Truthfully, it hadn't taken Lucien all that long to recognize what was going on here.
The Inquisition had accepted his invitation to attend the Grand Tourney, something he'd known at once would appeal most of all to the fire-haired elf in their midst. He hadn't quite counted on the fact that it already appealed so much that she'd made plans to enter. Long before he'd sent them the letter, most likely.
That she was never among the crowds at any of the events she'd have enjoyed was suspicious, but it was possibleâhowever unlikelyâthat she'd simply not come at all. His suspicion was all but confirmed when a mysterious distant relative of MichĂ€el's had entered the tournament, a woman of strikingly-small dimensions but no lack of ferocity. Seeing her fight in the melee had removed any lingering traces of doubt from his mind. He'd fought beside her. She'd saved his life.
No one forgot what that looked like.
Impartial as he ought to have been, then, he'd found his fingers tightening on the armrests of his seat every time she looked to be in danger, teeth clenching as she twisted out of the way of a blow, a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach when he realized partway through that she'd started to favor her left leg, just a little.
He could admit if only to himself that his heart was in his throat during her fight with Ser Blancheflor. That young man had everything Khari hadn't: a family with a history of distinguished service, a natural knack for the arts and the build to facilitate that knack, not to mention access to the finest instructors at the finest military academy in Thedas.
For all that, she beat him.
The moment of relief was short-lived, his muscles relaxing for not more than a second before her helm was torn away, her secret exposed without doubt or preamble to all those looking on. For moments, there was only stunned silence, the spectators processing the incongruity of what they were seeing: a face lined with charcoal ink, the patterns spiky, almost like the delicate skeleton of a bird. Ears with points sharp and long enough to rise prominently amidst the loose red curls that had escaped her plait.
An elf.
An elf had fooled them all.
As if on cue, the murmurs and outrage began, the members of the crowd most affronted making themselves known at loud volume. Already, the nobility closest to Lucien's own place were looking to him, clearly expecting him to do something. But for the moment, he remained silent.
He wanted to see what she would do, with all that poisonous scrutiny turned upon her.
It wasn't clear that she knew what to do, exactly. For a while, she seemed preoccupied just getting her bearings. Then she almost looked concerned that Ser Blancheflor was going to try attacking her again in spite of his obvious disqualification. He did not, though he didn't leave the ring, either. Then she looked at the officials, and then glanced up towards Lucien's box, where her friends were as well.
A sidelong glimpse next to him revealed Michaël and Lady Marceline looking not at all surprised in the least. Marceline watched with piqued interest through pursed lips, while Michaël leaned back in his seat, arms crossed and a slight smirk upon his lips. He stole a glance toward Lucien for a moment before returning his gaze back to Khari. If anything, the man looked proud. Unsurprising, considering his obvious role in the situation.
By this point, the discontent in the crowd had swelled; no small number of slurs were hurled amongst the generalized shouting, and the oddly-impassive expression on Khari's face morphed into an unsurprised frown. Squaring her shoulders, she marched to where her sword lay in the dirt and picked it up, scooping Blancheflor's one-hander up as well. That, she extended towards him, hilt-first.
It took several long, drawn-out seconds for the gesture to earn a response, but it did: the young chevalier reached for the blade and accepted it back, sliding it home into its sheath with a decisive click. With a subtle shake of his head, he finally left the ring.
Unfortunately, not everyone was going to take this unexpected turn of events quite so well on the chin.
"Arrest her." The order, clear enough to cut through the rest of the noise, issued from one of the officiants. "She has entered without sanction and dishonored the crown."
Lucien thought that was rather something that he ought to be deciding, but there was no mistaking the illegality part. Several of the chevaliers remaining ringside moved forward to do just that. Pursing his lips, he was clearing his throat to stop them when Khari herself reacted.
âDishonor?" She sounded oddly incredulous. Taking a step back, she pointed her blade at the approaching knights. âYou can call me whatever the hell you want. Shit, you can even arrest me. I came here prepared for that. But don't you dareâ" she spat the wordââsay I've dishonored anything. I fought by every single one of your rules, gave everything I had to every single match I had, and I won your melee. Fair and square." She tilted her chin up defiantly, still holding her adversaries at bay with the edge of her sword.
âIf you think I've dishonored you, then you damn well better say it like you mean it. And you better be willing to fight me for it the way chevaliers are supposed to." She waved the blade to gesture at the crowd, then stabbed it hard into the sand. Her lips pulled back in a snarl.
âIf any damn one of you has anything to say about my honor, you can say it to my face, and then you can say it to my sword! What's it gonna be?"
The smile crept onto Lucien's face almost without him noticing. But it was there, he realized, laughing under his breath when the crowd erupted again. He had to note, however, that the men moving to restrain her had stopped. She'd hit the right nerve, and he wasn't quite sure she knew it. Now that honor had been staked so explicitly in the matter, the rules changed.
And he knew just what he was going to do about it.
Lucien stood, pulling in a deep breath and shouting to be heard over the tumult. "Enough!"
He was almost accustomed to the immediacy with which he was obeyed.
Letting his eyes fall squarely on Khari, he spoke to her in lieu of the rest. "You claim your honor is untainted. But your actions have flown in the face of the rules of the Grand Tourney. You fabricated an identity to enter, competed under false pretenses, and now claim victory. The honor you impugn is mine, and I accept your challenge."
The quiet that settled then was charged with tension. Shock, probably, from a good number of those present. Khari felt it, too, if the way she gaped at him was any indication, blinking as though she couldn't quite believe what was in front of her eyes. âYouâIâbut you're theâyou're the Emperor! I can't fight you! ...Can I?" The tone of her voice oscillated wildly between disbelief, horror, and something like anticipation, there at the end.
Lucien fought the urge to laugh. It would hardly fit the gravitas of the moment, and there was a certain weight to it. She'd made a bold move in doing this. But unless it was handled very carefully, she might not have a chance to make another like it. It was true that he could declare her absolved right here and now, but what he could not do was guarantee her safety after that, or that her claim to the win here would be taken at all seriously by anyone.
And little as they'd been able to speak, Lucien still understood that legitimacy was what she wanted most of all.
So he schooled his features, letting himself look down at her in the way he'd been taught an Emperor should. "You no longer have a choice," he replied, narrowing his eyes. "As the challenged, the right to choose the terms is mine. We fight with swords, to first blood. Take one hour to rest and be healed, and wear no armor when you return."
Lucien spent his own hour in consultation with a few people he thought might be able to help with the situation, explaining his plan first to his father and Violette. If the situation got out of hand, their own authority and the respect they had would be instrumental in making it go the way he intended it to. He could only hope that Khari herself would be cooperative, but it was going to be interesting without being able to say much to her at all.
Precisely fifty-five minutes later, he'd divested himself of all the cumbersome marks of status, including the plainer circlet he wore in advance of his official crowning, and stood in the dirt of the ring, Everburn held loosely in one hand.
Khari was on time for the appointed hour as well, the platemail gone. It left her even more strikingly small, particularly compared to someone like Lucien. The sword she carried seemed to be enchanted as well, the blade tinged an eerie green. It looked to be a little lighter than his own, but only a little: it was shorter, but shaped a bit more stoutly.
She came to a stop a polite eight feet or so from where he stood, licking her lips in a way that seemed nervous. The curiosity was clear from this close, a sure sign that she didn't really understand what he was up to. Unsurprisingly, she was willing enough to fight anyway.
Glancing only once at the crowd, she bowed to him at the waist. âDeath before dishonor."
She meant thatâhe had no doubt. Lucien returned the bow. "Death before dishonor," he echoed, pitching the ritual words a little more warmly. He set his stance, anchoring his feet to the ground in long-familiar motions, and leveled Everburn outwards. She liked playing the aggressor, and that was entirely fine by him.
In that, she didn't disappoint. Whatever reservations she might have had about this duel did not slow her motions, and she covered the ground between them swiftly, bringing her sword around in a heavy horizontal stroke. She swung like she meant to kill him with itâhalfway wasn't even on the table.
Exactly how he wanted. Though she was quick, experience had long since taught Lucien where to place his sword to deflect an all-out strike like that, and Everburn was in the path of her sword in plenty of time, parrying with a deft hit to the middle of it. He took a swipe at her in retaliation while she recovered, a little more defensive in his own tactics. He wanted to get a sense of her before he committed to any sort of strategy, and just watching her fight others was nowhere near the same as fighting her himself.
Khari reacted quickly, bending to the side so that the strike met air instead of flesh, jumping back and resetting herself only a moment before she launched forward again. In a few ways, her techniques were textbook, ripped from the same pages he'd studied at the Academie. But for the most part, they were much less conventional, no doubt blending elements from each of those who'd taught her something over the foundational realities of her build and her personal strengths.
It was certainly a unique combination. Little time passed before Lucien was thoroughly enjoying himself, working to anticipate her actions and guide his own accordingly. She was much stronger than she looked, with an impressive quickness and an utterly astounding tenacityâpart of him wondered if she even felt things like fatigue or what had to have been lingering pains from her earlier fights, healing or no. She didn't hold back, and that was goodâwhat he needed to do here was make it abundantly clear to everyone watching just how good she was. For that, he was going to need everything she had.
Slowly, Lucien asserted control over the flow of the match, adjusting his guard to bait her into attacking from one angle rather than another, letting his slower, steadier footwork guide their trajectory over the field with concessions both forced and volunteered. She was goodâfar better than anyone he'd sparred in a while. But she was also coming off a week of near-constant physical exertion, and young, and still developing into the warrior she would become. His reflexes were no longer quite so sharp as hers, but they didn't need to be. He could check his blows, exert as little effort as possible, defend rather than attackâall of which he did, slowly increasing the pressure on her with more ripostes and retaliations.
He pushed, trying to get as much out of her as she was still able to give.
At first, she responded in exactly the ways he expected: as his defense made increasing demands of her, she poured ever more effort into her attacks, each hitting harder and faster than the one that came before. She kept herself light on her feet, springy and pliable, lacking armor to weigh her down in the slightest.
But gradually, it seemed, she caught on, frustration beginning to seep into the edges of her form. She let her sword scrape a second too long against Everburn, left herself a little too open going in for a low slash. When he didn't take full advantage of the lapse, her next hit was a lunge that brought her in close.
âYou gonna fight me or not, Lucien?" She had the sense to growl it at him instead of shouting it, but the point was clear enough.
"Trust me," he replied, low and urgent. He fully intended to fight herâbut not until the point had been made. Not until everyone in the crowd could see what he did not doubt.
He brought his sword around to force her back, then went on the attack for the first time since the match had begun, sweeping low for her legs.
Khari scowled, but she hardly had time to complain when he attacked, skittering backwards with a quick series of steps, then throwing herself back into it, their blades clanging heavily once, twice, thrice before she disengaged and went high instead, aiming for his chest.
She nearly caught him off-guard; Lucien's block was hastier that time, and his face broke into a temporary smile. Thatâthat was it. That was exactly what she needed to do. Abandoning the slow build, he retaliated in kind, aiming an aggressive overhead swing for her shoulder.
Khari ducked and rolled, the blade catching on the neckline of her tunic and just barely missing her skin. If anything, it goaded her, and the moment she was back on her feet, she was swinging again, focus sharp and conversation entirely abandoned.
The clash grew more pitched after that; Lucien stopped checking his blows and providing openings because she genuinely pushed him to it. He could tell she was tiring, but to her credit she wasn't showing it much. His rear foot slid back in the dirt after a particularly hard parry, one that forced him to grit his teeth or risk biting his tongue. Only the advantage of sheer physical strength hauled her off him before she could swing again and hit this time.
When the second attempt came in anyway, Lucien saw his opportunity. He blocked, taking a hard step forward and circling his arm. Everburn's guard caught the blade of her sword at just the wrong angle, and the strength in Lucien's arms tore the weapon free from her grip. Angling it upwards, he pressed the blade lightly into the juncture of her neck and shoulder, drawing a thin trickle of blood from her skin. It hissed where it touched the blade, but did not burn her flesh.
Lucien exhaled a haggard breath, drawing in another deep one immediately after, his lungs working like a bellows. Despite the chill in the air, his hair was sticking to the back of his neck, dampened by sweat. With a slight smile just obvious enough for Khari to detect, he pulled the sword away.
"I'm satisfied." He said it loud enough to be heard by the onlookers as well. "You fought with the honor you claimed. Anyone who wishes to deny that may deny mine as well."
That was the thing about duels: if both combatants acquitted themselves well, they could both leave with honor intact, no matter who won and who lost.
Considering that to challenge her victory here was now to challenge him as well, he was hardly surprised that no one took him up on it.
"The assessors will tabulate the scores as normal," he continued. "But the record will change: the competitor who won the melee is Kharisanna Istimaethoriel." He reached over to grip her shoulder and give it a brief squeeze, speaking much more softly.
"And history shall not forget it."
Khari's eyes welled; she swallowed thickly and met his own. Her mouth opened and closed several times as she struggled to speak. She'd taken a half-step forward before she stopped herself, probably remembering that hugging him all of a sudden would look quite strange.
She found her voice, at least, speaking in a choked whisper. âThank you. Thank you, Lucien."
"I didn't do anything worth mentioning," he replied. "That was entirely you."
The Inquisition had accepted his invitation to attend the Grand Tourney, something he'd known at once would appeal most of all to the fire-haired elf in their midst. He hadn't quite counted on the fact that it already appealed so much that she'd made plans to enter. Long before he'd sent them the letter, most likely.
That she was never among the crowds at any of the events she'd have enjoyed was suspicious, but it was possibleâhowever unlikelyâthat she'd simply not come at all. His suspicion was all but confirmed when a mysterious distant relative of MichĂ€el's had entered the tournament, a woman of strikingly-small dimensions but no lack of ferocity. Seeing her fight in the melee had removed any lingering traces of doubt from his mind. He'd fought beside her. She'd saved his life.
No one forgot what that looked like.
Impartial as he ought to have been, then, he'd found his fingers tightening on the armrests of his seat every time she looked to be in danger, teeth clenching as she twisted out of the way of a blow, a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach when he realized partway through that she'd started to favor her left leg, just a little.
He could admit if only to himself that his heart was in his throat during her fight with Ser Blancheflor. That young man had everything Khari hadn't: a family with a history of distinguished service, a natural knack for the arts and the build to facilitate that knack, not to mention access to the finest instructors at the finest military academy in Thedas.
For all that, she beat him.
The moment of relief was short-lived, his muscles relaxing for not more than a second before her helm was torn away, her secret exposed without doubt or preamble to all those looking on. For moments, there was only stunned silence, the spectators processing the incongruity of what they were seeing: a face lined with charcoal ink, the patterns spiky, almost like the delicate skeleton of a bird. Ears with points sharp and long enough to rise prominently amidst the loose red curls that had escaped her plait.
An elf.
An elf had fooled them all.
As if on cue, the murmurs and outrage began, the members of the crowd most affronted making themselves known at loud volume. Already, the nobility closest to Lucien's own place were looking to him, clearly expecting him to do something. But for the moment, he remained silent.
He wanted to see what she would do, with all that poisonous scrutiny turned upon her.
It wasn't clear that she knew what to do, exactly. For a while, she seemed preoccupied just getting her bearings. Then she almost looked concerned that Ser Blancheflor was going to try attacking her again in spite of his obvious disqualification. He did not, though he didn't leave the ring, either. Then she looked at the officials, and then glanced up towards Lucien's box, where her friends were as well.
A sidelong glimpse next to him revealed Michaël and Lady Marceline looking not at all surprised in the least. Marceline watched with piqued interest through pursed lips, while Michaël leaned back in his seat, arms crossed and a slight smirk upon his lips. He stole a glance toward Lucien for a moment before returning his gaze back to Khari. If anything, the man looked proud. Unsurprising, considering his obvious role in the situation.
By this point, the discontent in the crowd had swelled; no small number of slurs were hurled amongst the generalized shouting, and the oddly-impassive expression on Khari's face morphed into an unsurprised frown. Squaring her shoulders, she marched to where her sword lay in the dirt and picked it up, scooping Blancheflor's one-hander up as well. That, she extended towards him, hilt-first.
It took several long, drawn-out seconds for the gesture to earn a response, but it did: the young chevalier reached for the blade and accepted it back, sliding it home into its sheath with a decisive click. With a subtle shake of his head, he finally left the ring.
Unfortunately, not everyone was going to take this unexpected turn of events quite so well on the chin.
"Arrest her." The order, clear enough to cut through the rest of the noise, issued from one of the officiants. "She has entered without sanction and dishonored the crown."
Lucien thought that was rather something that he ought to be deciding, but there was no mistaking the illegality part. Several of the chevaliers remaining ringside moved forward to do just that. Pursing his lips, he was clearing his throat to stop them when Khari herself reacted.
âDishonor?" She sounded oddly incredulous. Taking a step back, she pointed her blade at the approaching knights. âYou can call me whatever the hell you want. Shit, you can even arrest me. I came here prepared for that. But don't you dareâ" she spat the wordââsay I've dishonored anything. I fought by every single one of your rules, gave everything I had to every single match I had, and I won your melee. Fair and square." She tilted her chin up defiantly, still holding her adversaries at bay with the edge of her sword.
âIf you think I've dishonored you, then you damn well better say it like you mean it. And you better be willing to fight me for it the way chevaliers are supposed to." She waved the blade to gesture at the crowd, then stabbed it hard into the sand. Her lips pulled back in a snarl.
âIf any damn one of you has anything to say about my honor, you can say it to my face, and then you can say it to my sword! What's it gonna be?"
The smile crept onto Lucien's face almost without him noticing. But it was there, he realized, laughing under his breath when the crowd erupted again. He had to note, however, that the men moving to restrain her had stopped. She'd hit the right nerve, and he wasn't quite sure she knew it. Now that honor had been staked so explicitly in the matter, the rules changed.
And he knew just what he was going to do about it.
Lucien stood, pulling in a deep breath and shouting to be heard over the tumult. "Enough!"
He was almost accustomed to the immediacy with which he was obeyed.
Letting his eyes fall squarely on Khari, he spoke to her in lieu of the rest. "You claim your honor is untainted. But your actions have flown in the face of the rules of the Grand Tourney. You fabricated an identity to enter, competed under false pretenses, and now claim victory. The honor you impugn is mine, and I accept your challenge."
The quiet that settled then was charged with tension. Shock, probably, from a good number of those present. Khari felt it, too, if the way she gaped at him was any indication, blinking as though she couldn't quite believe what was in front of her eyes. âYouâIâbut you're theâyou're the Emperor! I can't fight you! ...Can I?" The tone of her voice oscillated wildly between disbelief, horror, and something like anticipation, there at the end.
Lucien fought the urge to laugh. It would hardly fit the gravitas of the moment, and there was a certain weight to it. She'd made a bold move in doing this. But unless it was handled very carefully, she might not have a chance to make another like it. It was true that he could declare her absolved right here and now, but what he could not do was guarantee her safety after that, or that her claim to the win here would be taken at all seriously by anyone.
And little as they'd been able to speak, Lucien still understood that legitimacy was what she wanted most of all.
So he schooled his features, letting himself look down at her in the way he'd been taught an Emperor should. "You no longer have a choice," he replied, narrowing his eyes. "As the challenged, the right to choose the terms is mine. We fight with swords, to first blood. Take one hour to rest and be healed, and wear no armor when you return."
Lucien spent his own hour in consultation with a few people he thought might be able to help with the situation, explaining his plan first to his father and Violette. If the situation got out of hand, their own authority and the respect they had would be instrumental in making it go the way he intended it to. He could only hope that Khari herself would be cooperative, but it was going to be interesting without being able to say much to her at all.
Precisely fifty-five minutes later, he'd divested himself of all the cumbersome marks of status, including the plainer circlet he wore in advance of his official crowning, and stood in the dirt of the ring, Everburn held loosely in one hand.
Khari was on time for the appointed hour as well, the platemail gone. It left her even more strikingly small, particularly compared to someone like Lucien. The sword she carried seemed to be enchanted as well, the blade tinged an eerie green. It looked to be a little lighter than his own, but only a little: it was shorter, but shaped a bit more stoutly.
She came to a stop a polite eight feet or so from where he stood, licking her lips in a way that seemed nervous. The curiosity was clear from this close, a sure sign that she didn't really understand what he was up to. Unsurprisingly, she was willing enough to fight anyway.
Glancing only once at the crowd, she bowed to him at the waist. âDeath before dishonor."
She meant thatâhe had no doubt. Lucien returned the bow. "Death before dishonor," he echoed, pitching the ritual words a little more warmly. He set his stance, anchoring his feet to the ground in long-familiar motions, and leveled Everburn outwards. She liked playing the aggressor, and that was entirely fine by him.
In that, she didn't disappoint. Whatever reservations she might have had about this duel did not slow her motions, and she covered the ground between them swiftly, bringing her sword around in a heavy horizontal stroke. She swung like she meant to kill him with itâhalfway wasn't even on the table.
Exactly how he wanted. Though she was quick, experience had long since taught Lucien where to place his sword to deflect an all-out strike like that, and Everburn was in the path of her sword in plenty of time, parrying with a deft hit to the middle of it. He took a swipe at her in retaliation while she recovered, a little more defensive in his own tactics. He wanted to get a sense of her before he committed to any sort of strategy, and just watching her fight others was nowhere near the same as fighting her himself.
Khari reacted quickly, bending to the side so that the strike met air instead of flesh, jumping back and resetting herself only a moment before she launched forward again. In a few ways, her techniques were textbook, ripped from the same pages he'd studied at the Academie. But for the most part, they were much less conventional, no doubt blending elements from each of those who'd taught her something over the foundational realities of her build and her personal strengths.
It was certainly a unique combination. Little time passed before Lucien was thoroughly enjoying himself, working to anticipate her actions and guide his own accordingly. She was much stronger than she looked, with an impressive quickness and an utterly astounding tenacityâpart of him wondered if she even felt things like fatigue or what had to have been lingering pains from her earlier fights, healing or no. She didn't hold back, and that was goodâwhat he needed to do here was make it abundantly clear to everyone watching just how good she was. For that, he was going to need everything she had.
Slowly, Lucien asserted control over the flow of the match, adjusting his guard to bait her into attacking from one angle rather than another, letting his slower, steadier footwork guide their trajectory over the field with concessions both forced and volunteered. She was goodâfar better than anyone he'd sparred in a while. But she was also coming off a week of near-constant physical exertion, and young, and still developing into the warrior she would become. His reflexes were no longer quite so sharp as hers, but they didn't need to be. He could check his blows, exert as little effort as possible, defend rather than attackâall of which he did, slowly increasing the pressure on her with more ripostes and retaliations.
He pushed, trying to get as much out of her as she was still able to give.
At first, she responded in exactly the ways he expected: as his defense made increasing demands of her, she poured ever more effort into her attacks, each hitting harder and faster than the one that came before. She kept herself light on her feet, springy and pliable, lacking armor to weigh her down in the slightest.
But gradually, it seemed, she caught on, frustration beginning to seep into the edges of her form. She let her sword scrape a second too long against Everburn, left herself a little too open going in for a low slash. When he didn't take full advantage of the lapse, her next hit was a lunge that brought her in close.
âYou gonna fight me or not, Lucien?" She had the sense to growl it at him instead of shouting it, but the point was clear enough.
"Trust me," he replied, low and urgent. He fully intended to fight herâbut not until the point had been made. Not until everyone in the crowd could see what he did not doubt.
He brought his sword around to force her back, then went on the attack for the first time since the match had begun, sweeping low for her legs.
Khari scowled, but she hardly had time to complain when he attacked, skittering backwards with a quick series of steps, then throwing herself back into it, their blades clanging heavily once, twice, thrice before she disengaged and went high instead, aiming for his chest.
She nearly caught him off-guard; Lucien's block was hastier that time, and his face broke into a temporary smile. Thatâthat was it. That was exactly what she needed to do. Abandoning the slow build, he retaliated in kind, aiming an aggressive overhead swing for her shoulder.
Khari ducked and rolled, the blade catching on the neckline of her tunic and just barely missing her skin. If anything, it goaded her, and the moment she was back on her feet, she was swinging again, focus sharp and conversation entirely abandoned.
The clash grew more pitched after that; Lucien stopped checking his blows and providing openings because she genuinely pushed him to it. He could tell she was tiring, but to her credit she wasn't showing it much. His rear foot slid back in the dirt after a particularly hard parry, one that forced him to grit his teeth or risk biting his tongue. Only the advantage of sheer physical strength hauled her off him before she could swing again and hit this time.
When the second attempt came in anyway, Lucien saw his opportunity. He blocked, taking a hard step forward and circling his arm. Everburn's guard caught the blade of her sword at just the wrong angle, and the strength in Lucien's arms tore the weapon free from her grip. Angling it upwards, he pressed the blade lightly into the juncture of her neck and shoulder, drawing a thin trickle of blood from her skin. It hissed where it touched the blade, but did not burn her flesh.
Lucien exhaled a haggard breath, drawing in another deep one immediately after, his lungs working like a bellows. Despite the chill in the air, his hair was sticking to the back of his neck, dampened by sweat. With a slight smile just obvious enough for Khari to detect, he pulled the sword away.
"I'm satisfied." He said it loud enough to be heard by the onlookers as well. "You fought with the honor you claimed. Anyone who wishes to deny that may deny mine as well."
That was the thing about duels: if both combatants acquitted themselves well, they could both leave with honor intact, no matter who won and who lost.
Considering that to challenge her victory here was now to challenge him as well, he was hardly surprised that no one took him up on it.
"The assessors will tabulate the scores as normal," he continued. "But the record will change: the competitor who won the melee is Kharisanna Istimaethoriel." He reached over to grip her shoulder and give it a brief squeeze, speaking much more softly.
"And history shall not forget it."
Khari's eyes welled; she swallowed thickly and met his own. Her mouth opened and closed several times as she struggled to speak. She'd taken a half-step forward before she stopped herself, probably remembering that hugging him all of a sudden would look quite strange.
She found her voice, at least, speaking in a choked whisper. âThank you. Thank you, Lucien."
"I didn't do anything worth mentioning," he replied. "That was entirely you."