The alcove was cold.

  Decian stood near the entrance, looking out at the Senate Chamber as it filled. The space looked cavernous from this low; tiered seating rising in concentric rings covered by the massive dome above. Thousands of Senators flowed into their positions like water finding its level.

  To his left, partially visible through the alcove's angled entrance, the Steelus section settled into their gray-bannered seats. Consular Houses claiming their places with the careful precision of political nobility.

  Ahead and to the right, he could see part of the Attrititan section — bone-white banners hanging between the tiers. The balance holders. The pragmatists. The ones who would witness what happened here and calculate accordingly.

  The Flamen section sat beyond his view, hidden by the alcove's angle. But he could hear them — voices carrying across the chamber, boots striking stone, the sound of his people assembling.

  Directly in front of him stood the trench arena. Twenty yards long, ten wide, carved into the Senate floor with a seven-foot-tall stone barrier around its edges. White marble stained darker in places; blood from Honor Duels fought over millennia, scrubbed clean but never quite erased. The stone remembered.

  Severus came to stand beside him. His father wore his Senate robes over light armor, the black sash of his station across his chest. Combat experience wrapped in political authority.

  Behind them, deeper in the alcove, the three champions prepared.

  Decian turned to watch.

  Julius moved to the center of the rear section, away from the entrance. He drew his twin sabers — both at once, the blades singing as they cleared the scabbards. He inspected the left blade first, turning it to catch the torchlight mounted on the alcove walls. Checking the edge by sight alone. Examining the fuller running down the center. Satisfied, he lowered it and brought up the right blade. Performing the same careful inspection. The fundamental relationship between warrior and steel displayed in full.

  He slid both blades back into their scabbards with ease. The sound echoed through the alcove.

  Julia followed, moving to the center as Julius stepped back. Her blade whispered free like a breath. She held it horizontally at eye level, examining the edge. Her thumb slid along its length with a careful precision, gauging the sharpness. The blade turned slowly as she rotated it in fluid motions. Light caught the fuller as it spun. She smiled slightly and sheathed it.

  Catus drew last. His single heavy saber came free with a deeper ring — made of a different steel, for a different purpose. He held it point-down, rotating her wrist, testing the balance through movement rather than sight. The saber cut through empty air in a slow arc. Once. Twice. He nodded once to himself and re-sheathed it.

  No words passed between them as they completed the ritual inspection.

  With the weapons checked, they began to assist one another with their kit.

  Julius approached Catus first. His hands moved to the older man's armor — checking straps, testing fittings. He found one loose at the shoulder and pulled it snug. Tested another at the waist. And moved to the cuirass, feeling for loose sections. Catus stood perfectly still, arms slightly raised, letting Julius work.

  When Julius finished, Catus moved to Julia. His hands were larger, less precise, but just as thorough. He checked her shoulder straps — both sides. Tested the cuirass mobility by pressing gently against her sword arm's range of motion. Finding a piece out of place, he made a small adjustment on her back. She shifted, testing it, and nodded.

  Julia crossed to her brother. She examined his armor with the efficiency of someone who'd done this a hundred times. Her fingers moved along his chest plate, testing each strap point. Finding nothing out of place, she hugged him briefly and stepped back.

  The ritual was complete — they stood together for a moment. Three champions. Decades of dueling experience between them. Each had been in this alcove before. But never with this much weight.

  Never with thirteen names pressing against their backs.

  Severus crossed the room toward them. His boots made no sound on the stone. He stopped before Julius first. Placed a hand on his son-in-law's shoulder. Looked him in the eye. Then to Catus. Same gesture. Same silence. Finally, to Julia. His hand rested on her shoulder for a single heartbeat.

  "You honor the House.”

  The champions nodded. No response needed. No response possible.

  Severus returned to stand beside Decian at the alcove entrance.

  Decian looked down at himself. The ceremonial armor felt wrong — thinner than his Tribune's cuirass with simple leather underneath rather than the standard aramid layer. Polished to a mirror finish, with the Accardi crest engraved across the chest in silver filigree. Decorative. Designed for appearance more than function. The purple sash at his waist was silk, not the practical cotton he wore in the field.

  But this was what the occasion demanded. Ceremony. Ritual.

  The weight in his chest had nothing to do with the armor.

  Lucius. The name sat heavily against his ribs. Marcellus. Helena. All thirteen of them. Every name taken from the Accardi ledger because of a Consular Legate. For a wasted timeline. For nothing that mattered.

  This was for them.

  Movement above the trench caught his eye. Two figures appeared.

  The Overseers.

  They wore blood-red robes that dragged across the marble, fabric pooling around their feet like spilled wine. Blackened iron death masks covered their faces — inhuman features carved with deliberate menace. The one on the left had horns curling back from the temples, sweeping up and back like a ram's. The one on the right wore a welded skeletal jaw that extended too far, teeth like daggers jutting from the metal.

  Both carried poleaxes. Seven and a half feet tall. Blades gleaming in the chamber's light. Hafts wrapped in red leather that looked dark, almost black, against the robes.

  They stopped at the edge of the trench. One on the Testa side. One on the Kasio side. Equidistant. Symmetrical. Instruments of Imperial law standing witness.

  The Senate started to quiet.

  The Overseer with the horned mask — standing on the Kasio side — raised his poleaxe and slammed the butt against the marble floor. The sound reverberated through the chamber like gunshots.

  CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.

  Every voice stopped. Every movement ceased. Nine thousand Senators sat watching in total silence.

  "I am Overseer Malachar." His voice carried without effort, amplified by the chamber's ancient acoustics. "My brother is Overseer Vrentis." He gestured toward the skeletal-masked figure across the trench. "We will act as officiants for this Blood-Debate under the authority of the Inferno and the Tri-Liturgical Senate."

  Vrentis spoke next. His voice was deeper, slower, each word deliberate. "We shall witness three duels this thirty-first day of Ignis. Victory will be granted to the House with the majority of victories. Any violations of Debate protocol will be met with immediate execution."

  The edges of their polaxes gleamed in their hands. That was not a symbolic threat.

  Malachar continued. "The first duel will commence in five minutes. House Testa fields the champion: Senator Julius Sulla Testa. House Kasio fields the champion: Senator Corvus Lavus Kasio."

  The names echoed through the chamber. Decian felt the weight shift. Five minutes until it began.

  Julius stepped forward from the alcove's rear. He stopped between Decian and Severus, looking out at the trench. His dueling armor was lighter than combat plate — designed for mobility, engraved with the Sulla crest across the chest.

  He looked at Decian. No words. Then, at Severus, and nodded to both as he moved to leave the alcove, pausing at the threshold to look out across the arena one more time.

  Across the trench, in the Kasio alcove, a figure emerged.

  Tall. Dark-haired. Wearing dueling armor similar to Julius' — light, mobile, decorative. Carrying the same pleasant smile and the same civilized mask.

  Senator Corvus.

  Julius' expression didn't change. He stepped out of the alcove and walked into the trench.

  Decian leaned against the entrance, his father beside him. Behind them, Catus and Julia positioned themselves to watch. The room fell silent.

  Above, the Senate leaned forward in their seats.

  The first duel was about to begin.

  He kept his focus on the Kasio alcove as Julius walked toward the center of the arena.

  Corvus approached from the opposite side. Julius stopped with ten feet between them.

  The Consular champion smiled. "Senator Sulla. I've been looking forward to this." His voice carried loud enough for the Senate to hear. "They say you're one of the best duelists in the Flamen Faction. Let's see if Strata steel is as sharp as Strata pride."

  Julius drew his sabers in response — the blades making no noise as they cleared the scabbards.

  Corvus' smile widened as he drew his own saber and dagger from his belt. "No words? Good. I prefer my opponents silent when they die."

  Still nothing from Julius. He settled into his combat stance — feet shoulder-width, knees slightly bent, both sabers held low and loose. Waiting.

  Above them, Overseer Malachar descended steps carved into the trench wall. His robes dragged across the marble in a wave as he moved to the center of the arena. Vrentis mirrored him from the opposite side; both Overseers now stood between the champions.

  Malachar raised his poleaxe. "Champions, fight with the honor of nobility." He looked at Julius. Then at Corvus. "BEGIN."

  The poleaxe dropped.

  Corvus moved first; explosive, aggressive. His saber flashed toward Julius's head in a diagonal slash. Julius caught it on his left blade, deflected it wide, and countered with his right. Steel sang. Corvus barely got his dagger up in time to parry.

  They separated, eyeing one another. The Senate was absolutely silent — thousands of people holding their breath.

  The Overseers ascended the steps, returning to the floor level above the trench. Watching from their positions at opposite edges.

  Corvus feinted left but went right. Julius read it, sidestepped, and cut low. Corvus jumped back. The blade whistled past his knee, missing by inches.

  "Fast. But not fast enough."

  He launched a combination, trying to overwhelm Julius with speed. Julius blocked the first strike and took the second on his armor. The blade screeched across his cuirass but didn't penetrate. He pivoted and drove both sabers toward Corvus' center mass.

  The Senator caught the right saber on his blade, but the other snuck into his guard and scored a shallow cut across his sword arm — first blood — red blooming through fabric beneath the armor gap.

  Corvus' eyes narrowed. The smile disappeared. "You'll pay for that, warborn mutt."

  The fight intensified. No more talking. They moved through the trench in controlled violence — advancing, retreating, circling. Julius fought with his two blades independently — one defending, one attacking, switching roles seamlessly. Corvus fought in the traditional Senate dueling style of saber and dagger, defensive off-hand.

  Decian watched from the alcove entrance. His brother-in-law moved with absolute precision. Every strike measured. Every defense calculated. This was what a mastery of dueling looked like. Not wild. Not rushed. Competent violence applied with surgical precision.

  Three minutes in, Julius cut him again — this time across the thigh. Corvus stumbled but recovered. Blood ran freely from both wounds now. Staining his decorative armor. Dripping onto the stone.

  "YIELD YOU BASTARD," Julius roared. "Drop your blades."

  "Fuck you."

  Corvus charged. Reckless now. Desperate. He was losing and knew it. The saber came in a wild overhead strike — all his remaining strength behind it. Julius caught it between his blades in an X-guard, twisted, and ripped Corvus' saber out of his hand. It clattered across the floor, spinning away.

  Corvus broke Julius’ nose with a nasty jab and lunged with his dagger. Close now. Inside Julius' guard. The dagger aimed for the neckline above the curiass — going for the kill despite being disarmed. Despite being cut twice. Despite losing.

  Julius dropped his right saber while blood rushed over his mouth. Caught Corvus' wrist with his now-free hand. And slashed across the man’s throat with his left blade as he yanked the dagger away from his own.

  The edge opened Corvus' throat in a single, clean stroke.

  Blood sprayed across Julius' cuirass — hot, arterial, painting his armor in red. Corvus' eyes went wide. He tried to speak. Nothing came out but wet gurgling. His single free hand went to his throat, trying to stop the bleeding. It was futile. The blood poured between his fingers, flooding onto the white marble beneath them.

  Julius released his wrist. Corvus collapsed to his knees. Swayed for a moment. Then fell forward. Face-down, into his own blood.

  A Consular Senator lay dead on the Senate floor. Decian felt the reality of it settle over the room. This wasn't an Honor Duel gone wrong. This was a Blood-Debate fought to its totality. Legal. Sanctioned. Witnessed by the Empire.

  A historic moment that hadn't been seen in centuries.

  The Steelus section erupted — Senators surging to their feet, screaming across the chamber.

  "MURDERER!”

  “STRATA SAVAGES!"

  “HANG HIM!”

  The Flamen roared back. Decian couldn't see them from his angle, but he could hear his people's anger.

  "HE AIMED TO KILL!”

  “YIELD OR DIE!"

  “STRATA STEEL WILL CLAIM ALL OF YOU!”

  Ceremonial Guard poured in from their post along the walls — crimson cloaks flowing, sabers drawn. They formed lines between the sections, creating a wall of flesh steel. More Guard appeared on the stairs between tiers, preventing Senators from descending toward the trench.

  Overseer Malachar raised his poleaxe and slammed the butt against marble. Once. Twice. Three times.

  "ORDER! THE SENATE WILL MAINTAIN ORDER!"

  It took time. The shouting continued — accusations hurled across sections, insults screamed, decades of bitter Consular-Strata tension boiling over. The Guard held their positions, sabers ready but not raised.

  Slowly, the Senate quieted. Senators remained standing but stopped shouting. The Guard stayed in the stairways.

  Julius stood in the center of the trench, blood dripping from his armor and blades. Waiting. His expression was blank. Professional. He'd killed before — in war, in Honor Duels, in personal disputes settled through steel.

  Overseer Vrentis's voice cut through the remaining noise. "The first duel is concluded. Victory goes to House Testa. Senator Lavus has fallen in battle."

  The words echoed through the chamber. Final. Absolute.

  "A ten-minute recess will be held before the second duel."

  Julius walked back to the alcove. Each step measured. Controlled. He didn't clean his blades — didn't wipe the blood from his face.

  Severus met him at the entrance. Placed a hand on his shoulder briefly but did not speak.

  Julius stepped into the alcove. Catus was already there with a cloth and water. Julia stood beside him.

  "Well fought," Decian said quietly.

  Julius nodded once. That was all. He let Catus wipe some of the blood from his face while Julia checked him for damage.

  "He wished for death," she said.

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  "He did." Julius's voice was steady. Calm. "So I granted it."

  Across the trench, the Kasio alcove was in turmoil. Decian could see figures moving — animated gestures, raised voices barely contained. Their lead champion was dead.

  Dead on white marble in minutes.

  In the trench, Kasio servants emerged — moving quickly to drag Corvus' body away. They worked efficiently, clearly prepared for this possibility. The body disappeared through a service entrance Decian hadn't noticed before. But the blood remained. A dark stain that spread across the stone. Growing darker as it dried.

  The Senate settled back down restlessly. The Ceremonial Guard withdrew to their post along the walls. The chamber fell into tense silence.

  House Testa had come here to answer for thirteen lives. The Senate was witnessing exactly what that meant.

  Decian returned to his position at the alcove entrance beside his father, watching the Kasio side. Their voices carried clearly across the trench now — arguments, accusations, bickering.

  In the arena, servants scrubbed at the marble where Corvus had fallen. The stain remained despite their efforts. Permanent.

  Overseer Malachar raised his poleaxe and slammed it against the stone.

  CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.

  "The second duel will now be fought. House Testa fields the champion: Centurion Julia Sulla Testa. House Kasio fields the champion: Senator Orion Lavus Kasio."

  Behind him, Julia stood and drew her saber. Checking it one final time before sliding it back into her scabbard. She looked at Julius.

  "You left quite a mess."

  "He left me no choice."

  She turned to Catus. "Don’t get too comfortable, you’re next."

  Catus chuckled. “I’m looking forward to it."

  Julia stopped beside Decian at the entrance. Looking out at the trench — at the bloodstain, at the Senate watching.

  "Keep him alive if you can manage it.”

  "I’ll try, but no promises, cousin."

  "Good enough for me."

  She walked out.

  The second Kasio champion emerged from across the arena. Younger than Corvus. EmberBorn mark at his throat. Wearing less ornate dueling armor and carrying only a single saber.

  They met at the center. Ten feet apart.

  Orion's face betrayed him — uncertainty and barely controlled fear were painted over the neutral mask he normally carried. His relative was dead. The Steelus section had spent the recess tearing itself apart over the fact. He knew what losing meant.

  Neither spoke. Each settled into their stance. His guard was high, defensive. Hers was lower, waiting.

  The Overseers descended. Taking positions between them. Malachar raised his poleaxe in preparation.

  "Champions, fight with the honor of nobility."

  "BEGIN."

  Orion came in fast. Trying to keep her on the defensive before she could settle. His blade went high, aimed at her shoulder.

  Julia dodged left. Letting it pass in the wind. Caught his recovery on her saber and drove him back two steps with the counter.

  He reset. Eyes wider now.

  The Overseers climbed back out. Watching from above.

  Orion tried again. Cautious this time, testing. Their blades met twice, steel ringing across the chamber. Decian could see it already — Julia was better. Only slightly. But enough to keep the Kasio man cautious.

  She pressed. Not overwhelming him, forcing him to work, making every parry cost something. He was competent and Senate-trained clearly. Julia had learned to kill in the trenches. It wasn’t a fair fight from the start.

  A minute in, she opened his forearm — a shallow cut, but enough to make him fight harder.

  Two minutes in, he caught her shoulder. Finding a gap in her armor and slicing into the meat underneath. Blood ran down her arm. She didn't slow.

  He tried a combination — four strikes flying in a tight pattern, trying to break her rhythm.

  Julia blocked all four and came forward. Aggressive now. Releasing a flurry of her own that drove Orion backward across the trench. His defense started to collapse.

  Her blade screeched across his cuirass. He countered. She caught it, twisted, and kicked his knee.

  Orion went down.

  One knee on stone. His sword came up in a wild combination of slashes, trying to keep distance between them. It was too late. Julia side-stepped his attacks and pressed her saber against his throat, drawing a thin trickle of blood.

  "Yield."

  Decian watched him look up at her. Then across at the Kasio alcove. Then over his shoulder at the Steelus section. The screaming hadn't stopped. Now the Consular senators were arguing amongst themselves fully.

  Orion’s hand opened. The saber fell.

  "I yield." He whispered.

  The Steelus section exploded.

  "COWARD!"

  "SPINELESS FUCK!"

  "DIE WITH PRIDE!"

  Julia stepped back, sheathing her blade. Orion stayed down a moment before standing reluctantly. Face blank. Alive but humiliated.

  Overseer Malachar's voice cut through the screaming. "The second duel is concluded. Yield has been accepted. Victory goes to House Testa."

  The Steelus section kept roaring. At Orion. At Kasio leadership. At themselves. Their unity was gone.

  Julia walked back. Blood soaked her arm. Severus met her with a cloth. She muttered a word of thanks and pressed it to the wound.

  "Well fought," Decian said.

  "He was competent, but Corvus’ death spooked him." She glanced at Julius. "I’ll take this over—” she gestured with her chin, “—That."

  Julius let a ghost of a smile touch his lips.

  "How deep?" Catus asked.

  "I’ll need stitches, but I can move it fine."

  Decian turned back to the Kasio alcove. Senators and representatives were clustered together. Arguing in loud tones, making violent gestures towards the Testa area.

  CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.

  "A five-minute recess will be held before the third duel."

  He walked back into the alcove and approached his father. Testa had already won. Whatever desperate play Kasio was planning, they needed to be prepared.

  Decian stood with his family in the alcove, looking across the trench.

  "They're panicking."

  Severus nodded.

  "Which makes them dangerous." His father seemed to read his mind. "Desperate Houses make stupid decisions."

  Across the trench, a Kasio Senator broke from the group and walked toward where Overseer Malachar stood at the arena's edge. The man approached and spoke quietly. Malachar's horned mask tilted slightly as he squatted down to listen.

  The Overseer straightened and moved toward the stairs.

  He descended the steps into the Kasio alcove, his blood-red robes dragging as he disappeared from view. The Senate noticed immediately. Voices rose throughout the chamber — confusion rippling across the tiers.

  Malachar emerged a minute later and climbed back to the floor level. His poleaxe came up and slammed against the stone three times.

  "There has been an update to the final duel. House Kasio wishes to invoke substitution rights under Article Seven of Senate Law. Their third champion will be replaced."

  The Senate howled in outrage.

  Substitution was an ancient legal right going back to the founding of the Senate — yet it was seen as a desperate measure in the modern day, even cowardly. An admission that your original champion wasn't good enough to finish what had been started.

  The Steelus section tore itself apart, different factions ripping into each other over the decision. The Flamen screamed their approval, watching Consular nobility fracture before their eyes.

  "Legate Alexander Macius Kasio will act as substitute."

  The chamber went deathly quiet before chaos returned tenfold.

  A serving Legate substituting into a Blood-Debate was unprecedented in any known records. The Steelus section surged to its feet, screaming objections across the chamber. The Flamen screamed back just as loud. Attrititan Senators shouted between sections, trying to make sense of what they were witnessing. The Ceremonial Guard moved into position, forming barriers to keep representatives from jumping the dividers and going to blows.

  Decian felt his stomach tighten as understanding settled over him. That fucking bastard.

  A figure emerged from the other side.

  He wore ceremonial armor plated in white and yellow gold, with the purple and charcoal sash of his rank around his waist. Campaign medals were displayed across his chest in neat rows. The armor was decorative, designed for appearance, but the man beneath it moved like a career officer. Decades of command were written in every action.

  Legate Kasio walked to the center of the trench and stopped, back perfectly straight at parade rest. He turned his head toward the Testa alcove, his eyes finding Decian's across the distance. The expression on his face was cold, controlled, with no fear visible — just unadulterated hatred and the certainty of a man who’d killed in the mud himself.

  Behind Decian, Julius spoke. "Catus, kill him."

  Decian didn't turn. Couldn't turn. His eyes locked onto the Legate's, and something fundamental shifted inside of him. This wasn't about the Debate anymore.

  "No."

  Severus looked at him intently.

  "I'm substituting."

  "Decian—"

  "I'm substituting." His voice came quiet and final, leaving no room for argument. “He’s mine."

  His father studied him for a long moment, searching his face. Whatever he saw there made him understand that it would be pointless to dispute the decision. Some things couldn't be redirected or reasoned away.

  "Very well."

  Decian turned to face the others. His champions looked back, their faces set.

  "Tell them."

  Severus moved to the entrance and raised his hand. Overseer Vrentis saw it immediately and moved towards the Testa aclove.

  "House Testa wishes to invoke substitution rights as well. Tribune Testa will fight in the last duel."

  The Senate lost its mind completely, putting it together before the announcement could even be made.

  Pandemonium swept through the chamber — the Scion versus the Legate. Personal vendetta made flesh — the man who'd led the charge against the man who'd ordered it. Thirteen Accardi lives hung between them in the space of twenty yards. The Flamen section was already chanting, voices rising in unison. "TES-TA! TES-TA! TES-TA!"

  Vrentis raised his poleaxe and slammed it against the stone. It took five full strikes before the chamber quieted enough for him to speak.

  "Substitution rights have been called by House Testa. The third duel shall be fought between Tribune Decian Accardi Testa and Legate Alexander Macius Kasio."

  The words echoed through the chamber.

  Decian still faced his family.

  Severus stepped close, his voice came quiet but carried absolute certainty. "Kill him."

  "I want him alive." Decian met his father's eyes. "But I won’t put myself at risk if I can’t contain him."

  Catus moved forward, his expression serious. "He's good, Decian. Not like the other blue bloods, he’s been trained the same as you. Don't underestimate him."

  "Understood."

  Julia stepped up beside him. "He favors his right side. An old wound, probably. He'll commit harder on that flank."

  "Noted."

  Severus gripped his shoulder. "Thirteen names, Decian. Make him answer for them all.” A rare hint of emotion gripped his father's voice. “Make him answer for my brother.”

  "The bastard will answer with his blood."

  He walked out of the alcove.

  The Senate's noise became distant as he moved — a symphony that meant nothing. His focus narrowed to the trench ahead, the marble beneath his boots, and the man standing at its center. Decian slowly walked to meet him, feeling the now familiar weight of thousands of eyes pressing down on him from every tier. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the oath-breaker ahead.

  Alexander watched him approach with the same cold assessment, one career officer measuring another across the distance between them.

  Decian stopped five paces away before drawing his saber. "This is another foolish mistake born of your pride, Legate." The last word came out with venom, loud enough for the Senate to hear.

  The Legate drew his own sword, the blade singing a clear note as it cleared the scabbard. His off-hand went to his chest, ripping the medals off and throwing them to the side before pulling a dagger free from his belt. The edge of each blade caught the light as he settled into his stance. He said nothing in response.

  The Overseers descended into the trench and took position between them. Malachar's horned mask turned toward each warrior in turn.

  "Champions, fight with the honor of nobility."

  His poleaxe rose.

  "BEGI—"

  Alexander moved before the word finished.

  His saber came in low, feinting, reversing into a flicking slash aimed at Decian's throat in the last moment. No testing. No ceremony. Just raw, immediate killing intent that made Decian's blade come up instinctively to catch the strike. Steel screamed between them, the force driving him back a step. He countered immediately, bringing his blade down in a chop aimed at the Legate's shoulder. The older man sidestepped, stabbing his dagger toward Decian's exposed side in the same motion. Decian twisted away, the blade whispering past his ribs, missing by inches.

  They separated and began circling each other like predators. The Overseers climbed back out of the trench, taking positions above to watch.

  Alexander came in again, striking out in rapid succession — high, low, middle. Decian blocked the first two and took the third on his bracer. The blade screeched across, going wide. He drove forward in response, his saber aimed at the other man's hip. The legate caught it on his dagger and deflected it to the side before countering with a stab at Decian's shoulder.

  The saber's edge bit through the leather between his cuirass and spaulder; pain flared white-hot. Decian felt blood run down his arm beneath the plate. He pressed anyway, his blade coming around in a tight arc that caught the Legate across the ribs.

  They broke apart again, both bleeding now.

  The Senate wailed around them, but Decian couldn't hear individual voices anymore. Just noise. Background sounds that meant nothing in the moment. Alexander adjusted his stance slightly, favoring his right side just as Julia had warned.

  Decian went left.

  His saber came in fast, exploiting the angle. The Legate blocked in time but had to shift his weight awkwardly to do it. Decian pressed forward, utilizing the advantage, driving him back a handful of steps before his edge opened a shallow cut along Alexander's sword arm. More blood flowed. His opponent riposted immediately, the dagger coming up in a quick thrust towards Decian's face. Too close. He jerked his head back, receiving a thin line across the jaw instead.

  They were evenly matched. Every strike answered. Every opening utilized to its fullest extent. Neither giving ground they didn't have to give.

  He couldn't control this.

  Legate Kasio wasn't here for broken honor. He was here to kill — to erase the man who'd testified against him, to salvage his House’s reputation through violence.

  He pressed forward with renewed aggression, his saber a storm of steel — four strikes, five, six, testing Decian's defense and finding weak points. Looking for ways to exploit them. Decian blocked and parried, giving ground as his shoulder wound bled freely and made his grip slippery. The cut on his jaw stung with every movement, and he could feel blood running down his neck beneath the armor.

  The Legate feinted left and went right, aiming his saber in a diagonal slash at Decian's face. Decian tried to deflect it, but wasn’t fast enough. The blade caught him across the right cheek and cut deep — deep enough he felt it scrape bone. The tip nearly took his eye, missing by a fraction of an inch as his head jerked back at the last possible moment.

  Pain exploded across his face. Blinding and immediate.

  Blood spurted from the wound. A hot, violent spray that went directly into his eye. His vision went red and blurred as he brought his hand up to clear it. Alexander’s dagger was already coming for him. A thrust aimed at the vital point exposed by his raised arm.

  Instinct took over.

  Pure animalistic instinct that came from years in the trenches. From hundreds of kills. From countless moments where hesitation meant death. Decian's saber came up, catching the thrust. Steel screamed between them, and he twisted, using the Legate's momentum to deflect the blade past his ribs.

  He stopped thinking.

  His body moved on its own as he drove forward with his saber coming around in a vicious slash. The Legate blocked, but Decian was already moving to the next strike. And the next. No technique now. No measured exchanges or tactical consideration. Just aggression. Violence. The desperate fury of a man fighting for his life without the luxury of restraint.

  Alexander matched him perfectly.

  Both stopped trying to defend entirely. The duel had devolved into a deathmatch. Just steel meeting steel in a tempest that filled the trench with piercing sound. Blades screeching against each other. Boots striking marble. Each man breathing hard through clenched teeth. Decian's vision was still compromised — blood kept flying into his eye with each new movement. But he could see enough. Enough to track movement through the haze. Enough to kill.

  His blade found the Legate's shoulder and bit into flesh. Alexander grunted but didn't slow, his dagger coming up to land another wound on Decian’s sword arm. The cut opened wide, and Decian felt blood run down to his wrist, making his grip even worse.

  They circled each other again, both bleeding heavily now. Both exhausted as the initial adrenaline faded into raw endurance. Three minutes became four. Four became five. Alexander's saber opened a new cut across Decian's ribs — shallow but burning. Decian's counter hit the Legate deeper in the same rib wound from before; his breathing changed. Hitched now. Something was broken beneath the armor.

  Decian's legs shook beneath him. The blood loss was catching up — his shoulder wound, his face, his arms, his side. Everything was on fire. But he couldn't stop. Couldn't slow down. The moment he did, he died.

  Alexander wasn’t in much better of a state; his shoulder hung lower now. The crack in his armor was leaking steadily. His arms were cut in half a dozen places.

  On the next exchange, he overextended.

  Just slightly. Age and exhaustion catching up with him. His thrust went a fraction too far forward. Decian sidestepped and let the blade pass, then grabbed the Legate's sword arm with both hands and forced him to the wall. He slammed the arm against the stone barrier once. Twice. The saber clattered to marble and spun away across stone.

  Alexander aimed his dagger for a thrust at Decian's side.

  Decian dropped his own saber, both hands free now, and caught the Legate's wrist as the dagger came in, stopping it inches from his ribs. The fucker was strong — military service showing in every muscle. The blade kept coming slowly, inexorably, the point pressing against Decian's cuirass with increasing pressure. Decian let go with his left hand and gripped his opponent's collar, pulling him in fast for a head butt.

  Alexander's head snapped back as they grappled chest to chest.

  Decian forced the blade up. Pushing it away from his ribs. The Legate resisted, keeping them locked together in a battle of pure strength. Decian changed direction, pulling the dagger low with all his strength and reversing the angle. Driving it up and under the cuirass.

  Into the gut.

  The blade punched deep, hitting something vital. Decian felt it — the give, the wet resistance, the older man's body jerking against his.

  He let go and stepped back.

  The Legate slumped backward against the wall before sliding down completely. His free hand went to the dagger buried in his stomach. Dark, arterial blood spread fast across the white and gold.

  Decian knelt beside the dying man and leaned in close. Close enough that only Alexander could hear him now.

  "I wanted you alive." His voice came hoarse and raw from exertion. "I wanted you to watch your House fall. I wanted them to kill you."

  The Legate's eyes were already dimming, but something flickered there. Understanding. Maybe defiance in those final moments. Decian gripped the dagger handle where it was still buried in his gut and twisted hard.

  The body jerked violently. Blood poured from his mouth, and a hand came up weakly, trying to stop it. Alexander stared at Decian — right into his eyes with what little awareness remained — and spat. Blood sprayed across Decian's face, hot and thick. Then his eyes went empty.

  Gone.

  Decian stayed kneeling for a moment longer, gazing at the body.

  He stood slowly and turned, looking for his saber. It was lying on the marble ten feet away. He walked to it and bent down to pick it up, tried to wipe the blade clean, but the steel wouldn't clear. He gave up and held it loosely at his side, waiting for the duel to be called.

  The Senate had gone completely silent. Absorbing what they witnessed.

  Overseer Malachar's voice cut through the quiet. "Legate Kasio has fallen in battle. The Blood-Debate is decided in favor of House Testa."

  The words echoed through the chamber with finality.

  Decian walked toward the steps. His vision swam from blood loss and exhaustion, making everything feel distant and unreal as he climbed them. At the top, Severus reached for him and steadied him without speaking. Holding his son's arm as they turned together to face the chamber. Julius fell in on Decian's right. Catus and Julia moved up behind them.

  They walked across the Senate floor together.

  Blood dripped with every step Decian took. From his face. From his arm. From a dozen cuts that hadn't stopped bleeding. Leaving a trail that followed them across the marble.

  The Flamen section erupted into sound. Thousands of voices rising in unison. His people.

  "TES-TA! TES-TA! TES-TA!"

  "STRA-TA! STRA-TA! STRA-TA!"

  Decian stopped walking.

  He was near the main atrium steps now, before the exit, and he turned slowly to face the Flamen section. He could see them properly now, rows upon rows of Senators standing in their seats. Crimson banners hanging between the tiers. House Corvinus. House Ferrus. House Decima. And thousands more. All of them watching him in this moment.

  Decian raised his saber and brought it to his chest in a formal salute. Blood dripping from the blade.

  The Flamen section returned it as one.

  Three thousand fists striking armor in perfect unison. CRACK. The sound rolled through the chamber like thunder, repeating over and over as they repeated the motion. The acknowledgment of service. Of blood spilled. Of victory earned through steel and sacrifice.

  Decian held the salute for three heartbeats and turned to leave the chamber.

  His family walked together through the bronze doors and into the Emberhall corridors beyond. Blood continued to drip with every step. Staff members pressed themselves against walls as they passed, staring openly. Office representatives stopped mid-conversation to watch. Whispers followed them through the marble halls like a wave spreading outward from their passage.

  Behind them, distant now but still audible, the Senate Chamber descended back into chaos as the finality of the Blood-Debate sank in.