Eric’s fingers rested lightly against the arm of his chair as the meeting hall slowly settled back into silence.
The four lords of House Vikram remained seated, but their attention had sharpened, drawn inward, focused on the single figure standing at the center of the chamber.
Michael Jord.
He stood straight, hands relaxed at his sides, expression composed. Yet his eyes were sharp—too sharp for a man who claimed to have come merely as a messenger. They moved subtly, tracking posture, distance, reactions. Not the eyes of a courtier.
The eyes of a fighter.
“I’ll agree,” Eric said at last.
The words fell without flourish.
A ripple of restrained surprise passed through the lords. Lord Garrick’s shoulders tensed. Lady Claire inhaled quietly. Lady Maris’s lips curved faintly, not in triumph, but interest. Lord Tibe remained still, eyes thoughtful.
Eric did not look at any of them.
His gaze remained fixed on Michael.
“But first,” Eric continued, his voice even, “I want to know something.”
Michael inclined his head slightly. “Ask, my lord.”
“Can you fight?”
The question was simple.
Direct.
Dangerous.
For a heartbeat, the hall seemed to hold its breath.
Michael did not hesitate. “Yes.”
Eric studied him for a moment longer, searching for bravado, uncertainty, deception.
He found none.
“Then,” Eric said, turning his head slightly, “take him to the training ground.”
The butler stepped forward immediately, bowing low. “This way, young master.”
Michael followed without protest or comment.
The training ground lay beyond the inner walls of House Vikram—a wide stone courtyard open to the night sky. Spell-resistant barriers shimmered faintly at its perimeter, invisible unless one knew where to look. Thick pillars carved with ancient sigils stood at measured intervals, their surfaces scarred by generations of battle.
The ground itself bore the history of power: cracks split the stone, scorch marks layered over one another, grooves gouged deep by blades and spells that had missed their marks—or struck too hard.
This was not a place for ceremony.
It was a place for truth.
The four lords gathered along the edge of the courtyard, forming a loose semicircle. None spoke. All watched.
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Eric stepped forward and removed his cloak, handing it to a waiting attendant. The night air brushed against his arms, cool and sharp.
“You’ll be my tester,” Eric said, eyes on Michael. “You claim you can fight. Let’s see how true that is.”
Michael rolled his shoulders once, loosening them, then planted his feet lightly on the stone. “Understood.”
The butler raised his hand, eyes flicking between the two men. “Begin.”
Eric moved first.
There was no warning.
No buildup.
Heat bloomed instantly around him, flooding outward as flames surged into existence above his palm. The fire grew fast—too fast—coiling and swelling into a roaring mass that distorted the air itself. The stone beneath Eric’s feet darkened, heat biting down through layers of enchantment.
With a sharp motion, Eric thrust his hand forward.
The firestorm screamed across the courtyard.
Michael’s eyes narrowed. He did not retreat.
He planted one foot back and swept his arm sideways, fingers spread wide. “Wind Gale.”
The air answered.
A violent surge of wind erupted outward, roaring like a living thing. It slammed head-on into the incoming flames, compressing them violently before tearing them aside. The fire twisted, shrieked, then was hurled sideways, crashing against a stone pillar and dispersing into a storm of embers.
Heat washed across the courtyard.
Several of the lords exchanged glances.
Eric did not react.
Instead, the fire around him condensed again—this time tighter, denser, drawn inward by pure intent. He raised one finger.
The flame folded in on itself, shrinking rapidly until it was no larger than a marble. Its glow sharpened, shifting toward white-hot brilliance.
Michael’s pupils shrank.
Eric flicked his finger.
The fire bullet screamed through the air.
Michael vanished in a burst of compressed wind. “Wind Step!”
The projectile passed through the space where Michael’s head had been less than a fraction of a second earlier and detonated against the far wall. The impact was brutal—stone shattered inward, a deep crater punched clean through reinforced masonry.
Dust and debris exploded outward.
Michael reappeared several meters away, boots skidding slightly as he regained balance. His breath was steady.
But his expression had changed.
Before he could fully settle—
A second fire bullet was already flying.
Michael’s eyes widened.
Too fast.
He twisted his stance sharply and drew in a deep breath, muscles tensing as he focused everything into a single strike. “Wind Slash!”
A crescent blade of compressed air tore forward, shrieking as it cut through the courtyard.
For an instant, it seemed enough.
Then the fire bullet punched straight through it.
The wind blade shattered like glass.
The fire grazed Michael’s face—hot, cutting, merciless—splitting skin near his ear before slamming into the wall behind him.
The explosion shook the courtyard.
Stone cracked. Dust billowed. The barriers flared briefly, absorbing the shock.
When the debris cleared, Michael stood frozen.
Blood trailed down the side of his face, stark against his skin. His eyes were wide—not in pain, but disbelief.
Eric lowered his hand slowly, the residual heat around him fading.
“I should name that,” he murmured to himself.
Michael exhaled, then laughed softly. It was short, breathless, genuine.
He stepped forward despite the blood and bowed deeply. “You really are strong.”
Eric shook his head once. “No. I’m not.”
Michael looked up sharply. “Among my siblings, I’m the strongest.”
Eric met his gaze calmly. “Don’t sugarcoat it. You weren’t using your full strength.”
For a fleeting instant, Michael’s expression twitched—surprise, then something like resignation.
Eric turned away. “We’ll fight again sometime.”
He glanced toward the lords. “Heal him.”
Lady Claire stepped forward immediately. She raised her hand near Michael’s wound, murmuring softly. A gentle glow enveloped the cut, warmth spreading as the skin knit itself closed cleanly, leaving no scar.
Michael touched his face, then bowed again, deeper this time.
Eric faced them all.
“I’ve made up my mind,” he said. “I accept the deal.”
Two of the lords opened their mouths to object.
Eric’s gaze snapped toward them.
“I’ll be registering at the guild as an adventurer.”
The objections died instantly.
“That gives me strength,” Eric continued, “and information. Two birds with one stone.”
He paused, then added, his voice absolute, “And I’m not accepting any objections.”
The finality in his tone left no room for argument.
Eric turned away, already done. “I’m taking a rest. You all should return to your houses and do the same.”
He stopped briefly. “Butler.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Take Michael to a guest room. Let him rest.”
Michael bowed deeply once more as he was led away.
