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CHAPTER 8

She awoke alone, though she remembered through a sleepy haze a moment soft lips on hers and the blankets being snugged up around her neck, and she found the chamber tidied and a comfortable breakfast of overnight oats and more delightful meats and cheeses sitting on the table by the fireplace.

“I truly love that man," she mused as she licked her lips, tucking into a less-than-light breakfast and finding a small, hand-written note alongside the vittles:

Lidia,

My father has requested my presence for a private council, words for sons from fathers. I am not sure how long we will be, but be careful. Marshal Alva is awaiting your pleasure in the yard, I would feel safest knowing you were with my father's most dutiful soldier.

Show him a bit of what I've taught you. He'll enjoy it.

With Love,

Gram

“Even 'is love notes 'ave good penmanship, 'tis nae fair," she complained in a wistful tone as she sipped at her coffee, the evening before coming into stark clarity as the robust aroma and taste hit her senses.

First, came the shiver of delight at the good — the sensation of spending her first moments in intimacy with Gram was narcotic, and she found herself trembling with fresh butterflies in her stomach as she wound herself up in a giddy little ball in the still-borrowed robe she'd proceeded to wrap herself in out of bed. He would have to start buying far less comfortable clothing, for she was beginning to enjoy this habit of stealing it from him. Her hands ran in overwhelmed glee across her body beneath the too-large attire, allowing herself a girlish, breathy little giggle of absolute pleasure at the memories — oh his hands had been all over her, he'd touched her in places even in their most torrid of moments he'd never laid hands upon, oh how they'd danced along that line they'd drawn last night, and how it made her crave more. Little legs kicking she bit her lip on another little squeal, allowing herself to bask in the pure delight of being in love and youthful lust for a bit longer — she deserved that much at least.

It took her a few minutes to come down from the lovey-dovey high she'd worked herself into, and after talking her roaming fingers out of taking it a bit further with the scents of their closeness so near around her, she slowly remembered the bad bits of the previous evening. The memory of Koval's lightless eyes did wonders to cool the growing flames between her thighs, replacing the pleasant shiver with one from a distinct chill. He'd been watching her for the entire time she spent talking with Baron Richart like as anything. She poured over the thoughts of it, and found even now it was hard to fix the man's image in her mind… he simply didn't look like anything, anyone. Just completely nondescript, a clearly cultivated and carefully considered effort. He was a blank space in her memory, she was sure she'd recognize him again — but only in that attire, that costume. How the blazes had he gotten rid of his scent? Her fingers curled around her cup of coffee in a worried grip as she grit her teeth around the idea. She'd run into scent-blockers before, things made for animals that dull out the specific scents of human flesh and sweat, but she was smarter than a real bloodhound and knew how to detect those equally out-of-place scents. Koval had simply smelled of nothing. A blank space, the area he had stood in smelled simply of stone and smoke, as if he had simply not been there. That gnawed at her, like as not simply a measure taken against the ever-present hounds in keeps and civilization, it made him particularly effective against her senses, for she found she relied on her nose overmuch as a means of early warning — why wouldn't she? None of her friends lacked for a unique scent, particularly Gram for which she was very personally appreciative. She used her nose as an early-warning of sorts, and frequently detected people's presence unconsciously with her preternatural sense of smell, to know that not only could she not easily picture this man in her mind — but she could not smell him disturbed her, far more than the creatures of the Empty Queen had. He could quite literally be anywhere, and that bothered her.

Anxiety turned to restlessness and with both plate and cup cleaned and drained, she found herself dressing for the day. Gram had the right idea, maybe a bit of exercise would serve to burn off this agitation, and she had only met so many of his family and friends, this Marshal Alva seemed as good as any places to start working on that.

So she left, wearing her usual training garb from her time at Fort Ivory: a comfortable gambeson, loose trousers, and soft half-boots for traction in the sands, her hood customarily wound around her shoulders — the well-worn fabric a comforting presence in any outfit, she'd not been separated from it very long since her father's death, and like hell that would change anytime soon. She cut through the keep directly, remembering much of her previous trek across the grounds clearly night or day, truly Mister Koval's ability to evade her senses was uncomfortably keen with how easily she retraced her steps towards the yard — where had he hidden during all of this? The thoughts worried at her mind as she crossed another heavy stone threshold into the center of the keep proper.

The natural stone of of the Navel was on full display as she exited another fortified gate, every entry of the house proper had a double portcullis, truly a layered redoubt. Where Fort Ivory had been built around unyielding, impossible mass with the aid of the Triune, Baudelaire Keep was purely the work of men, and they were no less ingenious — the lack of sheer crushing girth of stone and masonry solved by unassailable drops, layered defenses and sheer inhospitable angles of attack. She bounced her messer in its scabbard on her shoulder as she looked up and let out a low whistle, the shadows of the keep's walls falling away from her gaze. Above her the massive yawning mouth of the Navel itself served to create a massive, stony shelf that overhung the majority of the keep itself, the buildings all having been arranged in a neat arc within the great cavern's entrance, a full third of the keep actually inside of the cave itself, only the uppermost spires poked free of the stalactite-ridden overhang, among them Gram's own little tower.

The inside was not much different than Fort Ivory, the Abbey or even the Order Redoubt in Lachheim had been, a simple area for training, recreation, and living life within the fortifications, a small section of the sunnier areas was reserved for a quite bountiful-looking garden complete with trellises and brick-and-mortar planters overflowing with life. A section along the unworked stony rear walls with the guard's own quarters was a familiar sight — a sandy circle for sparring, and a multitude of small dummies and even a list for horsemanship, and as per-usual for a fighting man's fortification, said fighting men were scattered about, training and commiserating with one another. There was a notable separation, with the many red and gold surcoats of Karnov's men sticking fairly close to the keep and themselves, and the house guard in their Sky blue and Gold livery near the barracks. Tensions were obvious between the two groups, with uneasy looks and little else passing between them, but not outright hostility. Not yet.

Lidia gamely crossed the green, by and large simply not giving a good goddamn what the red and gold liveried men and their dour gazes thought. She attracted more than a few looks, probably because of her weapon more than anything else — but she held little doubt that her origins had circulated among the ranks of Karnov's men, likely from his own lips, if not that of his creeping observer Koval — who she still hadn't seen that day, at least and been aware of it. A sobering thought. She walked straight past the sparring sands and found her way to the form dummies. They ranged from Simple wooden targets roughly in the shape of a man with sword and shield to simple pells for strike training, to odd posts with various posts sticking off it at odd angles, designed to mimic the various angles of thrusts and strikes for deflection in hand-to-hand training. She set up near an unoccupied pell, taking a few minutes to stretch and limber up under the watchful gaze of both groups of soldiers. Unlimbering her blade, the ugly, stubby weapon a familiar comfort at the end of her arm — she launched into one of her basic routines she'd learned from Gram, simple cuts and footwork in a circular motion around the pole-like target. It was all about cadence, a rhythm. Knowing when to go slow, and when to go fast.

A bit like lovemaking, she thought. Or so she'd been told.

“Good form, but your cuts are dragging," came a dry, gravel-laden voice from behind her, the little changeling turned with a raised eyebrow, wiping sweat with her hood's draping ends. At the other end of the dummy stood a man of average height, with a gleaming bald pate and a beard that would have put Kull to shame. Where he was not very tall, he was nearly as broad — built across the shoulders, chest, and gut like a literal boulder, even his fairly loose uniform and hauberk seemed to be straining to contain the man's rock-like mass, his arms and legs both like tree trunks, one bicep easily bigger around than Lidia's thigh. She thought she'd seen big men with Bart and Rashid, but this man was a veritable treestump with fingers. His face was lined and hard, with the same severe cheekbones and stern brow-ridges she'd come to associate with Gram's Steppefolk kin, his bald pate lined with numerous thin, ugly scars, and his eyebrows and beard spotted with similar bare patches where a blade had dared to get close enough. His eyes were the light brown of fresh-brewed tea, and full of a sort of stern kindness she'd come to recognize among the truly doughty warriors of this world.

“Oh aye?" she asked in light challenge, and the brawny man nodded, advancing a step or two to peer at the pell she'd been swinging at.

“Aye, run through it again."

With a shrug and no reason to argue, the little sidheborn girl took up her stance, and worked through the entire routine again under the man's stoic gaze, working her whole body into it, torso, shoulders, legs and all. After a moment he nodded and raised his hand.

“Aye, I see the issue now," he said walking forward as she puffed a bit from the exertion, he extended his hand to her weapon, “If I may?" he asked, his deep voice again, surprisingly quiet and soft. Wordlessly, she nodded and inverted the stubby little messer with a twirl of her fingers, getting a raise of his scarred eyebrows in response as he took it and hefted it a bit, looking down its edge before raising it and rolling through several of the same cuts and steps as she had — except, where she was quick and a touch graceful — he was quick, graceful and powerful. His movements measured, careful, and true to each cut, she could practically feel the bite of her blade into the pell's grain as he drew back and nodded.

“Good steel," he said examining the edge with a nod before meeting her gaze, “You were trained in the way of the Steppefolk blade, yes?"

“I uh, assume so ye," she said as he handed her back her sword, feeling a bit on the spot; “I suppose that's what Gram's been teachin' tae me, I'm still early in my learnin' yet."

“If it is Gram's hand that teaches than the Steppefolk way is what you have learned," the burly man said quietly, “I know, because I am the one that taught it to him," he continued, tapping his chest pointedly before inclining his head in a casual bow of sorts.

“Marshal Piotr Avalov, at your service."

“Oh!" Lidia exclaimed with an embarrassed flush, “Apologies, truly, I dinnae know," she explained hastily, giving a little akward bow as well, fumbling a bit with the sword in her hands in her sudden awkwardness. Oh aye, easy to meet his father but his teacher shows up and of course she gets proper awkward in a hurry! Avalov for his credit, took it in stride with an easy smile and another almost inaudible chuckle, more detectable by the quiver of his great, dense beard and long, drooping mustaches. His voice was truly a quiet thing for a man so large.

“Bear it no mind, I make a point to wear little in way of gaudy accouterments unlike some commanders and lords. I lead men, not parades," he said simply, folding his arms behind his back as he looked her up and down.

“Your form is good, still finding places for knees and elbows, but your follow-through is shaky. Did you have any formal training before Gram took you under his wing?" he asked as he walked around her with a critical eye, the little girl shook her head.

“Nae, unless ye count Lars showin' me the way around a dagger as a wee lass and kickin' a few handsy tossers in the bollocks," she said, getting another bemused chuckle out of him.

“So is the way for many young soldiers, street scraps and schoolyard brawls turning into line-fighting and horsemanship," he explained as he finished his little circuit with a critical eye, “Show me the form again, now that you've caught your breath."

She had caught her breath, she'd been so focused on him she hadn't been paying attention. He was canny and attentive, she nodded without reply and took her blade up once more and launched with gusto into the routine. Once again, Avalov said nothing until she finished, puffing less as her travel-weary muscles unlimbered and flowed.

“Cuts are still dragging," He murmured into his beard, peering at the pell's surface before nodded, “Here," he said, walking to one of the racks and picking up a weapon before walking back to her, drawing it smoothing from the scabbard.

“Try this instead."

He handed her hilt first a sleek, slender saber not unlike the one Gram carried. It had a more pronounced curve and a span's more length than her messer, and it bore an oppositely curved grip and a simple if small guard that was little more than a straight pair of quillions. A utilitarian weapon, not nearly as nice as those she'd seen on Gram or the other Ivory Spear's hips, and much less grand than the pair she'd spied on Karnov and Louis. A soldier's weapon like her messer. Avalov gestured to the pell wordlessly, and settled in to watch.

Feeling once again on the spot, but game for the challenge — she set about the same routine for the third time under Avalov's gaze. Her first attempts were faulty, stumbling as she became tangled up in the pell, unused to the extra length of her blade, earning her a few ill-mannered guffaws from Karnov's men watching from afar, yet Avalov simply waited as she adjusted her footing and tried again. It took a few attempts but she quickly adapted to the longer blade and was working fairly close to her normal tempo… and even she could notice the blade seemed to glide smoother and the cuts came snappier. She finished the routine and looked down at the saber curiously.

“Yer right, felt… smoother I reckon, nae sure how tae say it," she explained, bouncing the blade on her palm as Avalov nodded.

“Your blade is straighter and shorter than a saber, Gram has done well to adapt you to the forms, but they were made for a longer, more graceful weapon — one your body seems quite well-adapted to wield," he said with a note of approval, gesturing to the cuts — and taking the saber from her gently, “The straighter edge drags in the cuts, slowing you down where the saber glides along its curve, deepening the wound with a slicing motion, rather than hacking in with a chop," he explained, demonstrating the cut in slow motion to show her how the longer blade glided and sliced where the Messer, true to its name — chopped and hacked with brutal efficiency.

“Aye, I see now. Would I 'ad known that when I was pickin' blades, I went fer what could be handled easily in dark, narrow holes," she said, and Avalov raised an eyebrow.

“Cave fighting?" he ventured, and Lidia wide-eyed nodded… and it dawned on her, of course he knows about fighting in caves — the bloody castle is built in one. The Marshal chuckled.

“A fine choice for such confines, Short weapon," he said picking it up, and pointedly driving it in a sudden — and alarmingly precise — thrust into one of the nearby man-shaped dummies, pulling it back to a gaping wound in it's sackcloth torso; “Big holes."

Lidia grinned, “S'why I liked it," Avalov grinned back.

“First my brother, now you set about laying claim to his hereditary blades as well?" Came a familiar, acerbic voice. Lidia turning to see Louis stalking across the yard towards her and Avalov, wearing much similar costume to the previous day, sans the thin robe and finery, clad in shirt and girdle as Gram had been, his saber pointedly rattling at his hip. Avalov turned his chin up at that.

“A blade you yourself have laid that said same claim to, Louis," he observed quietly, much to Louis' chagrin, the ugly, still-healing scars bright as his face reddened with growing outrage.

“I am of the heritage by blood as a man, which is more than I can say for this sidheborn half-breed," Louis spat with intentional venom that got Lidia's jaw set in anger. Avalov raised an eyebrow at this, and she pointedly tugged back her hood and met his gaze, her cat-eyed visage clear in the early day's light. Avalov's face changed little as she shrugged.

“Mum was a forest fairy of sorts, an' a not-very-nice one at that, 'tis th' truth o' things," she answered honestly, standing up straight-backed at the strawberry blonde man and his ire, “Ye got any other grief wit' me aside from nae bein' pure enough for ye?"

“I need little else, seeing you playing nice with honeyed words and fantastical talents to all who would hear, the way of a sidhe," he said, and she gave him a wide-eyed, furious look. Avalov cleared his throat.

“If you think her talent is sidhe magic, I propose there is a simple enough test," the boulder of a man said in a soft voice that commanded their attention nevertheless. Louis and Lidia both turned to the man, and both scrambled to catch the pair of objects he'd tossed to them. Wasters, two simple, wooden faux-sabers with blunted edges and rounded points.

“Best her on the sands."

The pair stared at him in shock for a moment, Louis and Lidia alike. Surely the stout Marshal couldn't be serious — but the stern set of his jaw and the way the two camps of soldiers drew in seemed to make it very clear this was a serious match.

“Fine then, I can hold my own against The Red Wolf's own soldiers, one half-breed guttersnipe should be simple," Louis snarled, whipping the waster into a proper grip and turning on his heel, stalking to the sands while irritably pulling his saber from his belt and passing it to another red-adorned soldier as Lidia looked back at Avalov.

“Ye cannae be serious," she stated dully, reiterating that unsaid protest, and Avalov simply folded his arms across his chest, raising one scarred eyebrow at her.

“I am always serious, didn't Gram tell you that?"

The little changeling rocked back at that, a bit put off, a bit amused. She handed him the saber and her messer, taking the waster through a few experimental cuts as she walked towards the sands. Not too different from what she'd learned on… she could keep up with Gram on a good day… but Louis was still bigger than her. One of the things she'd learned in this whole ordeal of Unicorns, Dead Goddesses and unknowable horrors is that mass talks. She could be as skilled as all the world, fast as a starling in flight — but the sheer crush of combat and mayhem favored the brawny and big over the small and nimble. Louis had a head of height on her easily and close to the same weight as Gram, in a contest of main strength he would win handily. In a contest of reach he would best her. She had him edged out in speed and flexibility — as she did most beings that walked on two legs — but that mattered little in the tumult of single combat. He could overpower her and the things she could do to counter it were limited.

To hell with it, she was tired of his smart mouth and ugly looks.

She marched after him into the sandy circle. She mused quietly how uniform these things were, all soldiers everywhere truly were of a piece, setting herself up at the end, she pointedly stripped off any extraneous accessories, even her beloved red hood she pulled free and set at the end of the little sparring space, rolling her shoulders and trying her best to calm down — this wasn't a lethal competition, just a sparring match… between her beloved's estranged, angry brother, surrounded by people who wish her harm, with a scentless, dead-eyed lunatic stalking her from the shadows, while a borderline megalomaniac plots against her betrothed and his family.

No pressure.

Louis had a small cadre of soldiers flanking him as he did much the same, leaving naught but his shirtsleeeves and sash, the Red Wolf emblazoned soldiers gathering around his side of the sands, talking among each other — bits and pieces she could hear, in the common tongue, seemingly for Louis' benefit.

“Heard she marched with the Pale Lady."

“She's not much to look at."

“She was doin' fine on th' pell,"

“Since when have woman made good warriors?"

“Clearly you've never been to Reikstand."

The conversation carried on in a murmuring drone, her corner was entirely empty save for Avalov's presence as she limbered up, he patted her shoulder but said nothing, the remaining soldiers of Richart's guard seeming to gather around the edges of her end of the sands, but keeping a wary distance. She was liked better than the other men, but she was still an outsider. Still the other.

“We'll go by sparring rules, break on a touch, first to three strikes," Avalov said, raising his voice only slightly but his resonant tone carrying effortlessly, Louis nodded, he spared the older man his sneer — no he saved all of that for her, stepping onto the sands, swinging his waster at the end of his arm. Lidia was already eyeing him up, she was no warrior yet — but reading people was the first thing a pickpocket learned, and she was the best. Immediately she picked out a few obvious comparisons between the man she loved and his younger brother — they were of similar shape and build as she'd noted before, but there was a newness to Louis' muscles, a hesitation to his handling of the sword she wouldn't have recognized a year ago — but after watching so much death and slaughter, seeing so many unready toughs and innocents raise weapons against the darkness, she knew the difference between a seasoned soldier and a greenhorn. He moved the right ways but with the wrong cadence, no comfort nor ease. She saw some of that in her own reflection carrying her new blade, so she was an expert.

“So yer nae like yer brother at all are ye…" she murmured to herself as she squared up on her side of the sands. Louis was a latecomer to war, same as her, that much she could see. The pair stood before one another, and she didn't need the eyes of a trained thief to see the seething anger in his face, it ruined his good looks she thought, that and the ugly irritated scar that ran up his cheek.

“How'd ye get that scar?" she asked in a voice just for the taller man, his nose wrinkled in disdain — but he answered her.

“I won that scar in honorable combat with my betters," he said, and after a pause, his eyes tracking to the faded gnarled line across her nose and cheeks, “How did you get yours?"

“Fightin' ghuls in th' dark 'neath the stones o' Fort Ivory," she answered plainly, no boasting in her tone — she held little love for the memories of that dark place, of her dead friends. His eyes widened a bit, and she shrugged, “Monsters die like anythin' else iffin' ye stick 'em right."

“We'll see, won't we," he responded icily, nostrils flaring as he settled into a ready pose much like Gram preferred, his offhand close in to his hip, the saber held back and up over his right ear, Lidia settling back into a similar pose.

Avalov barked a wordless sound of beginning, cutting the air with his hand — and Louis came out at her like a demon. Down cut the saber in an aggressive series of whip-like blows that hammered at the smaller girl from various angles, rolling the blade in the familiar whirling motions of the arm and trunk that the Darrowmite Saber was so well-known for. Lidia to her credit, only swore a little bit as she scrambled to intercept his blows, meeting them motion for motions where she could before having to duck back and tuck her belly to avoid a swipe, hissing as he pressured her anew.

“Do you intend to run away the entire time?!" Louis snarled as she danced around him again, taking herself to his flanks and raining her own series of blows down, but he simply bulled forwards once more, using his greater mass and strength to press her recklessly. It was here she found the problem with the new saber — even in wooden form, she just wasn't accustomed to the longer blade yet, and she kept misjudging her swings, overextending in cuts and thrusts and giving Louis plenty of leverage to drive her blade away. She found she had a hard time meeting his parries same as she did Gram's, she simply wasn't big enough to fully stop their greater strength, so she deflected and redirected it, slapping and sliding his blows aside and ducking and weaving before she drove back in at him. He was aggressive, reckless, out to prove something.

It made his guard a bit shite.

Her first combination off the break was blindingly fast, she felt her own ire rising as she stared at the hateful snarl on his face — and she felt a bit of her old, childhood anger swell up as well. She wanted to wipe that savage, hateful look off him right quick. She flicked the blade in an aggressive moulinet — far, far more flexible than the average human, she seemed to almost bend like a willow branch as she lashed across his blade. The circular down-then-up cut first catching his blade on the flowing downstroke, batting it to the side, breaking his slipshod guard — and here she was the quicker, diving her wooden weapon in at his guts with an aggressive step forward as she twisted with inhuman speed into the flourishing upwards slice.

Louis proved that he was no slouch, his turn to suck in his gut and hop back a step, getting his blade back between them to parry the flowing follow up slash, but she'd taken the momentum firmly in hand and it was his turn to dance and backpedal over the sands as she harried his limbs and belly, forcing him to play carefully as she aimed sniping blows at forearms, hands, legs, and feet. The saber made deep, slicing wounds with aplomb and that made cutting limbs and severing tendons not only viable, but a core part of the training. His weak guard showed more when he was on the back foot, his entire driving combat style built around aggression. The crack of the wood was sharp in the air as he forced his way forward. To her own surprise, he darted to and fro off the centerline of the combat, hitting at her limbs in return, snapping and slashing in wide, outside strokes that she couldn't easily counter due to his greater reaches — and then it happened.

She set her feet and ducked down to bend under yet another slash, when his booted foot lashed up from the sand, kicking at her knee savagely, throwing the whole limb out from under her. She fell to one knee with a cry, and there came a ringing slap of wood one bare flesh and new stinging pain as he struck her across the face with the flat of the blade, the force sending her fully to the ground. The crowd of Karnov's men sent up a roar of approval, and the blue-clothed men of Richart's groaned, Louis' face a picture of triumph. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth and she pushed herself back upright — her lip split and her teeth a bit loosened, before she heard Avalov's quiet but unavoidably stern tone.

“Touch. Break apart." He ordered, and it was an order. Louis' hand froze, clearly raised to give her another drubbing, but he seemed to remember where he was and stepped back from her as Avalov stepped close, “Are you fit to continue?" he asked the girl plainly, she nodded, spitting a mouthful of blood out onto the sand and grinning at him with ghastly, blood-stained inhuman fangs.

“Oh aye, now I know th' lad's spine is in it," she said, pushing herself back to her feet, and turning that monstrous mouthful of teeth back on Louis as well. Avalov nodded approvingly as she wiped her face and stepped back up to the line, Louis' face a thundercloud.

“Do we need to continue this farce to three touches? You cannot best a man of the Steppe," He boasted proudly, and her irritation flared.

“I prolly can't," she agreed with an angry curl of her lip, “Tell me when ye see one, aye?"

Louis' eyes flashed and she grinned wickedly, watching him white-knuckle on the hilt of his waster as the men behind him laughed and jeered back, seeming to play little favorites with the heir apparent of the Baudelaire line. Some friends.

Avalov's cutting bark came again and this time it was Lidia's turn to be first off the press. The bright, stinging welt on her cheek was bruising rapidly. She had blood in her mouth and mayhem on her mind, and the perfect avenue to vent it. She literally leapt to the attack, kicking off the ground in a linear lunge that took the strawberry blonde man by surprise. The gloves were off now, she went low — lunging forward with heavy, stomping steps into a whipping exchange that dove at his belly and legs before she rolled the momentum of the cuts back up high. Louis' shoddy guard did little but intercept the blows, offering no counter-force or turning as she ran him back to the edge of the arena like a spitting hellcat, forcing him to break off line to try to escape where she was rapidly cornering him. She snapped her own leg out as he rotated around her, and drove her heel hard into his own knee, not strong enough to kick it out from under him like he had her, but he barked a noise of inarticulate pain and staggered a step, Lidia pouncing on him and harrying him in the exchange as his fouled footwork set him at an awkward angle.

“Who's runnin' now laddie? Ye gone lookin' fer that man ye were talkin' about?!" she hissed at him, and with a growl of rage, the big man pushed his blade against hers and grabbed her by the gambeson, twisting and swinging her heavily to the ground. If she'd been a normal girl, being slammed into the sands like that might have felled her, but it barely took her wind after the harsh treatment of Gram. He did not believe in coddling her, and as she hit the sands she grabbed his arm and wound both her legs up it with a flash of green cat-eyed fury.

“What th-" Louis exclaimed before she twisted her whole body like a reed, jerking him along with her, the fouled stance of his struck knee buckling beneath him as she used his own body as a counterweight to lever him back over her head onto the ground with a heavy, thudding impact and an explosive exhale as he hit the sands far less gracefully than she did. He should have climbed more trees. She sprang to her feet, Louis already getting to his as well — but as with all things, she was the quicker, his blade came up to lash at her again ans she met it with a quick rolling parry as he came up to one knee, when her foot snapped out again.

Directly into his groin. She was a bit angry still.

The thwack of her boot making contact with the family jewels was loud, and the groans of pure masculine pain from the assembled soldiers echoed pointedly as Louis' teeth clenched and he instinctively doubled over — and Lidia swung her waster in a savage backhand.

There was another loud slap, and more blood spattered the sands as she pointedly returned the favor, his head snapping to one side as she split his lip and bruised his own cheek in kind, dancing back and leaning down to peer at him with a savage little grin, squatting like a gremlin in his pain-filled gaze.

“I think that makes us square, ye?" she said plainly, her ire well-spent. Was feuding with her beloved's brother wise? No, probably not. But it made her feel better.

“Touch. Break apart." Avalov said again with clipped, practiced precision. Lidia hopping forward to gamely offer him a hand, one he grudgingly took after the Marshal leveled a long look on him, letting her help him haul himself back to his feet — a notable limp as he walked back to his side of the mat, she grinned a bit as he passed, a small one. Just for her. She was rarely this spiteful, and had no intent to make a habit of being so… but the pain made the point.

“You are assuredly a scrappy fighter, he won't underestimate you like that again," Avalov noted clinically with a mote of approval pushing past his calm demeanor. “I worked hard to put a lid on that temper of his as I once did his elder brother, but Karnov's influence is persuasive."

“Ye ain't seen nothin' o' 'scrappy' yet," she growled a bit, wiping her bloody lip in residual irritation, her eyes locked on Louis' and his own dark gaze on her, even as he sat back at his side, the men around him speaking to him in a mix of interest and scorn, he seemed to pay them only partial mind. What had tasked the young man so, made him choose this clearly ill-fitting life? There was a chip on the lad's shoulder that was for certain. Big as life, and aimed at all parts of it.

“You've attracted some attention," Avalov added, the red-clothed soldiers across the way had continued to gather closer, now that they were each matched to a round, and at her own side as well a few of the other soldiers had gravitated a bit closer, nodding at her as they waited. The two factions having a discussion of sorts via the proxy of the two fighters. She kipped up to her feet with an unladylike snort and a spit to the side, striding out onto the sand and calling out to where Louis sat surrounded by red-clothed soldiers.

“Ye're not givin' up are ye?"

The man's eyes blazed and his mustaches bristled. She could have thrown a thousand crueler, more disdainful barbs at him, but she didn't hate the man — was mighty pissed at him, but no. Not hatred. She instead smacked him right where it would sting just right: his pride. Up he came, his expression smoldering as he snatched his wasted from where it leaned, stalking back towards her with a ghost of the familiar predatory lope she so often saw in Gram: not all of the fighting spirit came from Karnov, oh no. The Baudelaire boys had fire.

“A Baudelaire man never quits, never surrenders," he spat, obvious venom in the word as he assumed the spot on the sands, Lidia walking squarely up to him.

“Aye, that's what I like tae hear," she grinned at him, also assuming a ready stance. The man glared at her. No need to be cruel, her impish charm would do well enough to infuriate the man. Avalov waited at that tense pause a moment, then barked another round into being.

Neither opponent leapt to the assault this time, both having taken their lumps, Lidia crouched a bit lower, blade high, form compact and edged to his side as he similarly paced her opposite, keeping her in line.

“Oh aye, bit more wary now aren't ye, bit o' a sting in the coinpurse does that," she goaded him, getting naught in return but a bitter glower as she lunged in to test his defenses — and her own reach, the sloppy thrust batted aside and answered with a rapid exchange of cuts. She still didn't have a good handle on her new capabilities with the saber-like wooden weapon, and that hesitation was shared to some degree in Louis' own responses. Small hesitations, shaking cuts and clumsy thrusts slipping in between the snappy cuts and motions — they were both young warriors still, blooded in many ways, but they were not the professional soldiers that watched as they clashed and circled in the sands, the faults were visible to those with eyes to see. Once again, they resolved to the edges of their reach, blades extended, circling. Louis' face was a thundercloud, but his eyes were gleaming, flicking across her to-and-fro, studying her frantically. He shared Gram's combat style in many ways, Lidia found many of her advantages came from reading him like she had his brother — but where Gram's swordplay was verging on textbook, Louis' was as raw and unfinished as hers, and where she read moves against the elder brother and saw no gaps — Louis' shadowing of his brother's form was not so perfect.

“Iffin' ye wanted tae look so close at me, ye only needed tae ask, nae pick a fight," she teased at his fervent attention. In truth that had raised him in her estimations, a canny mind was behind those eyes, however misguided and angry.

“Do you ever cease with your debasement of our traditions," he snarled at her across the distance, getting her eyes wide,

“What, ye nae banter with yer fellows in the ring?" she asked with a bit of a cheeky smirk, and he answered with another lunging slash, escalating into a fresh exchange that pushed her to her back foot, her alien anatomy allowing her to bend and wind around his blows and find parries at angles that clearly infuriated him — the clash of their styles confused him, and it was here that she truly had the edge over him. She could tell as their weapons met again, the hesitation, the way he struck — Louis had never killed. Something changed in you when your blade drew blood, when you felt meat and sinew separate against an edge. Battle, real battle changed you. Louis did not have that.

She did.

She struck back, weaving in an outrageous way around his blow, lunging up under his defenses, only to be struck back as her longer reach fouled her feel of the thrust, Louis slapping it away and dancing clear of her acrobatic lunge, the little changeling bouncing on her feet with her blade at the ready.

“You mock us with your cavorting and your clamor, you playing at competition when you can simply cheat with your filthy fae blood!" he spat at her as she raised an eyebrow at that.

“Oh aye I'm cheatin' real fierce being half yer size and twice as bendy!" she snarled and it was her turn to be angry, cheating, CHEATING? Oh if that didn't beat all, good old fashioned basic bigotry still riled her, and she launched herself at him in a whir of motion, remembering every single aggressive attack routine she'd been given at Gram's brutal instruction. What true advantage did Lidia have? She lunged and cut, their blows meeting faster and faster as she poured on in bitter, familiar fury — striking at his flanks, she danced around him back and forth, constantly going off-line and harrying at his flanks, legs, and arms, faster and quicker than the bigger man could keep track of. None of the blows had real weight, she wielded the waster like a whip. Louis' defense was wide-eyed and spirited, meeting her with the same reckless energy, and in spite of her clear speed advantage he pressed his own, hitting her parries hard, jolting her arm with the weight of his blows, forcing her blows aside with main strength. Aye, in direct confrontation she had little to offer Louis' strength, much like his brother he was not a big man, not a bear like Bart or a bull like Rashid, but a tall man with lean, dense, cable-like muscle that applied pressure in the bind like he had a windlass in his arm. Such a bind is how he met her assault, working his blade against hers and forcing her down under the press of his body. She gasped and met his gaze across the shaking weapons, having to put her offhand on the hilt to maintain it as he simply leaned down onto her, his eyes full of pitiless anger.

“What… no pithy barb now?" he said, and wood or not he leaned that blade down hard at her face — she'd tasted the bite of the lacquered flat across her cheek, a hard thrust at her eyes could do more than simply sting. Alarmed, she bared her teeth at him, shaking under the pressure of his arms, but as with all things — she had fought bigger men before. Her whole life. Her eyes met his, wide as a hunting cat's and she set her jaw.

Then she just let go of the blade.

Suddenly overbalanced, Louis lurched forward — to his credit it was but a moment before he corrected his stance and brought his waster to bear, but the slack in the bind was enough that Lidia dropped and dove between his legs, catching her hand up in the dangling length of his sash, she wound it around her wrist and pulled it hard, tangling it in his legs and fouling his stance as she vividly remembered crossing between the great trunk-like legs of Humbaba in the dark places of the Empty Queen's demesne in a similar gambit, her teeth still set, anger flaring in her as she realized he truly intended to harm her, she gave the twisted length of silk a furious yank with all of her body.

Coiling around his leg like an angry serpent, the full weight of Lidia's frame was too much for the off-balance Darrowmite — and his leg snapped up from under him, his top half pitching forward in the soft sands, and falling heavily face-first into the soft grit. Lidia sprang free and snatched her waster from where it had fallen and without a single bit of nuance, fanciness or flair — slapped it across the man's back in a quick one-two cut and thrust, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she blithely walked away from him to her side of the sands.

“Yer right, all out o' cheek," she said dully, her eyes looking back at him with wary focus. This wasn't just a little rough and tumble punishment. Louis wanted to hurt her.

A dull roar cut from the man as he tore himself free of the sands, eyes alight and face a mask of white hot fury, he threw his waster to the side with a bellow of frustration, the weapon spinning off to smash to flinders against the nearby wall with a clatter as he stalked around in a furiously energetic pace, eyes back on her as he wrenched his shirt open, baring his chest and letting it fall free of his arms, his entire being mad and full of zeal.

“Fuck this whimsical shite," he spat at her, snatching up his saber — his real saber — from the table and ripping it free from the scabbard, stalking back out onto the sands, arms wide and open, chest leading, “Touches and rounds, wasters and safety. We do this the old way, matches be damned," he continued before leveling the blade at her.

“First to draw blood from the torso," he snarled and simply lunged. Lidia leapt back with a bark of alarm, parrying the first blow with her waster, dancing away from him as he systematically chopped pieces off the wooden weapon, shortening it bit by bit as he advanced on her gamely, wild-eyed and ferocious. A clamor went up around them as she hissed and tucked her belly back from a slice as yet another span of her waster went spinning off into the sand, her eyes flicked to it and then back up to Louis as he coiled forward for another lunge, the world seemed to slow down.

A glimmer from her left caught her eye, and a clash of steel on steel rang in the air.

“Temper, Louis." rumbled a deep, authoritative voice.

Baron Karnov stood over them both, having seemed to simply appear in a flash, his own battered, gleaming saber having intervened in the duel, Lidia looked down, the cut would have laid her belly open had Karnov not stepped in when he had. She shook lightly… Louis had meant to kill her.

“Sir…" Louis began but Karnov held up his hand, simply walking the young man's blade back away with his own, before lowering it and looking between the two with a canny eye, he hadn't even taken off his mantle, the great wolf's head snarling down at them. The speed in which he moved frightened her, she'd only seen Gram move that fast in earnest battle. Karnov assessed them both, and raised an eyebrow to Avalov.

“First blood from the torso, bring the Lady's blade."

Authority rang out in that declaration, and Avalov stiffened… but did as he was bade, the mood of the room shifted. The air was alive with a crackle of energy as the boulder of a man handed her not the saber she'd been practicing with, but her comfortable, familiar messer. Karnov stayed her hand as she reached for it, his eyes piercing.

“This is to be a proper duel, bring her a proper blade," he demanded, his tone was soft and heavy like a leaden weight wrapped in velvet. Avalov looked to her warily, a glimmer of apology in his eyes as he instead reached to his own waist and drew forth his own saber, unadorned and simple as the practice blades had been — but its edge gleamed with a wicked sharpness.

“You do her honor," Karnov said with approval as she took Avalov's blade and gave it a few test cuts, it was… fabulous. The balance was wonderful and the weight almost nothing, it felt alive in her hand, she looked up to him with an impressed raise of her eyebrows and gave him a gentle bow of her head, he returned it. A kindness. She turned and squared up with a swallow to the sands, the shirtless Louis moving to take his place as well — only to be stopped by Karnov once more.

“But, sir…"

“You once again lost your composure, unseemly behavior no matter the reasoning. She bested you before her waster met your flesh. Sit." he said and reached up, undoing his mantle and casting it into Louis' arms, his shirt coming off and joining it — revealing a rippling track of deep tanned flesh and powerful, cable-like muscle like bands of leather over stone… and to her great shame, she felt a surge of arousal run through her. He looked like Gram so much it made her belly ache, he could have been a picture of her beloved's body decades hence — there was no doubt where the truth of Gram's whipcord muscle and towering frame came from, a wealth of thin scars dusting across them, rivaling even Bart's impressive network of marks when last she'd seen him. Karnov had earned his rank by blood spilled and deeds done, and none could contest it. He took his blade back up and raised it to Lidia in a crisp salute.

“Your opponent will be The Red Wolf of the Steppe," he said, staring at her hard-eyed down the profile of the blade, “I am quite curious what the pup has taught you."

“Karnov, she is a guest, this is unseemly," Avalov protested, and the Baron raised his chin to him.

“If she is fit enough to meet her betters on the sands, she is fit enough to do it in the traditional way. It is an honor to face your Lord in a contest, the only unseemly behavior here is craven attachments." he responded without an ember of heat to his tone, sheer, brutal pragmatism coloring his voice as he stepped back to the mark, dismissing Louis with crisp motion of his hand, the young man's gaze a mixture of anger, awe, and deep, deep, self-loathing — all things Lidia was familiar seeing in the mirror as a lass. Her heart tore in half for a moment as he turned that murderous gaze upon her one last moment before stalking from the stands with the Baron's effects. That gaze said one thing: How dare you.

How dare she indeed.

“God and Lady both, please, iffin' ye listenin', I could use a wee bit o' that serendipity right about now…" she breathed fervently, fear unlike any she had experienced before flooding her. She'd faced horrors beyond understanding, and that part made it oddly easy to compartmentalize for the hard-bitten lass… but this sheer… pressure she felt from this man shook her. Much like her experience with Koval the night before, something primal in her mind felt his eyes upon her as one would the Red Wolf he took as his mantle. Her wild fae instincts tagged this man she shared this sandy arena with as like a monster to her — a predator. At her side, Avalov gave a rumble of discontent.

“Call me craven then, I will not stand idly by and let you use our traditions for such barbarity." the big man growled in a voice full of calm certainty, and the big man made clear to interpose himself between Lidia and Karnov, and it was then she saw the Baron's gaze slide from her to the Marshal. She saw the change in his eyes, the glimmer of interest fade to flat displeasure. A chill of ice ran through her guts, in that moment she knew if she let Avalov continue that Karnov would kill the man and worst of all — he would think nothing of it.

“Nae Marshal," she interjected, raising her hand to his arm with a wary glance, “His Lordship is correct, 'Tis a right honor considerin' the things I've fought a'fore."

“Even the wildling understands the proper way of things," Karnov answered Avalov with his same cool disinterest, that gleam returning to his gaze as he looked back upon the tiny changeling with anticipation. Avalov seemed ripe to protest, but Lidia silenced him with another touch to the arm and a gentle shake of her head. She had taken a gamble, would he trust her? Would he have reason to? Yet it seemed he understood after a moment, and the brawny Marshal gave Karnov a final, unsubtle look of disdain and excused himself to the sidelines. Karnov gave a soft chuckle.

“We seem to have lost our official, it is of no matter. Marshal Shkuro!" he barked, raising a hand to the men behind him, and from their middle rose a man that was in almost every way Avalov's opposite, where the other man had been big, he was lean, and where he had been short and broad, this man was tall and lean. Brawny shoulders and thick forearms with a long, bandy-legged gait painted the picture of a man who'd lived his life in a saddle, his sun-browned skin and glossy black hair matching the weathered look of his attire, which was the same sort of uniform the rest wore — but more broken-in, well-worn with campaigns and comfort. Fitted differently, lacking much of the embellishments. He sidled up to Karnov, nearly of a height to him, both towering head and shoulders over Lidia same as everyone else in this God-forsaken land of beanpoles. He had the shaved head of many of the other soldiers, with but a single forelock left long and combed out. He favored the drooping mustaches as well, and his face and bare skull were a network of long, sun-bleached scars that seemed well-matched to the sharp angles and deep valleys of the man's lantern-jawed visage.

“Milord," he answered curtly, without much of the reverence in which Louis uttered it. Karnov at once seemed at ease around the man, turning toward him with a nod.

“Stenka, good man. Officiate this match," he said, somewhere between an order and a request, the Marshal, Avalov's equal among Karnov's forces Lidia surmised, gave her an appraising but hardly hostile look, his eyes thoughtful as he nodded again.

“Indeed, the traditional way," he said in agreement, straightening his brawny shoulders and raising his voice in a bark, “Marks!"

Karnov moved to his mark with smooth alacrity, Lidia following suit and staring down the taller, heavier, just plain better swordsman with a bit of panic in her belly, the balance had shifted in the green again, the red-clad men of Karnov's retinue firmly in control of the mood and energy of the place. She set her teeth, all she need do is remember what Gram taught her. No pressure.

Instead of a bark, Shkuro instead cut the air with a sharp whistle that set her teeth on edge — and Karnov towards her on the sands. Like father like son it seemed, The Baron immediately lunged towards her in an aggressive single cut — one she had little trouble parrying — which seemed to be by design, Karnov's motion had been smooth and effortless, and as steel rang off steel he continued to come at her in a measured, direct tempo.

Lidia matched his assault with singular focus, his motions were almost rote in their directness, she found no fault in his swordplay and even his motions were crisp and snapping, requiring maximum effort from her to keep up with the force and momentum of his cuts — but they were predictable. Standard. It was then as she and he came together again in a furious exchange of cuts and parries that she recognized their motions as the step-by-step movements Gram himself had cut her teeth on. Karnov's eyes blazed with interest as she realized he had been quite literal about his intent: he was testing her, running her through the basics at killing speed to see if she could keep up. Even now, as they came apart at another ringing exchange his eyes gleamed with curiosity, as if heralding the next increase of difficulty.

She almost felt a little patronized.

“You move well, and you grasp the basics with ferocity," he praised her quietly, intentionally snapping his blade at her in a whirling moulinet that she met with it's own motion in opposite, the two blades ringing off one another in a whirling series of counter-parries as the two fighters rotated around another, and Karnov came out the other side grinning, Lidia sweating, “Ample ferocity, the pup has not spared his woman his fangs." he judged with approval.

“A fair bit better I wager," she shot back, blade held between them as they circled; “He managed tae teach me without markin' me up like a cuttin' board," she said, she had little wonder where the scars on Louis' face came from, and this little exchange had all but solidified that. Karnov did not even flinch.

“Louis learned lessons that could be taught with naught but steel, it seems perhaps I shall remind you of what it teaches," he said, and that glimmer of curiosity winked out of his eyes, and Lidia realized in but a scant heartbeat what that meant as the man's pale eyes turned flat as rimed stone.

Oh shite.

The explosion of violence was almost without warning, the mercy he had been showing her clearly spent with his interest, and the little changeling didn't even have time to swear as she was forced to meet him head on. His first combination was so quick that she had to genuinely pressure herself to meet it, even with her preternatural agility she found Karnov's sheer alacrity to be alarming, fast as if not faster than Gram, and more than able to keep pace with her own fae-given fleetness. They clashed with a ferocious energy that from the outside looked more like a running dance than combat, Karnov's style aggressive and voracious, like the Red Wolf he took the name of — he harried her flanks and then dove at her in champing, pincer-like combinations that forced the smaller, still more-nimble changeling to duck and whirl away from blows as much as guard or parry.

End to end of the arena they went, Karnov driving or Lidia leading it depended on the exchange, she used his size against him, staying low and quick, her attacks drove up at him under his guard, and her own hodgepodge style gave her an edge in keeping him guessing, but in reality she found herself more than anything simply taxed to her limits staying afloat in the melee. Karnov's energy seemed limitless, one combination flowing seamlessly into another with few breaks or pauses, and he used his size against her as well, exploiting his reach to whip and harry her with the tip of his blade much as she did him, both adapting on the fly as they came to the center of the arena again, positions reversed.

The little changeling hopped backwards, once, twice, thrice in a row just barely ahead of a saidsame number of blazing fast cuts, Karnov stepping forward in a looping overhand tempo at her before she sliced down on his weapon, whirling the two blades up high and letting her duck in low under his guard, twisting her body to drag the blade back around into a vicious cut at his midsection — only to instead be brought up short by his offhand balling into a fist and quite ruthlessly punching her square in the face.

Lidia had been hit before, many times in fact. Kull had not been spare with the flat of his palm, and the kids had been none gentler as she had scrabbled in the gutters. Gram as well, was frequently prone to striking her in the chest or belly during training. Yet never, ever had she ever truly been struck as she had when Karnov swung at her. The entire world flashed white and she lost track of up and down momentarily, staggering back drunkenly as her brain ricocheted off the back of her skull. Preternatural reflexes weren't going to save her now as the shock numbed her fingers and she saw the saber whirl back around, unable to get her punch-drunk brain to respond in time. She watched in mute horror as she struggled to right herself as Karnov's blade arched down towards her belly, around her there was another outcry, a tumult of voices distorted by the wad of cotton her concussed brain was wrapped in.

There was a bark of fury, and a new gleaming shape entered her vision — yet again, another blade, arching in as a mirror to the previous to intercept Karnov's darting blade, locking it up tight against the other's familiar, flat guard.

“Gram…!" she gasped, and lo it was him, like a vengeful hound he'd all but sprinted into the ring, blade free, tradition be damned it seemed — and now held Karnov's blade in a hilt-to-hilt bind, the two men of a size and shape with one another, staring eyes blazing across the lock.

“You have developed a poor habit of abusing the women in my life," Gram growled in a tone so frigid it cut through the tumult around of complaining soldiers and barking bystanders, “First my mother, and now I come to find you having laid hands on my bride?"

“Baudelaire men have a poor habit of leaving their women undefended," Karnov returned in that same flat tone with it's matching flat eyes. Gram's nostrils flared.

“Let us amend that forthwith."

Avalov’s strong hand caught her under the arm, pulling her bodily away from the only momentarily-halted violence with little effort, the still-groggy changeling barely able to stand as the tension crackled between the men on the stands, her half-blind gaze fixed on Gram, the side of her face where she had been struck already swelling closed — she was still reeling from the blow to be honest. She had never really been struck like that, even in mortal struggle with the monsters of the Empty Queen, she’d always been quicker, too slippery to hit square. Karnov had little problem doing so, and that was terrifying. Avalov settled her down against a barrel near the edge of the sands, giving her hand a little squeeze. She smiled weakly before the collective hitch of breaths drew her eyes back to the sands.

Gram gave a mighty shove, pushing the two men apart bodily, stalking around opposite of the Baron’s shirtless frame, the younger man still dressed in his usual casual breeches and trousers. A new backbeat of fear tightened Lidia’s throat as she saw the now-familiar, now-terrifying gleam of interest return to Karnov’s eyes as he raised his saber to the younger man, the two practically reflections in a broken mirror.

Gram struck first, anger in his posture so subtle that Lidia felt certain naught but she could see it. Fury lived like an icy void inside of him, a cold expanse within the man she’d built a home in and felt her love warm inside of him in their closest moments. Gram’s first attacks were merciless, launching into an immediate offline routine that harried hard at Karnov’s flank. He drove in at him with a lunging series of cuts and thrusts aimed not at the Baron’s vitals, but arms, legs, and fingers sniping and cutting at his limbs and forcing the elder warrior to dance and parry with vigor to avoid disabling, savage hacks and slashes. The row behind them burst forth in cries and accusations, both sides almost descending into a general brawl as sparks flew between the men’s blades — this was no simple contest, this was a duel with killing intent. Gram gave a snarl of pain as the Baron met one of his parries short and rolled his saber down the length of the cavalier’s blade, laying his arm open in a bloody slash — Gram dancing back and resetting to neutral as the red stained his shirt — acknowledging the wound with little more than a hiss of annoyance.

“Louis would do well to emulate your poise,” Karnov said, flicking the blood from his blade with a stately motion, “You are furious, and yet… look at you,” he said spreading his free hand at Gram’s frosty, focused demeanor, even as blood ran freely down one arm he simply rotated back around the other man as they circled one another, never quite staying still — both of their monikers stood strong, defining them. The Red Wolf and The Black Dog, the fierce ruler and the dutiful soldier. Gram offered him no response, which seemed to only please Karnov all the same, the man smiling approvingly.

Karnov leapt to the attack then, literally springing forward in a savage thrust and cut combo aimed hard at Gram’s legs and belly — both Wolf and Hound trying to hamstring their opponent, geld their movements, bring them down piece by piece. Gram answered with shocking aplomb as the roar of the men and the spitting arguments in two languages increased, each side of the yard now arrayed at their own edge of the sands, Avalov and Shkuro both standing as veritable dams against the tide of humanity, spitting and shouting across the middle as Gram and Karnov clashed, Lidia saw beyond in the doorway she’d entered, Richart stood apart, his face a mask of grief and fear, holding Colette’s huddled form against his chest. Alphonse stood beside him, his face a blank slate of worry. A house divided, Karnov had been more right than she knew.

The pace of the duel was more than her shaken brain could fully keep track of, the two masters or very nearly so — the seasoned soldier who had triumphed against no less than nine of the Queen’s Champions in single combat against decades of experience, of conditioning and guile earned leading men — to watch them go at one another in earnest was almost beautiful. Like dancers they leapt and cavorted with agility and ferocity. The blades flashed and gleamed and neither maintained an upper hand for more than perhaps a few steps. Gram engaged in fierce, aggressive gambits he’d never even shown her let alone turned against her, The Baron’s skill demanding his own in kind.

Karnov pounced in again, body weaving around a sniped cut at his face from Gram, turning that momentum into a slice at Gram’s leg that he evaded by high-stepping over it, slamming his foot down on Karnov’s instep in return and driving his shoulder into the man, both fighters bouncing off one another and returning together in a quick one-two cut and parry exchange, almost no momentum lost between, and Lidia saw their faces and felt her breath leave her. Karnov was utterly serene, no stress nor fury in his gaze, a calm and easy composure as each hit landed or exchange failed, those winter eyes alive with a glimmer of almost joyous focus. A perfect center in the torrent of blades — and opposite of him, Gram was a frigid mirror of quiet fury, never once so much as uttering a barb — there was no cross-talk to speak of period. They spoke with their blades. She had only seen Gram so focused a few times before — and never without the bodies of the dead lying at his feet.

Karnov went in again, driving furiously forwards in a rapid-fire series of slices aimed at face and torso, but Gram met him on the for, smashing his parries against Karnov’s with such force that the blades rang, and with each hit the roars of the surrounding men only went higher — Karnov recoiled off Gram and attempted to recover with a wider swing, only for Gram to meet him midway with a driving elbow to the sternum, turning his offside into the thrust. An explosion of air left Karnov’s lungs and he was held up a step, bringing his blade in line to block the whirling cut Gram answered the opening with — but at last, it was a ruse. Gram drove his blade along the curve of Karnov’s saber the same as he had done to his arm, thrusting it hard forward and up, the angle of the blade carving a shallow gash across Karnov’s face and causing him to flinch back from the cut, to which Gram drew the weapon back out and down savagely, laying a long, and fairly deep gouge across Karnov’s bare breast. Blood rained onto the sands, and Gram drew his blade back, raising it just above his eyeline so the dripping gore ran down above where his gazed locked onto Karnov’s, the two men freezing in place. Avalov seized the moment and raised his quiet voice with that same, noise-breaking authority that required no volume.

“Blood from the torso, Break apart.” He barked and the whole yard fell eerily silent, the two fighters standing off at a blade’s length. Karnov’s face was unreadable, his eyes gleamed with that sparkle of curiosity, Gram was similarly still a cold mask of readiness.

“Gram is the victor. Blood tells, all else lies.”

There was no cheer, the tension in the yard was if anything, thicker and more palpable as the two soldiers stood off. Karnov relented first, reaching up to touch the thin slash across his face. Karnov had no shortage of scars, dueling and otherwise, but the slice would present quite a noticeable wound, one that now muzzy-headed Lidia recognized as the same sort of slice and placement as the one on Louis’ face. A deliberate choice. Gram had been clear and present of mind enough in all of that, to cut Karnov in the same way he had his brother.

She loved him to death, but sometimes he scared her.

Karnov however, simply returned to a neutral stance… and of all things, he smiled, looking down at the blood on his fingers as he rubbed it between them thoughtfully.

“A devious gambit, well concealed and executed,” he complimented him, raising his blade in a salute; “I could have not done better myself.”

The words stung Gram, she didn’t need to see any tell to know that. Such a likeness would only fill the man with rancor and disgust. He did not return the salute, his gaze immediately turning to Lidia — his concern for Karnov left at the end of the duel. She raised a hand weakly as the crowd parted around her.

“M’fine… just… dizzy, that’s all…” she said from where she sat at the edge of the sands, near the small table and stools Avalov had been sitting at while she worked. Gram crossed the distance in two strides. She was lying, and he knew it. She felt… awful and as Gram’s hands cupped her face, the scent of the blood from his cut arm caused her stomach to roil, and her head swam. The duel had taken minutes, and she gently pushed him away, “Really, M’fine, jus’…” she tried to stand and suddenly found the sand rushing up to meet her.

She didn’t remember falling, not the feeling nor the impact. She just remembered the taste of the sand in her mouth, the sounds of yelling… and staring up at Karnov, his bloodied face calm and cold as he looked down at her where she lie… and that glimmering curiosity burned behind that wintry gaze. Around her men bustled, and she felt Gram’s hands upon her as the edges of her vision dimmed and the nausea surged within her. Karnov’s gaze did not waver as the tumult churned around him, he watched with that dreadful, curious glimmer in his eyes the last thing she saw.

She felt fear, and then nothing.