Fated Eclipse: The Illegitimate Princess And Her Alpha Suitors

Chapter 354: An Unexpected Victory

Evander’s gaze was hard, his eyes fixed upon the arena floor where Count Greystone still stood, his jaw tight with barely concealed fury. The count’s aggression had been unmistakable. His refusal to concede had been a clear violation of the unspoken rules that governed such competitions.

Alistair’s expression was equally grim, his usual easy smile nowhere to be seen. Beside him, Benedict’s jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscles in his neck stood out. Julian’s hands were curled into fists at his sides.

They had been so focused on his preparation that they had forgotten about themselves. They had been so intent on ensuring he survived his own match that they had not considered the possibility that Lucian might be deliberately targeted.

Evander was almost certain that Lucian had incurred the King’s wrath, or perhaps the Queen’s—or possibly both.

That was the only explanation he could find for the way Count Greystone had fought.

The count had not simply been trying to win.

He had been trying to humiliate Lucian. To injure him. To make a statement.

Evander’s fists clenched at the thought.

But he released them almost immediately, schooling his features into careful neutrality. There was no advantage in displaying his anger.

Not here.

Not now.

Benedict, however, was having considerably more difficulty concealing his emotions. His face was flushed, his jaw tight, and his eyes burned with barely restrained fury.

Julian appeared unsettled as well. He kept glancing towards the royal dais, where the Queen sat with an expression of studied impassivity, and then back towards the arena, as though searching for something that might explain what he had just witnessed.

”That was obvious foul play,” he said quietly.

No one contradicted him.

They all knew it had been.

Alistair turned towards Julian.

”Do not concern yourself with it,” he said, his voice low and steady. ”Your attention ought to remain upon your own match.”

Julian frowned, clearly wanting to argue, but he knew Alistair was right.

He could not afford to be distracted.

He nodded slowly, forcing himself to look away from the dais.

Evander turned towards Benedict.

”There is naught you can do about it at present, big man,” he said flatly. ”So get that expression off your face.”

Benedict scowled.

”I am perfectly capable of controlling my expression.”

”You are perfectly capable of making a scene,” Evander replied, interrupting him. ”And that will help no one.”

Benedict opened his mouth to argue, but Evander merely raised an eyebrow.

The two stared at one another for a long moment.

At last, Benedict sighed.

”Very well.”

He looked away, though the tension remained plainly visible in his posture.

Just then, Lucian approached them.

Despite the cut upon his forearm, his manner remained composed. He appeared almost entirely unaffected by what had just occurred.

Alistair spoke before he could say anything.

”Have that injury seen to.”

Lucian frowned.

”What injury?”

Alistair stared at him.

”That injury.”

He pointed directly at Lucian’s arm.

Lucian glanced down.

Only then did he seem to notice the thin line of blood running along his forearm.

”It is nothing,” he said dismissively. ”It shall heal.”

”It shall heal considerably faster if you permit someone to clean it,” Alistair replied.

Lucian gave him a look.

”I am quite capable of surviving a scratch.”

Julian sighed.

”Of course you are.”

There was little time left for further discussion.

Julian turned and made his way towards the weapons rack, his steps measured and deliberate.

Marquess Blackvale had already chosen his weapon.

A broadsword.

The blade gleamed beneath the grey afternoon light, and the marquess held it with an air of confidence that Julian found somewhat unsettling. He wore the same sort of self-assured expression Count Greystone had worn before his own match.

Julian took a slow breath.

He tightened his fingers around the hilt of his sword.

It still felt unfamiliar.

But Benedict had trained him.

He could do this.

At least, he hoped he could.

The two competitors walked towards the centre of the arena.

Julian took his position and then the bell rang.

Marquess Blackvale did not attack as Julian thought he would. Instead, the marquess began to circle him.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

His boots scraped softly against the stone as he moved, his sword held ready at his side.

Julian frowned.

What was he doing?

The crowd seemed to notice the peculiar beginning as well. The usual murmurs quietened until the arena was filled with an expectant silence.

The marquess continued circling.

Julian remained still.

He remembered Benedict’s instructions.

Do not rush into a direct exchange.

Let the opponent make the first move.

Wait.

The marquess suddenly lunged.

His sword swept towards Julian with considerable speed.

Julian reacted instinctively, raising his own blade to block it.

The force of the collision jarred his arms making them tremble.

But then he remembered Benedict’s training.

His attacks had been worse.

Much worse.

Julian had survived those.

He could survive this.

He stepped back and the marquess attacked again.

Julian moved aside.

The blade passed within inches of him.

Another attack followed.

Julian evaded once more.

He did not attempt to overpower the marquess.

He simply moved.

Step.

Turn.

Evade.

Wait.

The marquess’s frustration became increasingly obvious.

His attacks grew heavier and less precise. His breathing became laboured, and his movements began to lose the careful control they had possessed at the beginning of the match.

Julian continued to wait.

He watched.

He remembered what Benedict had taught him.

Do not fight his strength.

Let him waste it.

So Julian did exactly that.

He waited for an opening.

And, sooner than he expected, it came.

The marquess swung with too much force.

His blade cut through the space where Julian had stood only a moment earlier.

The marquess’s momentum carried him forward and his foot slipped.

For one bewildered second, the man seemed to lose all sense of what his body was doing.

Then he fell.

His backside struck the stone with a heavy thud.

His sword slipped from his hand and clattered across the arena floor.

Julian stared.

The marquess stared back.

Neither seemed quite certain what had just happened.

Seconds passed and then instinct took over.

Julian moved forward, kicked the marquess’s sword farther away, and brought his own blade to rest against the man’s neck.

The marquess blinked up at him.

”I concede,” he said solemnly.

Seven minutes and two seconds.

The silence persisted for a few more seconds.

Then the arena erupted.

Cheers rose from the stands.

The commoners were the loudest, their voices filling the air with whistles and delighted shouts.

Julian stood frozen in the centre of the arena, his sword still raised.

He stared down at the marquess.

Then he looked towards his companions.

His expression was one of utter disbelief.

Benedict’s eyes were wide.

”What just happened?” he asked quietly.

Evander and Alistair exchanged a glance.

And burst into laughter.

”Julian just won,” Alistair said.

Even Lucian could not help but laugh.