Valeria stood at the edge of the terrace, unmoving.
Her breath had stopped somewhere in the middle of that final clash. Her fingers, pale against the marble railing, dug just slightly into the stone—pressing down to keep herself grounded in this moment that felt too vast, too charged, too alive to be real.
The draw was announced.
But her ears barely registered it.
Her eyes were wide. Unblinking.
Because what she had just witnessed wasn't a duel.
It was a revelation.
Not a show of strength. Not a contest of pride.
It was a conversation between souls. Between two blades.
And her own sword, resting at her side like ceremonial jewelry, felt suddenly loud in its silence.
No—it wasn't silent.
It was calling her.
A quiet tug in her chest. A pull that started as awe, bled into hunger, and settled deep into the marrow of something wordless.
For the first time in her life, Valeria wished she hadn't been born a noble.
Not because of shame.
