~The Heir Who Does Not Tremble~
The hall resumed its rhythm.
Wine poured, conversation revived, laughter returned as if the duel were simply entertainment.
But it wasn't, and everyone knew it.
Kel walked from the dueling arena back into the Grand Lunar Hall at the same pace as before—unhurried, unshaken.
Yet with every step, his body screamed.
The cold night air had sharpened the pain like glass beneath his skin. Each movement pulled at the fragile muscles that had barely recovered from weeks of training. Sweat clung to his spine beneath his clothes. Beneath the carefully tailored attire, his heart pounded with the heavy rhythm of a man suppressing collapse.
But his face, his posture, and his gait… remained utterly composed.
His coat folded neatly over one arm, the other trailing at his side as if weary but unconcerned. The minor tremor across his right hand was masked by the slow elegance with which he held his goblet.
A servant passed. Kel offered a polite nod.
Not too shallow—that would show weakness.
Not too confident—that would show arrogance.
Just right.
He returned to his original place among the guests, took his seat slowly, allowing the motion to blend naturally with his composed demeanor. His breathing grew more controlled, falling into Essence of Breath technique—small, silent, grounding him from within.
Don't let it show.
The wooden chair felt like steel blades under his skin. He adjusted his seating posture with subtle precision. No dramatisation. No tension.
Just stillness.
Like a masked emperor whose wounds were none of the world's concern.
Surroundings
The hall glowed in dim bronze amber, candlelight scattering across obsidian marble tiles. Chandelier crystals reflected noble silhouettes like fractured memories.
Silken banners bearing the Rosenfeld sigil—dragon encircling thorns—hung above, heavy with lineage and expectation.
Kel sat isolated by choice, positioned adjacent to the northern pillar where shadows pooled deeper than anywhere else.
Even in his stillness, he looked like someone carved into the space rather than seated.
Eyes on Him
A nobleman glanced his way.
Kel lifted his goblet.
The noble looked away first.
A lady whispered to a friend, her voice kept low.
Kel appeared not to hear.
But he did.
Let them speak. So long as they speak of control, not collapse.
…Pain is rising.
His fingers tightened imperceptibly around the cup.
The duel barely lasted a minute, yet this body… even that was too much.
Sudden pulse of agony shot through his joints.
Not outwardly.
Inside.
He forced his lips to remain in a neutral line.
A single win means nothing if I fall after it. Their doubts will return twice as strong.
His gaze drifted toward the balcony where his father still stood.
Father watched. He saw enough to reconsider—
Another quick pulse.
He inhaled slowly.
—but not enough to acknowledge me.
The pain settled again, like a wolf circling, waiting.
Kel straightened a fraction.
I will stand until I choose to fall.
Maintaining Composure
He rested his elbow lightly on the table, eyes drifting across the hall as though admiring the decor, as though the world existed in perfect tranquility.
Only the faintest tremor ran across his knuckles before he steadied his hand.
He tilted his head slightly, dark hair falling to one side in perfect alignment.
The nobles saw elegance.
They did not see survival.
Background Conversation
"His control is… unnerving," someone whispered.
"He didn't even gloat after winning," another replied.
"That makes it worse."
"Yes. A man who reacts to insult without emotion—what else does he not react to?"
Kel caught none of those words directly.
He simply knew.
His Condition Worsens — Quietly
Heat surged under his skin—curse reacting to strain, trying to shut his body down.
His vision blurred for a heartbeat.
Kel blinked once.
Slow.
Gracefully.
And cleared it.
A bead of sweat threatened to gather at his temple.
He shifted his angle so the torchlight would not reveal it.
Damn it… not now.
He lowered his goblet, careful not to clench too tightly; crystal fracture would draw attention.
He let his fingers relax.
If I collapse here…
All progress is undone.
The pain reached its peak.
Kel leaned back slightly, disguised as adjusting his seating alignment.
…Breathe.
"A sword is not technique. It is will."
Ser Kayden's words.
He inhaled through his nose, slow.
Held.
Exhaled gently.
The curse's agony dulled marginally.
His heartbeat slowed to controlled rhythm.
His Eyes Shift
He lifted his gaze across the hall.
Across smiles curled too perfectly.
Across eyes watching too attentively.
He didn't glare.
He didn't show defiance.
He simply looked.
Calm.
Unmoving.
Unyielding.
As though he could see where they would stand ten years from now.
And one by one…
People looked away.
Final Thoughts of the Moment
This pain… it's not a wall.
It's the reminder that I am still climbing.
He rested his hand gently on his lap.
If this body breaks again… repair it.
If they try to break me… extract their expectations and turn it into fuel.
A faint flicker of a smile.
Gone before anyone could interpret.
Tonight, the nobles tested whether I could stand without falling.
Tomorrow…
I will test who among them deserves to stand at all.
🕯 Final Frame of Chapter
The candle beside him flickered lightly.
His expression never changed.
But inside—it felt like the first breath taken atop a grave he had refused to lie in.
As the music resumed and servers moved between tables, Kel sat perfectly still.
In full public view.
In full concealed agony.
"Strength is not the absence of pain."
"Strength is when no one sees it."