Between all the dirt, blood, and dust, Lyra, despite already having bathed once, found herself heading back again.
Her body felt grimy, her skin uncomfortable beneath the layers of sweat and gri, and her hair—gods, her hair—was a knotted ss of dust and dried blood.
The thought of untangling it made her groan aloud. There were guests waiting downstairs, important ones, and showing up in her current state would be disgraceful.
But the effort it would take to return to a presentable form made her shoulders sag with dread.
She stepped into the bath chamber—a massive, dod structure separate from her main room, more like a private indoor spring than a re bathhouse.
Steam hung thick in the air, rolling off the wide surface of constantly replenished hot water. The scent of lavender and juniper clung to the humidity, calming yet heavy.
And then she saw soone else already there.
A lone figure soaked up to the shoulders at the far end of the bath, the surface rippling faintly around her still form.
Xhi.
The priestess.
Lyra froze mid-step.
"You’re here?!"
She blurted, her voice laced with disbelief and an edge of hostility.
"What are you doing here?!"
Xhi turned her head lazily, as if the question were an inconvenience.
"What else?"
She said, tone calm and detached.
"I’m taking a bath."
The answer, delivered with such nonchalance, only made the mont more absurd.
"But what—huh?"
Lyra sputtered, caught off guard. Her mouth opened again but no words ca out.
This was the sa person she’d fought re hours ago. Not a spar. Not a friendly scuffle. A real clash, one where Lyra had been fighting to injure—perhaps even kill—her opponent.
Yet Xhi had remained terrifyingly calm the entire ti, as though choreographing the battle for so unseen audience.
The only ti her deanor had shifted had been when the elves arrived. Up until then, Lyra was certain not even a crease had ford on the pristine nightgown the priestess had worn.
Now, she sat comfortably in the steaming water, unbothered by Lyra’s presence, her long hair trailing like ink across the surface.
After fumbling for words, Lyra finally asked,
"Why did you do all that?"
Xhi said nothing at first. Only the gentle bubbling of the water broke the silence between them. Then, after a few long monts:
"It was necessary."
"Necessary?!"
Lyra snapped, heat rising in her chest again.
"Yes."
Xhi’s answer was simple. Factual. Unapologetic.
"Leaving him in that kind of state without intervention would lead to serious danger—for him and for those around him."
Lyra’s anger ebbed, replaced slowly by a budding confusion. Her brows furrowed.
"Wait... you’re telling everything you did... was for his sake?"
Xhi tilted her head slightly, catching Lyra in the corner of her eye.
"Of course not,"
She replied.
"I have my own agenda."
The bluntness of the admission stunned Lyra into silence.
No hesitation. No attempt at denial. Just... yes, I did it. So what?
"Of course"
Lyra burst into fake laughter
"After all,"
She pressed, her tone steady until the final spike,
"you tried to get him to kill his stepmother!"
Xhi exhaled, as if bored.
"I didn’t try to get him to kill anyone."
"But—"
"I only asked him why she’s still alive."
"...Isn’t that the sa thing?"
"No, it’s not,"
Xhi said firmly.
"When he can answer that question, his condition will stabilize even further."
"Ah?"
Lyra blinked, now completely lost.
Xhi sighed audibly, her exasperation unmistakable.
"Lyra, you ought to study so more. Read a book, any book."
...
Elsewhere—
"Lugh Von Heim. I challenge you to a duel."
Lugh paused the instant he heard the words.
They rang out clearly, resonating across the grand hall with the weight of a formal declaration.
It was a voice laced not with camaraderie or mutual respect, but with veiled scorn.
Getting challenged to a duel by a prince was never a good thing—especially not when the challenge stemd from irritation rather than tradition.
But that wasn’t what unsettled Lugh this ti.
Around him, murmurs erupted like wildfire. Mirelle facepald loudly.
"Of course this would happen..."
The Von Heims who had accompanied Lugh to the Cross Manor had long since dispersed and mingled with the crowd.
It was an effortless task—being mbers of one of the most ancient and prestigious houses ant doors opened before they knocked.
Nobles practically fell over themselves to make a good impression.
Even Lirienne, usually a solitary presence, was surrounded by peers—so of whom she seed to know well.
Aveline had corralled a subset of younger nobles into an obedient colony, lording over them like a smug tyrant. They sat prim and proper at one edge of the hall, a chess ga half-finished between them.
Now, however, every eye was trained on the confrontation unfolding in the center.
Prince Wittmann had issued a challenge. Lugh’s na had been called out for all to hear. And all the Von Heims were uneasy.
In another corner of the sprawling hall, Rochelle—who Mirelle had introduced to her peers and who had endured questions like, "What’s your cousin Lugh like?" and "What are his hobbies?"—frowned when she heard Wittmann’s voice.
Reactions varied wildly. Most of the attendees were young nobles—freshly arrived in Pyrellis for the Green Towers selection or similar opportunities.
So hadn’t even gotten the chance to et Lugh at the ball. To them, a duel was thrilling. Expected. Natural even.
But for it to be Prince Wittmann issuing the challenge?
That was the true shock.
In the eye of this growing storm, Lugh’s mind spun rapidly.
He’d already concluded that Victor Aelhurst wasn’t the only person sent to test him. Others would follow. Others already had. And now, it seed, he’d found another one.
He turned back toward the prince, dipping into a mock bow, tone perfectly asured.
"Thanks for the invitation,"
He said.
"But I respectfully decline."
Gasps rose from the crowd.
His cousins looked stunned. What kind of opportunity was this? Why decline a chance to cent his status publicly?
Wittmann’s voice rose again, more confident now.
"Oh? Running away, are you? You provoke and then retreat with your tail between your legs? Isn’t that a bit too shaless?"
Lugh regarded him in silence, eyes calm, tone flat.
"Putting aside the question of who is more shaless—between a twenty-five-year-old challenging a fifteen-year-old—I declined for one reason only."
"Oh?"
The prince mocked.
"And what might that be?"
"Well, that’s easy,"
Lugh replied.
"I’m not good at fighting."
A hush fell over the room. Expressions twisted in confusion. Then—
"I am, however, very good at killing."
The air went cold. Words were swallowed.
Soone audibly gulped.
Lugh’s tone darkened, his voice dropping low and slow like the press of a blade.
"Do you understand now, Mr. Valtér?"
He took a deliberate step forward, eyes fixed on the prince.
"If I were to duel you—"
He leaned in ever so slightly, voice barely above a whisper.
"Then one of us would surely die."
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