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LCoT Chapter 45
🕑 Added 2025-08-25 19:58:59 +0000 UTCTulrun grinned at the two fighters in the arena.
He was angry and furious at both his master and the half-blood boy to whom he had given his sword. The sword was one of seven, and from the rumors, it had the power to kill dragons—something most people did not believe. Letting a half-blood touch Scarlet’s Brand was just wrong, and unfair. Tulrun felt he should have had that honor. He had spent years under the Goliath, and the man had never deemed him worthy of holding or even sparring against the blade.
Tulrun now couldn’t wait to see the boy meet his end. If Marcus had been one of the high nobles, or even strong enough to hold the interest of the Church, then no one would have been able to touch him. But he was a half-blood, and his death would not even be remembered.
Next time, his master would pay attention to him after this.
The young Aasimar watched as Lady Seraphine waved her hand and ordered them to begin. There was a yell, and the man dropped. It happened in an instant. The smirk tilted downward and Tulrun’s jaw clenched.
Just like that, it was over.
Tulrun looked at Marcus. The hall was dead silent. The crowd of nobles froze. Lady Ironfax, stirring her glass, suddenly stopped and really looked down. Space cleared for the arena.
Marcus had thought he would have the time to adjust. He thought it would be a series of feints and testing jabs, like in a normal boxing match, but the human noble was not having it.
His opponent rushed him.
Marcus activated his arcane sight and focused on the man, then snarled as he felt it. The human cast his spell of [Lesser Rejuvenating Strength], and the white and red aether flowing off him suddenly stopped and flowed into him.
Marcus activated his [Minor Blood Rush] and [Lesser Strength] spell as soon as the man cast his own. He did not allow him to catch him off guard.
The noble lunged forward with a heavy diagonal swing of his sword, going for brute strength and aiming to cut Marcus’s torso in half.
Marcus acted fast, taking a step to the side, letting the man’s sword whistle past his shoulder. In the same motion, with his enhanced body, he pivoted, planted his foot, and rammed his elbow into the man’s temple. Before their eyes, the noble crumpled instantly to the stone floor like a puppet with its strings cut.
Marcus turned to Arlath and saw a small smirk replace the Goliath’s face. He grabbed the man’s fallen sword and placed its edge on his unconscious body.
“Do I win?”
“You win. Let him have his life,” Arlath said, waving his hand.
Marcus then turned to Clara, his sword still on the unconscious man’s body. Despite Arlath giving his word that the man should be left alive, he did not have the last say.
The room went quiet. The human nobles, now on their feet, stood watching the haired girl. They all waited for her to speak.
The man on the ground groaned, clearly still alive.
“Let him go,” Clara nodded, allowing the room to settle as Marcus threw the sword aside. It bounced with a clang of metal against the stone.
Turning to look at the noble Aasimar, the woman looked stunned, her mouth barely agape.
“My grimoire?” he asked.
“No. Not yet!!!” Tulrun ran out from the crowd of gathered nobles and picked the sword off the ground.
“Another fighter wishes to claim the grimoire. Therefore, there will be another duel.” She crossed her arms and sat back in her throne.
“I’m going to gut you like a pig.”
“You talk too much,” Marcus replied and lunged forward.
“Do not kill him, boy!!” Ivor yelled out.
Marcus stopped his rush, jumped back, and let the blade aimed for his neck cut across in a horizontal line, thin and controlled. The sword stopped midway, and Tulrun thrust forward, aiming to impale him.
Marcus ducked, bobbed, and weaved.
“Finally, a good fight,” a noble in the crowd said.
Marcus bent back far enough for the sword to pass beneath him, barely cutting his gut open and ripping through the tunic and leather vest he wore in pieces.
Marcus narrowed his eyes and sewed threads of red bloodline aether around the Aasimar. His opponent was using a significantly higher-tier bloodline spell than his—or the other boy was doing the same thing as him, casting two spells all at once.
“Look at you. Just give up,” Tulrun mocked, tossing a ball of fire at Marcus.
The half-Aasimar instinctively blocked, but with elemental affinity. Fire engulfed the blade, then his arm, leaving him to stumble back and switch the sword to his left hand.
Tulrun did not give him a chance to assess his injuries. He lunged again, thrusting his sword toward Marcus’s heart.
The pain was unbearable. Marcus could still feel the way it burned his right hand as if it had been fueled by gasoline.
Arlath raised an eyebrow at the damage the tier-one spell caused, and had he not been watching, he would not have noticed Seraphine noticing it as well.
Tulrun brought his sword down in a diagonal swing, and Marcus—remembering Ivor’s teaching—blocked. No, rather, it seemed like he was going to block. Instead, he guided the blade away. He pivoted in the same moment, found his way behind Tulrun, and caught him in a headlock.
Tulrun tried stabbing behind him. Marcus adjusted his hold, seized his arm and head, and squeezed, placing all his weight and aether-given strength into the lock.
He ignored the pain of his burnt flesh until finally the other young man fell limp, and Marcus laid him on the ground.
“Is he dead?”
“He couldn’t dare,” another voice said.
Arlath turned to the side. “It’s good he did not kill the Aasimar boy.” He took a deep drink from his mug. “The Aasimar do not pardon those who kill their nobles.”
Marcus breathed heavily as he walked away, toward the table where the grimoire was placed. He grabbed it and walked away. Not a single one of them said anything.
“What have you done?” Seraphine rose from her throne and glared.
“Relax, Lady Seraphine. The boy still lives.”
“Look at him!” She pointed. And indeed, the way Marcus had left him, he looked dead, unmoving as he was.
“Guards, get him up. Shake him if you have to.”
“And what of the grimoire?”
“The grimoire belongs to the boy and his house.”
“You, boy—that grimoire is worth more than your life.”
“And now it’s mine.” Marcus turned away, stepping back to Clara and Gabe.
“No, it’s not. You don’t deserve it,” Tulrun looked around, his eyes falling on Seraphine’s. “He almost killed,” the young Aasimar pointed.
Marcus shook his head at him and turned away. But as he did, he saw something in the corner of his eye. Without thought, he pulled the wand from his pocket, blocking the flames with it.
The spell Tulrun cast was a tier-three spell, while the enchantment Marcus had placed on the wand of Arcane Barrier was a tier-one, barely tier-two spell.
Marcus tried to push more aether into the wand, tried to make the barrier stronger, but the runes were not meant for this.
The wand shattered in his hand. The implosion of magical fire seared the flesh on his left arm, and he stumbled back.
Marcus’s fingers were broken and bleeding. He frowned, squeezed his eyes shut, and pushed one of his finger bones back under the burnt flesh.
“And you call yourselves nobles? Attacking when my back is turned? You’re no better than filth, starving for food and willing to drive a dagger in my back.” He paused and straightened. “At least they have nothing. What excuse do you have?”
Tulrun’s jaw clenched, his nostrils flared.
“You talk of honor? Look at you. You’re an abomination.” He pushed away the guards. “I demand a duel of houses. Call your champion—let them face that of my house.”
“You are looking at him.”
This had the crowd murmuring, pointing fingers.
“You do not start war in my castle,” Aranold started, but Lady Ironfax raised her hand, causing the Baron to hold his tongue.
Tulrun stole glances at the crowd, sensing the nobles on his side. He raised his hand and pointed at Marcus with his sword.
Marcus stepped forward—but stumbled back. Within the blink of an eye, Arlath stood in front of him, faster than Marcus could have believed possible for someone his size. A blur of blue-green cloth moved before his eyes.
No one saw him move from his throne, but they felt it as he did—his massive body stomping the ground, the buzzing sound in their ears.
“There will be no duel. Unless you want war with a house with no true identity. Have the Aasimar fallen so far?” Arlath looked from the boy to Lady Seraphine.
Lady Ironfax chuckled, loud enough for the Countess of de Colarad to hear. The room was silent as all the nobles watched, waiting for one of the King’s lineage to speak.
“Do you truly want this war? Or do you think I can give my word one minute, and the next it means nothing?” Arlath asked, placing his hand on Scarlet’s Brand.
Marcus smirked at the Goliath’s back and shook his head, realizing his situation as a political pawn.
“Why protect them?”
“Not the point.” He waved his hand nonchalantly. “If I say there will be no war for any noble of Driftspire, and you say otherwise—that’s a challenge to my word.”
“Fine.” She waved her hand. “There will be no war.”
Seraphine knew that, had he wanted, Arlath could have cut his way through her Aasimar. He was the strongest person in the room. The only one capable of standing against him—Srok—had not shown himself. Her eyes glanced to the shadows.
Arlath turned to leave for his throne when a loud bell rang across the castle. He looked around, brows knitted in confusion. Another loud chime. And another.
“What is going on?” Arlath spun as a sweat-covered man burst through the doors, dropping to one knee before him.
“Monsters of the Tides! Monsters of the Tides are attacking!”
All the nobles froze, stopping what they were doing. There was a brief moment of understanding before they all rushed toward the entrance.
