequently, when the liturgy inscribed upon the iron is vocalized, the covenant takes effect, enhancing the blade's resilience and keenness. Concurrently, this sacred power constrains the steel; it can never be brought to bear against a righteous soul. It is a blade incapable of harming the innocent. No doubt His Grace foresaw such an eventuality and deliberately selected this piece for your training."

Victor looked from the fallen sword to Ares. "A mere deception. My uncle never disclosed such details. How came you by this intelligence?" Since his infatuation with the martial arts began, Victor frequented the salle daily, tending to his sword with meticulous devotion. He had noted the script upon the fuller, but had dismissed it as mere ornamental engraving.

Ares shook his head. "Such is the utility of knowledge. By the mere aspect of a weapon, one may discern its provenance and the history twined around it, thereby employing it correctly. To be flawless, a gentleman must be as adept with the pen as he is with the sword."

Victor’s face flushed crimson. He was precisely the sort who cultivated his brawn while neglecting his letters.

Harley consulted his pocket watch. "Master Victor, the hour grows late. You must perform your ablutions and retire to your chambers."

"Very well," Victor grumbled, still pouting, though he attempted no further dangerous maneuvers. He sheathed the sword and took his leave.