"And what should I have done?" Bjorn shot back, his voice sharp as he glared at Sylas. "If I had fought, it would have been civil war. If I fight now, everyone will die! Both choices were the worst options. At least this way, less blood is shed."
With no other option, Bjorn had put down his weapons to ease his uncle's suspicion, taking on the role of an innkeeper to fill his days. Few guests ca, but it kept him from being overwheld by boredom. The only constant disturbance was the occasional clash with Baron Greve's n, who took every opportunity to assert their power.
"But at least there's no more bloodshed. That's sothing, isn't it?" Bjorn said, as if trying to convince himself. Toby and Ray were silent, taking in the heavy story.
Sylas, without a word, placed two more gold coins on the table. Bjorn blinked, surprised.
"What's this?"
"Paynt for your story."
Bjorn's gaze wavered. It was, in a way, charity, and it tugged at the remnants of his pride. But the reality of their desperate situation made it hard to refuse. With a sigh, Bjorn tucked the coins into his pocket.
"Thank you."
"No need to thank ." Sylas replied with a smirk, then added, "Giving a beggar a handout isn't worth much thanks."
The room fell silent.
It wasn't Bjorn, Toby, or Ray who reacted first but the middle-aged n, Bjorn's forr subordinates, who had been listening from a distance.
"You rotten bastard!"
"How dare you insult him!"
"Kill him!"
Their shouts filled the room, and they looked ready to lunge at Sylas. Though they knew he was a noble, their anger was overpowering.
"Enough." Bjorn raised his hand.
"But, sir—"
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"I said, stop." Bjorn's cold gaze silenced them. His eyes, filled with fury, shifted to Sylas. "Did you just call a beggar?"
"That's right," Sylas replied without hesitation. He looked straight into Bjorn's eyes, the words of an old friend echoing in his mind.
"You are a beggar."
-"I was a beggar, Captain." Bjorn's old words played in Sylas's mory.
With a crack, part of the table splintered under Bjorn's grip. Despite not sharing the ancient bloodline like Toby or Ray, his raw strength was formidable.
"Explain yourself. Why call that?" Bjorn's tone was filled with restrained anger, demanding an answer before he lashed out.
Sylas's smirk faded, and he t Bjorn's glare. "What else would I call a man who surrenders when he has the strength to resist, who scrapes for a al and is grateful just to be left alone?"
"I only chose the path to avoid spilling blood!"
As Bjorn shouted, Sylas could almost see his friend's face overlaid with his own. Every word Bjorn spoke seed to echo from the past.
"So what was I supposed to do? Start a civil war where we'd kill each other, family against family?"
-"I chose to live as a beggar and convinced myself I was noble for it, thinking I'd spared others from the bloodshed. But I was just a damned fool."
Sylas shook his head, rembering his friend's remorse. By the ti his friend had realized his mistake, it had been too late. This ti, Sylas intended to make sure Bjorn realized it sooner.
"If you don't like my words," Sylas said, his tone steely, "then do sothing about it. Though I doubt you've got the guts to fight after choosing to avoid every fight so far."
Bjorn's eyes flared with anger at the provocation.
Everyone in the inn had the sa thought running through their minds: "Is he out of his mind?"
Bjorn's gaze scanned Sylas from head to toe. His body was lean but muscular, hands covered with the calluses typical of a swordsman. At the very least, he didn't look like soone who idled around without purpose.
"But that's all there is."
Bjorn mused. Any knight with a bit of ambition would have a physique like that. Sylas didn't appear to stand out in any way. Even his skin looked unmarked, raising doubts about whether he had ever been in real combat.
"Are you planning to send out a substitute?" Bjorn asked, knowing nobles often had a representative in duels since not all nobles practiced swordsmanship. When life and honor were truly at stake, sending a substitute was common. But Sylas shook his head.
"No, I'll face you myself."
"..."
"What's the matter? Are you scared?" Sylas taunted.
Bjorn couldn't help but mutter a curse. "This madman." He had so training, sure, but he thought this young, slightly built noble wanted to face him personally. What was first bewildering gradually turned to irritation; did Sylas really see him as so insignificant?
"Don't regret this," Bjorn said.
"Then go get your weapon," Sylas replied as he rose from his seat, heading out of the inn as if leading the way. Bjorn let out a scoff, bemused by the younger man's confidence.
What could he possibly be counting on? Perhaps he was so prodigy of swordsmanship in his territory? "Whatever the reason, it doesn't matter." The fact remained that this kid had insulted him, and there was only one thing left to do.
"Alex."
"Yes, my lord?"
"Bring my axe."
The two n stood facing each other outside the inn, putting distance between them. One was a youth who had barely co of age; the other, a seasoned warrior exuding strength and aura. If people were betting, every single one would put their money on Bjorn.
"I'll give you one last chance. Withdraw the insult and apologize," Bjorn said, extending a asure of rcy. A duel was sacred, never sothing to take lightly, and it must never end without due seriousness. This was his way of offering a reprieve.
Sylas, however, only dug his finger into his ear and smirked. "Stop stalling and pick up your axe. It's embarrassing."
A vein pulsed on Bjorn's forehead. "This bastard."
"Guess I'll have to break sothing to knock so sense into him." Bjorn thought as he adjusted his twin axes in each hand. It had been nearly half a year since he'd wielded them, but the weight felt as familiar as if he'd swung them just yesterday.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Whenever you are," Sylas replied.
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