"I think not." Clarence Cross stepped into the room with unshaken poise, his midnight cloak brushing the polished floor like a falling stage curtain—ominous, deliberate. His presence alone shifted the air, a new actor interrupting a tyrant's monologue.
"I'm here to elaborate on the deal I mentioned earlier," he said, smooth and sharp as a drawn blade. He turned to Lucian, his expression calm, unwavering. "I'll be taking Lucian." Lucian stared at him—caught somewhere between confusion and cautious hope. Why him? Why now? He didn't understand Clarence's motives, but frankly, he didn't care. He needed help. And this... this was help.
Eberhard took a step forward, eyes cold, voice low. "And what do you think you're doing, Lord Clarence?" "Taking Lucian," Clarence replied, casual. "What else?" "No—I heard you the first time." Eberhard's tone darkened, laced with mockery. "I simply assumed you were smarter than this. I thought you'd be grounded by Arlen's reason, but it seems that barbaric woman's temper has rubbed off on you."
Clarence's smile didn't waver. "Please, Eberhard. I always weigh my choices. Twice, even." He took a step forward. "But this time? I didn't need to think once." Eberhard's eyes narrowed, a smirk spreading across his face like a crack on glass. "Clearly. Your foolishness makes that abundantly clear."
Clarence shrugged, already turning toward the door. "Believe what you want. Now, if you'll excuse us—" But Eberhard moved first, placing himself in front of the doorway like a closing gate. "Just a moment, Lord Clarence." His voice coiled with menace. "You think you can barge into the lion's den and walk out with its prey?"
He pulled the heavy curtain aside with a flourish. Outside the villa's grand window, a grim sight unfolded—Eberhard's private guards had filled the courtyard. Crossbows were raised. Steel glinted in the golden afternoon sun. "The pieces," Eberhard said, savoring the words, "are already set on the board. Are you truly ready to descend upon the battlefield?" His smirk was a knife meant to cut through hope.
Clarence said nothing. He simply turned to the window himself—and smiled. "You're not the only one who came prepared." He gave a small, deliberate gesture. Eberhard, confused, turned back to the window. The sight had changed. His soldiers—his—were now engaged in sudden chaos. Figures in unmarked cloaks struck from the shadows. Muffled clashes. Flames rising. Arrows from rooftops. His men were being dismantled in real time.
Eberhard's face twisted. "You… what did you do?" His voice had dropped, laced with quiet rage. Clarence didn't answer right away. He looked at Lucian, then back at Eberhard. "What? Did you really think you were the only one with power in this city?"
He gave a faint chuckle, almost pitying. "Well... not that it matters." Clarence turned again. "Let's go, Lucian." And this time, no one stood in their way.
Eberhard wasn't one to give up his prey so easily. By the time dusk painted the sky in shades of burning orange, a sealed letter had arrived at The Liberation Front's safehouse—stamped with the official crest of Heilen's legal authority.
And by morning, the game had changed. No more cloak-and-dagger skirmishes. No more silent power plays.
This was now a battle of laws—clean, polished, and paraded under the sun. Lucian walked alongside Clarence through the early morning crowds of Hinterufer. The city was already awake, its stone-paved streets humming with distant market chatter and the clatter of merchant carts. Yet despite the life all around him, Lucian felt the weight of the silence between each step.
"Where are we going?" Lucian finally asked, his voice soft but laced with unease. Clarence didn't turn his head as he walked—eyes steady, cloak trailing behind him with that same calm certainty. "We're headed to the High Seat of Judicars," he answered. "It's the highest court in Hinterufer. The Heilen authorities have called for a formal hearing to resolve this... dispute."
Lucian's pace slowed. "And you're going with me?" Clarence offered a small nod, as though the question didn't even need answering. "Of course. You're not alone in this, Lucian. Not anymore." Lucian looked ahead for a moment—towards the heart of the city, where towering structures pierced the sky like ancient stone obelisks. Then he looked back at Clarence. "Why?" he asked, voice cracking slightly. "Why are you doing this? You don't even know me. We've barely spoken… and yet, you're risking all this... for me."
Clarence finally stopped walking. Lucian stopped too. There was a pause—quiet, but not empty. Then Clarence turned, his expression softening as he reached out and placed a gentle hand atop Lucian's head. His voice carried the weight of memories, quiet resolve, and kindness stitched with scars. "Because we were all like you, once. Alone. Shackled. Unseen."
His hand ruffled Lucian's hair lightly, in the way an older brother might. "And then someone came. Someone who saw us. Who believed in us. Who risked something for us." A faint, wistful smile tugged at his lips. "So now we carry it forward. That same legacy. That same light." Lucian's chest tightened, breath catching in his throat. Something in him—hollowed and dark—stirred like soil cracking to make room for bloom. Maybe, he thought, maybe I don't have to walk in chains forever.
He blinked quickly and looked away, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Thank you," he whispered. They continued walking.
As they neared the High Seat of Judicars, the scenery changed. The bustling common streets gave way to silent marble steps and ceremonial columns that loomed like sentinels. The court stood atop a crescent plateau in eastern Hinterufer, surrounded by tranquil reflecting pools and prismatic glass windows that filtered sunlight into shifting hues—a symbol of impartiality, where no color held dominance for long.
Enormous statues of blindfolded women with open arms and broken chains marked the entrance. At their feet, an inscription in old Versmirean read: "Truth does not kneel, and justice must not sleep." Lucian stared up at the structure. The weight of what lay inside pressed against his chest. But Clarence walked beside him, steady as ever. And for once, Lucian didn't feel like he was walking into a cage. He felt like he was walking into battle—with people who would fight beside him.
Outside the High Seat of Judicars
Lucian and Clarence crossed through the marble courtyard leading to the courthouse, where a few operatives of The Liberation Front were already stationed. Dressed in dark formal uniforms bearing the sun-emblem of TLF, they nodded as the pair approached. One of them—Julius, tall and sharp-eyed—stepped forward briskly.
"Lord Clarence," Julius greeted, "we've filed the injunction against the control contract. The court has acknowledged it as an unnecessary and oppressive limitation—so it won't hold in the upcoming hearing." "Good," Clarence said. "And Lucian's legal status?"
Julius's face tightened slightly. "Still recognized as Eberhard Blaze's slave under current Hinterufer registry. You'll need to settle that... either through coin or challenge." Clarence nodded once. No hesitation. "Understood."
They reached the base of the courthouse steps, where two large Judicar guards flanked the entrance. Clarence turned to Lucian, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Wait here. Trust me—I'll make it right." Lucian met his gaze and nodded.
As Clarence ascended the steps and disappeared into the grand hall of justice, Lucian stared at the massive archway, heart pounding. The stone above was engraved with an age-old phrase: "Let the law silence power, and justice bind kings."
Inside the Courtroom
The High Seat of Judicars was a vaulted chamber of silence and severity. Latticed glass windows let beams of golden light fall in calculated lines across the chamber floor. Three robed figures sat on the raised tribunal bench—the Triumvirate, overseeing today's proceedings.
Eberhard Blaze lounged on the opposing side of the chamber, dressed in an immaculately black velvet tunic, silver chains coiled around his fingers like snakes waiting to strike. A predator in polished form. Clarence took his place across from him, jaw set.
The central judge banged the gavel. "The final hearing for the ownership and liberation status of Lucian Verlain will now begin. The High Seat of Judicars serves as witness and neutral advisor. You may begin."
Clarence didn't waste time. "I wish to buy Lucian's ownership from Eberhard Blaze. Name your price." Eberhard leaned back, amused. "Lucian isn't a bag of grain you can haggle for, Cross. But if you must know…" he waved a hand lazily, "One thousand gold coins. That should suffice." Clarence narrowed his eyes. "That price is absurd." Before Eberhard could answer, the middle judge interjected. "It is unreasonable by legal standard. Explain yourself, Lord Blaze."
Eberhard held up a hand casually. "With all due respect, your Honor, it is my right to set the terms. I neither wish to part with Lucian nor do I require compensation. So if one must pry him from my grip, the price must reflect the depth of my reluctance." He leaned back in his seat, wearing a satisfied smirk.
Clarence drew in a breath—then stood tall. "Money won't cut it, huh? Fine." He stepped forward. "I, Clarence Cross, third representative of The Liberation Front, formally invoke my right to trial by duel—for the emancipation of Lucian Verlain. Eberhard Blaze, either accept the challenge… or surrender the boy."
Gasps echoed through the chamber. Even the judges stiffened. The central judge turned sharply to Eberhard. "A duel has been formally declared. What is your answer, Lord Blaze?" The tension rippled like thunder through still water. Eberhard stood slowly, his expression twisted in cold amusement. "I accept." The judge slammed the gavel. "The challenge is accepted. The court will now adjourn. All further matters shall be settled through the rite of arms." The chamber fell silent. The pieces were in place. The law had spoken. Now only the clash of blades remained.
Everyone dispersed, each heading to their own corner of the storm they now found themselves in. That night, Hinterufer held its breath. A silence blanketed the city—not the peace of resolution, but the stillness before calamity. The calm before blades danced.
When morning arrived, it brought with it a chill sharper than usual, as if the air itself knew what was coming.
The Liberation Front moved as a unit, precise and prepared. Lucian walked alongside Dawn, Arlen, and Clarence as they approached the Colosseum of Chains—a towering structure of dark stone and aged iron, known for bloodied sands and verdicts written in combat.
At the entrance, Clarence gave a final glance to Lucian before parting. "Stay close to Arlen," he said. "And don't worry." Lucian wanted to speak, but only nodded. The warriors were separated, each taken to their respective preparation chambers beneath the arena. The cold stone walls seemed to hum with echoes of past duels—screams, victories, deaths. Clarence sat on a bench, hands resting lightly on his knees, gaze lowered in contemplation.
The door creaked open. Dawn stepped in, leaning casually against the stone wall. "You nervous?" she asked, arms crossed, voice calm but knowing. Clarence didn't look up. "Not really." Dawn rolled her eyes. "Liar. I can hear it in your voice."
He sighed, cracking a tired smile. "Okay. Maybe a little." Dawn stepped closer, her usual sarcasm gone. Her expression turned sincere, maybe even a little vulnerable. "Don't be. I believe in you."
Clarence finally looked at her, surprise flickering across his face. "Thanks." But Dawn wasn't done. She stepped forward, grabbed his chin, and turned his face toward hers with unflinching seriousness. "I don't need your thanks, Clarence. I need you to win." Her eyes locked into his, unwavering. "So win." For a moment, everything else disappeared. The weight, the pressure, the fear. All that remained was her faith in him. Clarence nodded, his voice firm this time. "I will."
The gates groaned open. Clarence stepped into the arena, sunlight spilling over the marble and stone like a spotlight on a stage. The weight of his sword settled at his hip as he walked with calm precision, each step echoing through the silence of the Colosseum battlefield.
Above him, thousands watched in silence. In the High Seat, framed in gold and crimson, sat Alvaro Atlantes Baron, King of Heilen—regal and unreadable, his face carved in the patience of power. To his right stood General Jorg Zagyg, broad-shouldered and clad in ceremonial iron, arms folded across his chest. On the king's left sat Sir Adel Foster, his eyes narrowed beneath the glint of his monocle, the quiet cunning of Heilen's mind behind the throne. They observed Clarence like one might study a curious specimen.
Clarence's gaze swept the arena, his breath steady, the warmth of the sun catching the edge of his blade. "Eberhard…" he whispered under his breath, bracing himself. But from the opposite gate… it wasn't Eberhard who stepped forth. A ripple of confusion passed through the crowd like wind across tall grass.
The figure who emerged was taller, colder, clad in jet-black armor edged in silver. His stride was silent, confident, and terrifyingly smooth. The moment he entered, the very air around the Colosseum seemed to still. Clarence's eyes widened. The announcer's voice boomed: "Representing Eberhard Blaze… the champion of Heilen… the indomitable blade… Yves Merlin, Knight of the Black Dawn." The crowd erupted. Clarence stood still, absorbing the weight of what had just happened. This wasn't just a duel anymore. It was a trap. A message. A mockery. Eberhard hadn't come to fight.
He had sent the kingdom's strongest knight instead.