Wind whipped snow across the broad, empty avenue in northern Ruen, a strange sight for a sumr night. King Salsi II, his expression grim, stared at the two heirs he had chosen.
"Dawn is approaching," he declared, "and it appears my duel with Williatte will not yield a clear victor. But this contest must have a winner. A new monarch must rise from your ranks. Therefore, here and now, I shall choose my sole heir from the two of you."
Despite the blood he had been coughing up monts before, every syllable King Salsi II uttered was resonant and firm. It was not just the Stuarts, who had ford a circle around him, but also the church clergy and palace attendants standing nearby who heard the abrupt decision.
"I have little ti left to deliberate. I must make my judgnt now, while my mind is still clear."
The Stuarts exchanged bewildered glances, their expressions unreadable as they stared at Sarrot and Dolores standing at the forefront.
"I know so of you may be dissatisfied, but as I stated before tonight's contest began, a choice has been made, and you will accept it. Sarrot was the top perforr on my side, while Dolores was Williatte's ace. It is only natural, then, that the heir be chosen from the two of them."
King Salsi II erupted into another fit of deep coughs. When he recovered, he waved over two nearby palace guards and had them surrender their personal daggers, which were then presented to the prince and princess.
While the power of firearms had long since eclipsed that of blades in this era, technological developnt had skewed so heavily toward steam power—and the possibility of a guard turning his weapon on the royals was ever-present—that palace attendants still followed the tradition of carrying bladed sidearms.
The weapons were daggers forged of fine steel, short but lethally sharp. Sarrot and Dolores, their faces pale, each accepted a blade and turned to their father with somber expressions.
"The House of Stuart has never chosen a ruler with no martial prowess. Now, take these weapons and fight, until one of you is incapacitated or voluntarily concedes defeat."
Seeing Sarrot start to object, King Salsi II spoke again:
"Your sister is grievously wounded; you need not fear her using any of her Benefactor abilities. And though you both acquired two artifacts during the contest, her performance was demonstrably superior to yours, her decisions more sound. Is it not fitting that she should have so advantage?"
"You want to duel her?"
Sarrot remained unconvinced. He tried to gesture with his wooden prosthesis, but the frigid air made it difficult to manipulate. The failed attempt only made him seem all the more pathetic.
Ignoring his son's astonishnt, King Salsi II waved his hand, directing the other Stuarts to the snow-covered sides of the street. The church delegation, with the air of spectators settling in for a show, also moved out of the center. The storefront awnings offered so protection from the falling snow. Though the biting wind still carried flakes to sting their faces, at least backing up against the display windows and walls provided a small, psychological comfort of warmth.
They huddled and shivered as they retreated from the street. The chaotic ss of footprints they left behind, so deep, so shallow, was quickly buried by the fresh snowfall. Soon, only the chosen prince and princess of the House of Stuart remained, each holding a dagger, alone in the vast, silent, and frigid street.
They faced each other in the gloom, their breath forming long plus that writhed like dragons amidst the swirling snowflakes.
For a long ti, no one spoke, but their hands remained clenched tightly around their weapons.
"Dolores, if you concede, you will have everything you desire."
Sarrot whispered, his voice pitched perfectly so that the onlookers at the side of the street could not hear him over the howling blizzard. The wind sliced past his face, dusting his eyebrows and hair with frost. The prince knew this would be the final battle.
"What I desire is sothing you cannot give ."
Dolores answered, her voice sounding frail against the snow-muffled air. She held the dagger in her right hand and took a few steps back, leaving deep impressions in the thick blanket of snow. This was no retreat; she was seeking the right mont to strike.
Seeing her maneuver, Sarrot also brought his dagger into a ready stance. He may not have seen a battlefield or had the unique experiences of his sister, but he was the first prince of the kingdom. He was well-versed in close-quarters combat and the use of cold steel.
"You wish to marry Williatte? Oh, Dolores, surely you realize that if you beco queen, your chances of marrying him will only diminish? Father would never allow his kingdom to be your dowry."
Sarrot continued, not standing still but beginning to circle slowly, clockwise. Dolores matched his movent, maintaining the distance between them as she, too, began to move, searching for an opening.
To the onlookers, the two of them were like wolves on a deep winter plain, circling for a deathblow over the last scrap of food.
"That is not your concern. Jenkins will handle everything."
"Are you truly so confident that a common-born boy can resolve all of this? From what I've seen, he lacks even the most basic political acun."
Sarrot had no desire for a heart-to-heart with his sister; he was rely trying to break her concentration with his words. But Dolores had always been strong-willed, and what's more, her feelings for the writer ran deeper than even she knew.
Snowflakes had long ago settled on their shoulders, turning their hair white. But they remained focused entirely on each other, neither daring to let their attention waver for even a mont.
"I trust Jenkins to resolve any troubles that may arise."
Dolores repeated, her knuckles white where she gripped the dagger, her words punctuated by ragged breaths. The destruction of her ice swordsman had indeed inflicted a grievous wound.
"And you think you can defeat now? Dolores, if you weren't injured, I would surrender this instant. But in your current state, you are no match for . I don't want to kill you..."
He paused, his gaze dropping to her chest.
"Yes," he said softly, "you deserve a better life. Why must you fight to the death here?"
"Those are my words exactly. I don't want to kill you either. So please, surrender."
They stared at each other, their expressions cold as ice. Then, in a single, synchronized movent, they lunged. Their arms swung, and the daggers t in the swirling snow with a sharp clang that made the onlookers hold their breath.
Neither Dolores nor Sarrot was a master of the dagger. Their first simple exchange was a test of wills, with neither gaining an advantage. In fact, due to her injuries, Dolores's strength was less than her brother's; the force of the impact nearly sent her weapon flying from her grasp.
But Sarrot dared not press his advantage. He did not know how serious his sister's injuries truly were.
"You see? You cannot win."
Sarrot pressed.
"Surrender. When I beco King of Hamparvo, I will not make things difficult for you."
They once again fell into a standoff, circling each other in the snow. All other tracks on the street had been completely erased, and in the vast, desolate silence of the snowy night, only the ring of fresh footprints marked their deadly dance.
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