Whoosh!
The burning blade smashed through Lucien’s guard and threw him backward. Flames caught the front of his coat. Lucien beat at them frantically with one hand, the axe wobbling in the other, until the fire went out and left a black, smoking patch across his chest.
He didn’t surrender.
Owen saw his stance change. Lucien’s feet spread wider. His grip tightened on the haft until his knuckles went pale, and the crimson light gathered and burned brighter than it had all morning.
He was going to put everything he had left into one strike.
Owen didn’t move.
Lucien launched himself across the stone. The axe came around in a wide, flat arc at the height of Owen’s chest, with all of Scarlet Frenzy behind it, and Owen was standing directly in its path.
He saw the triumph flash across Lucien’s face.
Owen waited until the edge of the axe was nearly touching his coat.
Then he let go of his body.
The weight went out of him all at once. His arms, his chest, his legs, and the sword in his hand thinned and loosened into grey vapour, and the world turned cool and strangely soft around him.
The axe went straight through him.
He felt nothing at all except a faint stirring where it passed.
Lucien’s swing met no resistance. With nothing to stop it, the momentum carried the axe on past where Owen had been, and dragged Lucien around with it.
Owen pulled himself back together.
Weight returned first, then the hard stone under his boots, then the hilt in his hand. His ribs gave a dull throb as his body settled back into itself. Fire flared along his blade again.
Lucien was still turning, his axe still out wide, his back half exposed.
Owen struck.
Clang!
The burning sword crashed against the axe and knocked it aside. Owen cut again, forcing Lucien back, and then again, never letting him plant his feet.
Behind him, the court had exploded into noise.
"It went through him!"
"That’s impossible—"
"He was on fire a moment ago. What was that?"
"Two powers? From one armament?"
Owen barely heard it.
Lucien was retreating, and the crimson light was flickering now, dimming in patches across his arms. His breathing was ragged, and his arms were shaking each time he lifted the axe. Blood had soaked his sleeve and his trouser leg, and Owen could see him favouring the cut on his thigh.
He looked at Owen, and for the first time there was fear in his face.
"What are you?" he gasped. "What rank are you? How are you—"
Owen didn’t answer.
He advanced.
Lucien stumbled back and tried to raise his axe. Owen struck first.
Clang!
The axe swung away. Owen struck again, and Lucien staggered.
Clang!
The third blow broke through what was left of his defence entirely.
Lucien’s legs gave way. He dropped to one knee on the stone, leaning on the axe to keep himself upright.
Owen raised his burning sword.
Lucien dragged his axe up in front of him. His arms were trembling so badly that the axe-head shook.
Owen brought the sword down.
Clang!
Lucien’s arms couldn’t hold it. The axe was forced aside, and Owen turned his blade and drove it straight at his exposed throat.
He stopped it a finger’s width from the skin.
Lucien went completely still.
The fire was so close that Owen could see the heat rippling the air between them. Lucien’s face had gone white. He couldn’t seem to look at the blade. His eyes kept darting toward it and then away, toward Owen and then away again.
His fingers opened. The axe slid out of his hands and hit the stone.
Clatter!
Owen shifted his grip on the hilt, and Lucien jerked back with a strangled sound, as though he expected the sword to go into him.
At the edge of the fighting ground, Captain Voss had taken a step forward.
"Stop," Lucien said. His voice cracked. "Stop. Please. I surrender. I surrender."
"Enough!" Voss called. "Lord Owen, withdraw."
Owen drew the sword back. The flames along the blade died away.
Lucien stayed on his knees, his hands braced on the stone, breathing as though he had just come up from deep water.
Captain Voss walked to the centre of the fighting ground and stood between them.
"Lord Lucien de Clare has surrendered," he announced. "The match is over."
Beneath the awning, Princess Adelaide rose to her feet.
"The winner," she said, and her voice carried across the whole court, "is Lord Owen Ferrers."
The noise came all at once.
Some of the nobles applauded. Others had already turned to the people beside them, talking over one another.
"Fire, and then whatever that was—"
"And everyone was asking if he was as good as Gareth."
"Forget Gareth. What rank is he?"
Owen looked toward the Ferrers benches. Clara was on her feet, clapping hard, and Elise had a hand pressed to her mouth. Agnes had stayed seated, but she let out a long breath, and some of the tension went out of her shoulders. Hugh gave Owen a single nod.
Gareth was still sitting forward. He met Owen’s eyes across the court, and after a moment, the corner of his mouth lifted.
On the far side, Alaric had stepped up to the boundary line. He wasn’t looking at Owen. He was looking at his brother, kneeling on the stone, and his face gave nothing away at all.
Lucien got to his feet slowly.
His coat was torn and scorched, and the blood from his arm and thigh had dried dark across his clothes. He moved stiffly, wincing as he straightened. Whatever Scarlet Frenzy had given him, it seemed to be taking it back now.
He didn’t look at Owen.
He bent, picked up his axe, and dismissed it. Then he turned and began walking toward the exit, his head lowered, as fast as his injured leg would allow.
Owen watched him take several steps.
Then he remembered that the match hadn’t settled everything. Lucien had surrendered. But he hadn’t paid.
"Lucien," Owen called.
His voice carried across the court, and the nobles closest to the fighting ground went quiet.
Lucien stopped.
"Where do you think you’re going?" Owen said. "Have you forgotten our bet?"