There’s a brief pause as the other Heirs glance at each other. Predictably, Kyrian is first to speak, flashing a confident grin.

  “Enter it? I’m planning on winning it. I’ve been training for this since I could walk. I’m not here to participate – I’m here to win!”

  “We’ve only known about the competition for a few months,” Elyra points out mildly, sipping from her glance without looking up.

  “Semantics.” Kyrian waves the objection away carelessly. “ It’s no different than running a territory – just a messier one. Proving we can lead is what this is about.”

  Jareon scoffs.

  “Spoken like someone who’s never spent a night outside his manor walls. You think colonising a continent is just estate management with worse weather?”

  Kyrian leans forward in his seat with a snarl on his face – he’s definitely far more expressive than any other noble I’ve met so far. Maybe it’s his age. A bubble of amusement forms in my chest. Or maybe it’s just his ego.

  “And what are your winning qualities? By all accounts, there’s little sand and no sand mites on the Lost Continent. You’ll have to try actual diplomacy.”

  I see a muscle tick in Jareon’s jaw, but when he replies, his voice is calm – too calm.

  “At least I’ve had some experience of diplomacy. Rainpoint isn’t exactly known for its…sophistication.”

  Kyrian makes a sound that’s halfway between a growl and a snort. For a moment, I think he might lunge across the table.

  “Kyrian, control yourself.” Elyra’s voice snaps like ice cracking. Cold, composed, and utterly commanding. “This isn’t the time or place.” Her gaze flicks to the nearby tables, and I realise more than one group of nobles is pretending not to listen. I glance casually in the other direction – there are more nobles there, clearly agog to hear of the latest gossip about the Great Heirs. Both rivals bristle for a moment longer, eyeing each other like cockerels about to fight. “Save it for the Continent,” Elyra adds dryly. “You’ll have all the opportunities you could want there."

  At that, the two heirs finally subside. Kyrian smirks.

  “When I’m picked as Crown heir, you’ll regret not currying my favour earlier, Flameform.”

  Jareon just scoffs at that.

  “That’ll happen when a cave wraith takes up knitting.” At Elyra’s sharp look, he subsides into his plate.

  We eat in strained silence for a while. The food is exquisite, even if it’s not completely to my tastes. But the tension thickens every bite and makes it almost inedible. I find myself missing the comfortable dinners with my Bound in the other world.

  It’s not until the plates are taken away, and the second course has been brought that the conversation resumes, still on the same topic.

  “Torrent and Flameform are clearly joining the competition. What of Goldmine?” Elarion asks off-handedly, as if he’s disinterested in the response.

  “I have not entered it,” Elyra answers with similar disinterest. “Aunt Clarissa does not believe it to be our sort of game.”

  Elarion hums.

  “No surprise. Goldmine excels at waiting until the winner’s clear before declaring.”

  “Watch your words,” Elyra warns.

  Elarion gives her a sardonic look, raising one of his brows.

  “Why? You’ll challenge me?”

  Elyra’s eyes flicker to rest on me briefly before she returns her attention to Elarion.

  “Goldmine has a policy of remaining neutral – as you well know. And, like everyone here, your House has benefited from that policy in times of struggle.”

  The sound Elarion makes is not very polite – history there, I wonder?

  “Indeed – neutral until the wind shifts and there is something to be gained for you in picking a side.”

  “Careful now, Forestheart,” warns Jareon, his tone lazy but his eyes are sharp. He too darts a look at me. “You’re letting the seams show.” Elarion glances at me. His mouth presses into a thin line. There’s something raw behind it – anger, or maybe shame. Hard to read.

  “Look who’s giving etiquette lessons,” Kyrian sneers. “Weren’t you the one who turned a vineyard into a crater? Or was it a wheat field?”

  “Yes, adolescence – it’s a phase. Most people grow out of it.” Jareon shoots him a sugary smile. “I suppose you’ll get there eventually."

  “I’m perfectly capable of controlling myself,” Kyrian grinds out. Jareon’s grin turns toothy.

  “I’m sure the fishing boats you destroyed in a tantrum a tenday ago would agree.”

  Kyrian looks like he’s ready to chew metal and spit nails, but after looking briefly towards the high table, he subsides and calms. I follow his gaze and meet Lord Torrent’s eyes. He sneers slightly as he sees me, then pointedly looks away.

  “Youth runs faster,” Kyrian says with the air of someone quoting a proverb, “while old helven grow soft and fat by the hearth.” Shifting his malice to a less aggressive target, his eyes dig into Elarion. “Tell me Forestheart, what command are you waiting for? Or have you received it already?”

  Elarion sneers faintly. More glances flick between the two of us, the weight of unspoken knowledge pressing on me.

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  I reach out to Nicholas before I’m tripped up further.

  Ah… yes, the situation with Forestheart, he says quickly. I’m remiss for not telling you earlier. Since I’m not certain that you will be able to control your reaction appropriately for our location, suffice it to say that House Forestheart is subordinate to Titanbend due to actions they took against our House in the past. It is something of an open secret – all the Great Houses know it; many other nobles too.

  So Kyrian’s implying Elarion needs Titanbend’s permission to join the competition?

  Just so, Nicholas confirms, before withdrawing – I get the sense that he’s busy. The conversation around me seems to have moved on a bit. Kyrian and Jareon are still sniping at each other with Elyra occasionally playing referee, but they seem to have shifted topics – apparently, those two Houses have a lot of history between them.

  I’m left with Elarion’s gaze heavy on me. And a growing certainty I don’t like the picture forming. Nicholas has told me why Titanbend is feared. The ability to Dominate humans is part of it – and while nobles are usually off-limits, there are exceptions. Self-defence is one. Given Nicholas’ wariness about my reaction, I’m increasingly certain that my guesses are close to the mark. Which certainly puts a different spin on things and leaves me uncertain of what to say to Elarion.

  The servants arrive to sweep away the second course and replace it with the third – an elegant ballet of silver and porcelain that I barely notice. I’ve eaten mechanically, barely tasting anything. This dinner is endless.

  “The tale of the heirless lord calling his heir from a distant world – it does sound like something out of a fable, doesn’t it?” Elyra’s voice is smooth, but there’s something sharp underneath the silk. She’s turned her attention to me, drawing me away from the awkward silence I’ve been nursing beside Elarion, though I’m not sure the trade is much of an improvement.

  “I suppose it does,” I agree neutrally, doing my best not to give my wariness or confusion away.

  “It must be so disorientating for you – the transition between worlds. Or is this one much like the one you left behind?” I can’t help but give a snort of amusement at that.

  “Hardly. No, my original world had no Classes, no magic.” The words fall out before I can stop them. The flicker of surprise across Elyra’s face tells me Nicholas kept that detail close – or if he didn’t, the Great Lords and Ladies haven’t told their heirs.

  “No Classes or magic?” Elyra’s brows lift fractionally, eyes flicking to the others around the table. Elarion leans forward, his brow slightly creased.

  “And Lord Titanbend believes you to be ready for the competition? Having only received your Class a short time ago?” Elarion’s disbelief is edged with… concern? If his House’s fortunes are tied to Titanbend’s, it makes sense. And this competition is a big deal.

  I nearly rush to reassure him. Nearly. But I stop and think first – I’m trying to cultivate that useful habit a bit more.

  “I technically received my Class a year ago,” I inform him. “And I’ve been training heavily since then.” Surviving the samurans’ world counts as training, right?

  Kyrian scoffs loudly. Apparently, I’ve just become more interesting than exchanging barbs with Jareon.

  “You only got your Class a year ago? What are you even doing in the competition – you’ll be lucky just to get to the Lost Continent.”

  I hesitate. Part of me says that I shouldn't say any more, but weakness can make me a target. And that’s just as dangerous as them knowing too much. At least two of these heirs will be my rivals – I don’t want them thinking I’m easy prey. But I don’t want to tip my hand too much either.

  In the end, I shrug nonchalantly, trying to use the hand gesture I’ve seen Nicholas make many times rather than my usual shoulder shrug.

  “I spent the last year building and defending a village of indigenous people,” I say. “The first task was eliminating a Tier Four threat. Alone.” It’s true – and vague enough to sound impressive without giving anything useful away. Even better, if anyone else can consult the Records of Ancestry – or bribe the Genealogist to give information out – they’ll be able to confirm my words.

  Sure enough, expressions shift. Surprise. Then calculation. Kyrian leans back, his eyes scanning me again – no Skill that I can sense, just pure, old-fashioned reassessment.

  “And how many noble alliances did you form with these ‘indigenous people’?” Jareon asks, half mocking, half curious.

  “None,” I reply simply. “They had no nobles.” The Pathwalkers and Warriors don’t count, I figure, even if Windy sometimes acted like one. “But there was diplomacy. And when diplomacy failed...consequences followed.” I keep my tone light, but the weight of the warning lands. I see it in their eyes.

  There’s a moment of silence, long and thick. Then Elyra moves to speak.

  “Well,” she murmurs. “This competition just became far more interesting.”

  *****

  He gazes up at the table many times during the course of the meal. The food, always delicious and made by the best of chefs, is tasteless in his mouth. He glances further up at the high table, and sees the warning eyes of his patron, previously so encouraging, now cold as ice. He looks away.

  Waiting until the dessert course is done is painful. When it arrives, it is too soon and not soon enough at the same time. Indecision wars within him. Is this the right choice? Is this the best thing he can do for his House? He has a case, one that he could press in the courts. He is unlikely to receive much satisfaction there – and the rancour it will win him from a Great House would not make whatever victory he might earn worth it, but it is the safer option. If he takes justice into his own hands, he might win greatly – but he can also lose even more.

  He knows the reputation of the House, the penalties they can incur. But his patron has assured him that it is unlikely the pup will win. He’s new to this world and new to his Class. He’s a peasant, fighting against a trained noble. He won’t win.

  But what if he does?

  He watches from afar as his target speaks with the others of his undeserved rank, outrage sparking within him. To see some commoner of no renown sitting among those who bear the highest mantles in their land? To know that Lord Titanbend passed over every noble to select some stranger from a completely different world as his heir? It is intolerable.

  No wonder he has the manners of a trough-munching, mud-splashing itan – he was probably born and raised among them! To let such behaviour go unremarked? Treated with the respect that a true Great Heir would receive? Insupportable!

  It is that thought which pushes him to his feet as soon as the servants clear away the last of the dessert. His is barely touched – his nerves prevented him from eating more than a mouthful.

  He doesn’t deserve it! he thinks as he strides purposefully along the tables towards his goal. Anyone else would have been more worthy of the honour! He’s not even from this world!

  His feet seem to have wings and move by themselves – he arrives at the circular table before he even realises he’s close.

  The five heirs sitting there look at him in some surprise – and question. He deliberately avoids looking at his own liege lady’s heir – how can he be accused of ignoring an instruction if he does not know it?

  Fearing that someone will rise and stop him before he has said the binding words, he withdraws his sword from his Inventory. Gasps ring out around; he hurries to move before the guards come to arrest him for withdrawing a weapon in the Golden Hall – there is but one permissible reason for that. He must make sure that they realise he is exercising that privilege.

  Turning the weapon first to point at the ceiling, he then twists the blade so it lies diagonally across his chest. Not an attack, but a move that can easily flow into one.

  “Heir Titanbend, I, Valence, Heir of House Fell, declare that you have insulted and wronged me and, by extension, my House. I challenge you to an honour duel! Do you dare to meet me in the field? Or are you as honourless as your birth?”

  It is not the elegant and masterful moment that he imagined it to be at the beginning of the meal, before his doubts drifted in and poisoned his thoughts, but it is done.

  The bones are cast.

  here!

  here!

  here!

  here