Lance halted like a blade biting into stone and turned his head. Why do you think that?

A hard wind whooshed through, lifting dead leaves and painting the air with a killing chill.

Your hands. Mountain Wind’s gaze was cold as shaded ice.

Lance kept his voice plain as still water. What about my hands?

The Mountain Wind Knight let out a dry laugh, like grit over steel. Any knight who lives by the sword builds callus on the grip. Those scars are proof and witness. The thicker the callus, the deeper the years poured into the blade.

He stripped off his right glove. Along every place a hilt would press, a tough ridge of callus had grown, like bark over a storm-bent branch.

Lance glanced at his own palm. Only a thin veil of skin had hardened there, like frost that could melt with one breath.

Since our handshake yesterday, I knew something was off. Your hands don’t show years of drilling with a blade, yet your swordwork is honed like whetstone on bone.

Don’t you find that very suspicious?! Mountain Wind’s voice cracked like a gust snapping a banner rope.

Apprentices on the path slowed, then stopped, eyes gathering like sparrows on a wire.

Under their stare, Lance didn’t flinch. His tone stayed ordinary, a quiet brook in shadow. You call me suspicious off just that? Isn’t that a little hasty?

Cut the stupidity. Isn’t that enough? Or is it that… you never trained at all—you were born knowing the sword?

Even with Mountain Wind’s tone shifting, Lance didn’t. He treated it like a joke tossed on the wind. How could that be?

Mountain Wind said nothing; his face tightened like a bowstring. He wasn’t backing off that claim.

Lance sighed, helpless as a leaf catching a stray breeze. Alright. If you’re so sure I’m an impostor, why say it’s a woman? What gives her away?

Scent, Mountain Wind said, a word both smoke and nail. The woman’s scent on you is heavy.

Their words lost half the crowd. But between the two, the air tightened like a wire.

That’s quite something, Lance murmured, a faint shake of the head. He set his left hand over his face, as if to peel off a mask of skin. But guesses aren’t enough. Got any proof?

Yes. We need proof… Mountain Wind sounded like he’d expected that line.

He jabbed a finger at Yuna beside Lance, eyes sharp as winter. The proof is this girl!

She stands too close to you. Close like you’re not a man to her at all—close like a girl doting on a girl.

The apprentices burst into chatter, voices scattering like peas on a drum.

Couples act like that too, don’t they?

That knight boy is a girl? No way.

Maybe the old guy’s just picking a fight?

True, by common sense, Mountain Wind’s logic had a hole you could ride a horse through.

But the Mountain Wind Knight wasn’t common. He was an Earth Knight, versed in the wind of Battle Aura, and he read the currents people cast between each other. He read the wind to judge the distance between hearts.

Wind is truth to me—he cut the air with the words. To that girl, you’re a pampered young lady to be looked after.

The arrow hit close. Yuna’s composure wavered like a lantern in a draft. She stepped forward, wanting to defend.

It’s not like that, Master, she—

Lance blocked her with a raised hand, eyes warning her to hush. She froze, then covered her mouth with both hands like a bird cupping flame.

In that moment, Lance and Mountain Wind, and the ring of onlookers, stood in two separate worlds. For the first pair, each breath felt like a blade’s edge. For the rest, the sun was still warm, and danger was fog they couldn’t see.

The crowd thickened, a tide around stone. Lance didn’t want a scene. He kept his tone simple, evening rain over tile. Let’s go. Time to eat.

But Mountain Wind was fixed on tearing the skin off the lie. He didn’t care who watched. He almost howled, a gale kicked from a cliff. Give me the real Lance back!

What are you saying? I am the real Lance. Come on, food?

Shut up! Mountain Wind’s rage broke like surf. He roused the wind till it hissed. He’s the man who could break me—how dare a witch like you stain him!

Lance’s calm cooled to iron. He drew the Sirius Sword. Flame coiled up the blade, thick and heavy as a coiling dragon.

The wind flung that heat everywhere. Eyes narrowed, faces pinched like scorched clay.

Lance stoked the blaze till it boiled, fire leaping like oil on a forge. Battle Aura can’t be faked by spells. Satisfied?

For a knight married to one Aura form, his Battle Aura’s shape is his best proof. Faced with this furnace heat, Mountain Wind’s certainty buckled like ice in spring.

His faith in wind-truth and his eyes’ truth clashed, and the Mountain Wind Knight faltered, lost in a crossroads of dust.

A streak of cold cut in then, a thread of ice from a blind angle, racing straight for Lance like winter’s arrow.

Clang!

The icy streak was the Frost Knight. He’d meant to strike from shadow. The sword met Lance’s blade instead, metal ringing like thunder in a box canyon.

Lance held the knife one-handed against a two-handed sword, the way a rooted tree holds wind. Sneak attacks aren’t a good look.

The Frost Knight ground his teeth, eyes like frozen hawks. He’d expected one blow to settle Lance. Instead he was the one pressed down.

He acted like he hadn’t heard. Klein, he shouted to Mountain Wind, do it now!

The onlookers all saw it at last. But the Mountain Wind Knight only looked confused, then that confusion hardened into anger.

He said nothing. He bowed from the waist, hand to his hilt, like a storm gathering in a valley.

A flash.

A razor-blue arc slashed past the Frost Knight’s flank, cold light biting like hail.

Chak!

He threw up an ice barrier in a panic. The barrier took the hit and tore away a huge bite, like glass ripped by a claw.

Lance pressed the moment. He slammed fire down the lock of their blades, Sirius Sword roaring. The blast hurled the Frost Knight back. Lance rode the recoil one long step, then stood inside the fire like a lone peak in a sea of flame.

The three of them formed a tripod, three Battle Auras staking out three domains—flame, wind, and frost like seasons at war.

The Frost Knight struck first with words. Klein, why did you attack me?!

Why shouldn’t I cut you? Mountain Wind’s tone was steady as bedrock. Why did you ambush Lance?

Didn’t you say he was acting off? Then why can’t I jump him?

This is between me and that guy. If you stick your nose in again—Mountain Wind’s voice dropped, low and terrible, loaded with iron will—don’t blame me for what happens.

The Frost Knight only bristled. Then what did you mean earlier, huh?

Mountain Wind choked on air. He finally realized how his own moves looked to others—knots no words could untie.

He didn’t need explanations. He needed cover.

Seeing his hostility ebb, and the whole scene tangling like kites in crossed lines, Lance found a way out. He raised his voice, clear as a bell across the square. We’re rehearsing the final scene for the Knight Festival!

In the championship round of the Knight Festival, the duel isn’t a mere duel. To make it fit for the crowd, and to honor the restoration hero, the Sun Knight Taylor—

Before the fight begins, both sides reenact the historic moment between the Sun Knight Taylor and the Night Moon Knight Yugali—

On the eve of the kingdom’s restoration, Yugali, Taylor’s partner, confessed she belonged to the Blood Clan—

Facing love and honor, the Sun Knight chose honor without looking back—

Taylor shattered the Silver Moon longsword in Yugali’s hands and scattered the last dark cloud over the kingdom’s sky—

After Lance’s bluff, an apprentice stepped out, grumbling like a drumroll. You don’t have to get that serious.

Once people heard it was a rehearsal, the complaints multiplied, like raindrops on stone. Yeah, yeah.

In the end, the class ace said it straight. They prep fragile glass blades for the final. Hit your opponent’s glass blade with an iron sword and the rite’s done. You don’t have to go this hard.

Lance felt a bead of sweat slide like a snail. At least the scene held.

Klein looked at Lance with a soft ache, like a traveler seeing home through mist. Is it really you? Like kin reunited after years.

Who else would it be?

Klein stood adrift between eye-truth and wind-truth. But the knight boy was still the knight boy. His hostility melted like frost under noon sun.

The Frost Knight wasn’t pleased. Whatever lay between those two meant nothing to him. The clearing of a misunderstanding only soured his mood. He turned to leave—

Wait. Lance stopped him with a word, a pebble dropped in a taut pond.

What do you want? The Frost Knight’s voice was cold and clean, like a blade washed in snowmelt.

Why did you attack me?

Why, indeed? If only Flame of Chaos and Mountain Wind were rehearsing, what business did frost have crashing in?

Confusion steamed through the crowd like breath in winter.

The air stayed tight.

Seconds trickled past like sand.

When the Frost Knight kept silent, Lance went by the book. Under the Kingdom Constitution, a knight who attacks another knight without cause—that violates the duel code. It’s a duel offense.

The crowd erupted like a flock taking wing.

He wasn’t wrong.

Under the accusation, the Frost Knight blinked, momentarily at a loss, like ice under sudden sun.

With this many witnesses, get ready to pay the fine.

At first, frost flared in his eyes.

Then he smoothed his face, calm settling like snowfall. My duel was justified.

On what grounds?

I’m here to reclaim my fiancée. He stabbed a finger at Yuna, words sharp as sleet.

The square roared again.

No one saw that coming.

Or was he spinning lies to dodge the fine?

Fulin scowled, hands on hips, temper pricking like thorns. Do nobles all come with fiancées by default?

Jokes have limits. Lance kept his anger leashed like a dog on a short lead.

But the Frost Knight only grew solemn. He flicked a glance at Lance, then let his hawk’s gaze cut to Yuna. She didn’t flinch.

Ten years ago, before the Edwardel family went to ground, they sealed a betrothal with my house, the Korodon family. The pact said the eldest daughter would marry the eldest son of Korodon—me.

He paused, then pointed to Yuna. Yuna Edwardel, you are the eldest daughter of the Edwardel family.

Under that pact, you’re my fiancée.

People had thought the drama was over.

Instead, the curtain rose again.

Yuna stayed silent, a still pool under stars.

Lance said nothing.

Mountain Wind still drifted in fog.

The Frost Knight took the silence as assent. Satisfied, he stepped toward Yuna. He’d taken two steps when she slid back three, a leaf on the retreating tide.

She ducked behind Lance.

What do you mean by that? frost asked, displeasure darkening like a stormfront.

In the kingdom’s noble custom, unless the bride’s house outranks the groom’s, a husband holds authority over his wife—even over a fiancée.

Come here. His order snapped like a whip.

Yuna stayed tucked behind Lance’s shoulder like a moth under a sleeve.

Lance shot the Frost Knight a look, then asked sideways, voice steady. Yuna, he claims you’re his fiancée. True?

Absolutely not. Yuna finally stepped out, voice clear as a bell.

Everything I am belongs to Master.

She finished and hugged Lance’s arm in front of everyone, clinging like ivy to a pillar.

The crowd exploded, male jealousy buzzing like hornets.

The Frost Knight’s face went black as thunder.

Before the unlucky fiancé could erupt, the Rose Knight arrived at the commotion, voice tight with worry for Lance.

She walked in on Yuna wrapped around Lance’s arm.

Ping—inside her head, a phantom note rang. Her world cracked like glass.