Chapter 15 — The Arena That Had Already Decided.

  The battlefield waited in tense silence, as though it knew who was meant to bleed upon it.

  That silence did not last.

  Soon, the grounds overflowed with people—nobles draped in finery, soldiers standing at disciplined attention, and onlookers drawn by the rarity of the spectacle: a sanctioned duel between two princesses of the Orimvess Empire. From the distant stands came the steady beat of drums, slow and measured, echoing through the air like the pulse of an approaching war.

  Every cheer, every rising cry, belonged to one name alone.

  The Twelfth Princess, Arwyn Elowen.

  Her presence burned vivid and undeniable, confidence radiating from her as naturally as heat from the sun. In comparison, the Eleventh Princess, Rynvaris, was scarcely acknowledged—her absence felt expected, her relevance already dismissed, as though nothing she could do would ever rise high enough to reach the crowd’s notice.

  Beyond the edges of the gathering, cloaked figures observed in silence. They did not cheer. They did not whisper. Their eyes gleamed faintly beneath shadowed hoods, waiting—not for victory or defeat, but for what the battle might expose.

  Princess Sylvaris arrived alongside her master, Elara Nightshade—the strongest swordsman and foremost knight of the Orimvess Empire.

  They took their seats in the elevated section reserved for distinguished guests, a place meant for those whose presence alone carried weight.

  “That’s him—Elara Nightshade, the strongest swordsman of the Orimvess Empire…” someone muttered, the words edged with reluctant reverence.

  “What drew his attention?” another whispered. “Did he truly come merely to watch?”

  Beside him, Sylvaris exhaled faintly. “Master, people aren’t paying attention to me because of you.”

  “There’s nothing I can do about that,” Elara replied calmly.

  Sylvaris’s gaze shifted, sharp and knowing. “I believe there’s at least one person here who dislikes your presence.”

  Her eyes flicked briefly toward the Eighth Prince, Elowen Draven.

  Elara followed her glance only slightly. “Several experts have come to observe,” he said quietly. “Even my mother’s personal bodyguard is present.”

  His voice did not rise, yet the meaning carried clearly.

  This was not merely a duel.

  And no one here was permitted to make a mistake.

  -----

  As the Twelfth Princess, Arwyn Elowen, stepped onto the battlefield, the crowd erupted.

  Cheers crashed against one another like waves, banners lifted high, voices rising in unified praise. Her name was shouted openly, proudly, without hesitation. Confidence clung to her every step as she took her place at the center of the arena, posture straight, presence unchallenged—as though victory had already chosen her.

  When the noise finally subsided, anticipation lingered.

  Then time passed.

  And only one princess stood on the field.

  Murmurs spread through the stands, quiet at first, then sharpening with each passing breath.

  “Isn’t the Eleventh Princess supposed to be next?” someone asked.

  “Running late?” another scoffed. “Or running away?”

  Laughter rippled.

  “She’s not coming,” a noble said plainly, adjusting his cloak. “Why would she? Everyone knows she doesn’t stand a chance.”

  “Against Princess Arwyn?” another replied. “Please. This was decided the moment the duel was announced.”

  “She’s weak. Sickly. Untalented,” a woman remarked, her tone dismissive. “Calling her a princess is generous.”

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  “Cowardice suits her better,” someone added. “At least she knows her place.”

  The whispers grew bolder.

  “Useless child.”

  “A stain on the royal bloodline.”

  “She should be grateful the Twelfth Princess didn’t kill her outright.”

  Laughter followed—unrestrained now, comfortable.

  On the battlefield itself, Arwyn waited in silence, arms relaxed at her sides. She did not need to provoke them. The crowd did it for her.

  From the elevated seating, Princess Sylvaris’s expression hardened.

  “Where is Ray?” she said, her voice tight. “If she doesn’t come now, the match will be forfeited.”

  Elara Nightshade remained composed, his gaze fixed on the empty entrance opposite the field.

  “She will come,” he said evenly.

  Sylvaris frowned. “They’ve already decided she’s lost.”

  Elara did not look away. “Crowds are often certain,” he replied. “That does not make them correct.”

  Below, the arena waited—heavy with judgment, heavy with expectation.

  And still, the Eleventh Princess had not appeared.

  ------

  At the betting side, the atmosphere was loud with certainty.

  Coins clinked against wooden counters, hands moving quickly, confidently—almost lazily. There was no tension here, no hesitation. The outcome, in the eyes of the crowd, had already been decided.

  Every pile of gold slid in the same direction.

  The Twelfth Princess, Arwyn Elowen.

  Maid Moon stood beside Princess Rynvaris at the very edge of the crowd, partially obscured by taller figures and louder voices. From where they stood, Moon could see the betting board clearly—and felt her stomach tighten.

  Nearly every name written there was the same.

  “Princess,” Moon whispered, uneasy, “why are we here?”

  Rynvaris glanced at the board once, her expression calm, almost detached.

  “Obviously…” she said lightly, “to make money.”

  Moon blinked. “Make—?”

  Rynvaris stepped forward before she could finish. “Hey,” she called, voice clear but unremarkable, “tell me the odds.”

  The man behind the counter looked down at her, then back at the board. “Three to thirty,” he said, barely interested. “Against Princess Rynvaris.”

  Raynvaris nodded once. “I’ll place ten gold coins on Princess Rynvaris.”

  The counter fell momentarily quiet.

  A few nearby bettors snorted.

  “She’s still taking bets on that one?”

  The man finally looked at her properly. “Child… are you certain?” he asked. “Everyone’s betting on the Twelfth Princess.”

  As if to prove the point, another stack of coins slammed onto the counter beside her.

  “Arwyn Elowen,” a noble declared without hesitation.

  “Yes,” Rynvaris replied calmly. “I’m sure.”

  Moon leaned closer, panic slipping into her voice. “Princess, our budget for the entire month was only five gold coins. Where did you get the other five?”

  Rynvaris didn’t look at her. “I won them,” she said simply.

  Moon frowned. “Won them…?”

  “A small bet,” Rynvaris replied. “At the First Princess’s villa.”

  Rayvaris stiffened, remembering. “…The soldier,and explain to moon."

  “Yes.”

  Moon swallowed. “But Princess,” she whispered urgently, “what will we do if you lose?”

  Rynvaris met her gaze at last. There was no bravado in her eyes. No smile. Just quiet certainty.

  “I’m not going to lose.”

  A man standing a short distance away had been watching in silence. He didn’t know the rules of betting. Didn’t understand odds or payouts. But something about the girl’s voice—steady, unafraid—made him pause.

  He looked down at the single coin in his hand.

  Then at the board.

  Then back at her.

  “…I’ll place mine on Princess Rynvaris,” he said hesitantly, pushing the coin forward.

  A few heads turned. Someone laughed.

  “One coin won’t change anything.”

  The man didn’t respond. He simply stepped back.

  Moon exhaled shakily.

  “Princess… from here on, you should go alone,” she said at last. “I’ll watch from above.”

  Rynvaris nodded once.

  Behind them, the counter filled again—gold flowing without doubt, without fear.

  All of it for the Twelfth Princess.

  Only a handful, barely worth noting, bore the name of the Eleventh.

  -----

  “There she is!” Sylvaris’s voice rang out sharply from the elevated seating.

  Heads turned at once.

  A ripple of attention swept through the stands as a lone figure stepped into view at the edge of the battleground. For a brief moment, cheers rose—reflexive, uncertain—born more from expectation than recognition.

  Then the crowd saw her clearly.

  The sound faltered.

  Whispers replaced applause.

  “That’s… her?”

  “So small.”

  “That’s the Eleventh Princess?”

  Snickers followed, unrestrained now.

  Rynvaris walked forward at an unhurried pace, her steps measured, her posture steady. She wore a simple battle outfit—functional, unadorned, the kind typically issued to trainee boys rather than royal daughters. It drew no admiration. Only judgment.

  “She didn’t even dress like a princess.”

  “Does she think this is training?”

  “Is that really what she brought to face Princess Arwyn?”

  Laughter rippled again.

  Rynvaris did not react. She stopped at the edge of the arena and lifted her gaze toward the stands—not in defiance, not in fear, but as one might look upon distant noise.

  At the center of the field, the Twelfth Princess waited.

  Arwyn Elowen stood tall, armor polished, presence unshaken. When her eyes met Rynvaris’s, the contrast was immediate and cruel—radiance against restraint, certainty against silence.

  “So she actually came.”

  “Brave,” someone scoffed. “Or stupid.”

  Rynvaris stepped forward and began to climb onto the stage. Each step drew more whispers, more quiet cruelty.

  “She’s shaking.”

  “No—look at her. She’s pretending to be calm.”

  “Why drag this out? Just end it.”

  When she reached the top, the two princesses faced one another at last.

  Neither spoke.

  The space between them felt heavy—crowded with expectation, sharpened by contempt.

  The referee raised his hand.

  “Prepare yourselves.”

  The noise died instantly.

  Breaths were held. Even the mockery paused, suspended in that fragile moment before violence.

  At the signal, the match was declared begun.

  And in that silence, one truth ruled the thoughts of every witness present:

  The Twelfth Princess would win.

  There was no doubt.

  No exception.

  No room for miracles.

  No one—not a single soul in the arena—believed that Princess Rynvaris could change what was about to happen.

  No one…

  …except her.

  -------