-SLAM!
The sound of solid, unforgiving iron crushing into silver-plated steel echoed like a cannon shot across the dead silence of the Grand Coliseum.
-SLAM!
Another strike. Driven by the explosive, newly forged musculature of Rudeus's shoulders and core. The heavy flanges of the war mace bit deeply into the shattered remnants of Aemond's helmet, warping the expensive metal until it dug directly into the boy's scalp.
-SLAM!
Aemond's body violently convulsed against the sand with the impact. He couldn't scream. His jaw was locked, his eyes rolled back into his head, hovering in a state of semi-consciousness, trapped in a waking nightmare.
-SLAM!
-SLAM!
-SLAM!
The methodical, rhythmic, utterly merciless butchery continued. It wasn't a fight anymore. It was an execution. It was the systematic, public dismantling of a high-born noble.
Up in the sprawling tiers of the Coliseum, the atmosphere had undergone a massive, horrifying shift. The crowds of commoners who had cheered for blood, the wealthy merchants who had placed their bets, the Academy healers standing by the gates, the seasoned professors, and even the highest echelons of the nobility and the Royal Family... they could barely stomach the sight unfolding before them.
The sheer, unadulterated savagery of what Rudeus was doing to his own flesh-and-blood brother was paralyzing.
Over in the Blackfyre VIP section, Professor Avalon Pendletree gripped the golden railing so tightly the metal began to bend under his calloused fingers. His vibrant brown eyes were wide with genuine, unfeigned terror. He had seen the horrors of the front lines, but the cold, sociopathic rhythm of Rudeus's strikes deeply unsettled the veteran swordsman.
"Hey! Ryekard! You need to stop your brother right now! It's over!" Avalon shouted frantically, turning to the massive, white-haired man slouched in the back row. "The Arbiter is too stunned to intervene! If he hits him again with that kind of torque, he's going to literally cave his skull in!"
Ryekard Blackfyre, the Eldest Son and true heir to the Duchy, did not immediately move. He didn't jump up to defend his legitimate brother. He remained heavily seated against the stone wall.
He completely ignored Avalon's desperate plea. For the very first time since the tournament began, he slowly pulled the heavy glass bottle of fermented ale away from his lips. He looked down at the arena, his icy grey eyes entirely devoid of panic, fear, or fraternal affection.
"Leave him alone," Ryekard finally spoke, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone that carried a heavy, unimaginable weight of exhaustion. "Let him continue to slam his weapon into that boy's head. Do not interfere. After all..."
-GULP.
Ryekard took another long, slow, deliberate pull from his bottle, letting the burning alcohol numb the edges of his soul. He lowered the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"He absolutely deserves to do that to him. After all the years of unchecked cruelty, Aemond purely, undeniably deserves it." Ryekard stated, looking at Avalon with a gaze completely devoid of any recognizable human emotion. It was the look of a man who had watched a tragedy unfold in slow motion for a decade, entirely powerless to stop it, and was now simply watching the inevitable, bloody conclusion.
The members of the Royal Family sitting in the adjacent box clearly heard what Ryekard said. The Emperor frowned deeply, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. The First Empress sneered behind her fan in absolute disgust at the barbaric display.
But they stayed exactly where they were. Bound by the sacred, ancient laws of the Practical Combat Tournaments—and perhaps intimidated by the sheer, suffocating killing intent radiating from the center of the arena—they simply watched as Rudeus repeatedly, viciously smashed his brother's head into the dirt.
Sitting rigidly at the front of the Royal Box, Princess Veronica let out a long, shuddering sigh of profound, dark satisfaction.
She didn't look away from the gore. She didn't flinch. While the rest of the noble ladies were hiding their faces behind their silk fans or pretending to faint from the brutality, Veronica watched with wide, unblinking oceanic eyes.
She genuinely did not care what happened to Aemond. She knew what that arrogant boy was. She knew he was a monster hiding behind a handsome face and a silver crest. But she was glad—genuinely, fiercely glad in the deepest, darkest recesses of her traumatized heart—that Rudeus had won. That the boy who had been treated like a defect was currently crushing his abuser into the earth.
Meanwhile, down in the blood-soaked sand, the crowd's terror meant absolutely nothing to Rudeus.
For the spectators, this was already going entirely too far. It was excessive. It was cruel.
But for Rudeus? For the battle-hardened soul of Damien possessing the memories of an abused child?
This was not enough.
This was absolutely, fundamentally not enough payment for what Aemond and the rest of his family had done to the original Rudeus. This was not enough to balance the cosmic scales for the decade of torture, the freezing water, the isolation, and the sheer, mind-breaking despair that his little brother had suffered by their hands.
Rudeus smiled. It was a manic, terrifying, ear-to-ear grin hidden behind the slit of his black iron visor.
He didn't stop slamming his heavy mace into Aemond's broken helm. He didn't want to stop. He wanted to eradicate him. His crimson eyes glared with a blinding, toxic luminescence, fueled by the sheer, intoxicating euphoria of absolute, unadulterated vengeance.
"Hahahahaha..."
A low, dark chuckle began to vibrate in Rudeus's chest.
"Hahahahahahahaha..."
The chuckle escalated, bubbling up his throat, growing louder with every swing of his arms.
"Hahahahahahahaha... HAHAHAHAHAAHA!!!"
Rudeus laughed, a sound of pure, unhinged madness that echoed through the silent amphitheater, chilling the blood of everyone listening. He kept slamming Aemond's head. He didn't stop because he physically couldn't bring himself to stop.
He wanted to make Aemond feel the agony. He wanted to force-feed him the trauma, the absolute, suffocating despair that his little brother had felt shivering in the dark cellars of the Duchy. He wanted to make them all pay. He wanted to—
'I WILL MAKE THEM PAY!'
'I WILL MAKE THEM PAY!'
'I WILL MAKE THEM PAY!!!!!' Rudeus screamed inwardly, his internal monologue a repeating, deafening mantra of retribution.
-SLAM!
-SLAM!
-SLAM!
-SLAM!
-SLAM!
-SLAM!
He didn't even pause to catch his breath. He just repeatedly, methodically smashed his bloodied, six-flanged mace toward Aemond's ruined face.
For what felt like an agonizing eternity to the spectators—a gruesome, unbroken span of continuous violence that dragged on until the sand beneath them was entirely saturated with blood—Rudeus finally, slowly came to a halt.
He stopped swinging.
He remained straddling his brother's chest, his heavily muscled arms trembling slightly from the sheer, sustained exertion. He was gasping for air, the sound loud and harsh through the metal vents of his helmet.
But he didn't stop because he felt the fight was over. He didn't stop out of a sudden, miraculous surge of mercy.
He stopped because he needed to physically realign his posture to deliver the absolute, definitive final blow.
A final blow designed not to concuss, but to kill.
Rudeus slowly stood up from Aemond's chest. He stepped back, planting his heavy combat boots firmly into the bloody sand. He gripped the leather-wrapped haft of his mace with both hands, raising the heavy iron head high above his right shoulder.
Then, a massive, oceanic surge of pure, concentrated [Killing Intent] exploded outward from the center of the pit.
It wasn't the suppressed, controlled aura he had used earlier to paralyze Aemond. This was the absolute, unchained abyss of the Black Death. It flooded the arena, suffocating the front rows of the audience. The temperature plummeted. The very light in the stadium seemed to dim.
Everyone felt it. The primal, undeniable realization that he genuinely, ultimately needed to kill the boy lying in the dirt. Right here. Right now. In front of the Emperor himself.
"What the hell?!" one of the senior Knight Commander students gasped, physically stumbling backward in the stands, his hand instinctively flying to the hilt of his sword.
Avalon's eyes widened to the absolute limit. He realized the situation had just crossed the point of no return.
"Ryekard! Stop him right now—!" Avalon screamed, turning to the back row.
But before the words could fully leave his mouth, Ryekard disappeared from his seat.
Down in the arena, a female professor of Abjuration magic clutched her robes, looking terrified at the black-clad student in the center ring. "How... how incredibly strong is the killing intent of that boy?!"
Rudeus widened his crimson eyes, his vision narrowing into a singular, bloody focal point.
"DIEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!" Rudeus roared, swinging the heavy mace downward with every single ounce of his explosive, newly forged physical strength.
-SLAM!
-CLANG!
The sound of the impact was completely different this time. It wasn't the dull crunch of iron on silver. It was the sharp, ear-splitting shriek of high-tier enchanted steel colliding with an immovable object.
The shockwave blasted the bloody sand away from the epicenter in a massive, circular ripple.
Rudeus's attack—his lethal, executioner's blow—was abruptly, violently interrupted.
Someone had materialized directly between him and Aemond's unconscious body.
It was none other than his oldest brother.
Ryekard Blackfyre.
"ENOUGH!" Ryekard commanded, his voice booming with the absolute, unquestionable authority of the Northern Heir.
He was holding a massive, heavy-bladed poleaxe with a single hand. He had stepped into the trajectory of the strike and effortlessly parried the full, two-handed downward swing of Rudeus's war mace with the thick, enchanted haft of his weapon.
"That is enough, Rudeus."
Rudeus glared at him through the slit of his visor, the bloodlust completely blinding his rationality.
"Don't you dare stop me!" Rudeus roared back, his voice thick with unadulterated venom. He pushed his weight forward, trying to force the mace through the block. "This is not enough! This will never be enough for what they did!"
Ryekard didn't push back aggressively. He simply held the line, locking eyes with his furious younger brother.
For the very first time in his adult life, Ryekard's icy grey eyes were completely stripped of their drunken, apathetic glaze. They were filled to the brim with profound, crushing sadness. It was the first time he had shown genuine, unmasked emotion in years.
"No. That's enough..." Ryekard said softly, his voice dropping to a low, incredibly strained register, meant only for Rudeus's ears.
"I know exactly what he did to you. I know what all of them did to you. And I agree... he absolutely deserves this brutal treatment..." Ryekard said, slowly strengthening his iron grip on the poleaxe, forcing Rudeus's mace back an inch as the younger boy continued to stubbornly resist.
"But this fight is over..."
Ryekard leaned in closer, his expression grave.
"The winner has already been decidedly, publicly chosen. You have broken him. You have humiliated him. You have won."
Ryekard's voice thickened with a desperate, brotherly plea.
"So, please... enough. Do not kill him here. Because if you cross that line... if you murder your own blood in cold blood in front of this crowd... you will never be able to come back to your senses. You will become the exact monster that you hate." Ryekard offered his genuine, desperate advice, trying to save the soul of the brother he had already failed so many times.
Rudeus gasped, his chest heaving violently against his iron breastplate. He looked at Ryekard, a deep, burning anger raging inside him because of the interruption. He wanted to scream at him. He wanted to ask where this protective older brother had been ten years ago when he was being locked in the freezing cellars.
But then, slowly, the red haze of the killing intent began to recede from the edges of his vision. The rational, disciplined mind of Damien, the Vanguard Captain, began to reassert control over the traumatized boy's rage.
He slowly turned his head to look past Ryekard's broad shoulder. He looked down at Aemond.
Aemond was already completely, utterly unrecognizable. It seemed his face didn't even hold the aristocratic, haughty features of a Blackfyre anymore. It was a swollen, bloody, pulpy mess. It looked as though he were a fragile clay sculpture that had been repeatedly, violently smashed by a malicious child. He was alive, his chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged breaths, but he was entirely broken.
"Haah... haah... haaah... haaaaaahhh..."
Rudeus gasped repeatedly, the adrenaline suddenly crashing out of his system, leaving him feeling incredibly hollow and physically exhausted.
He stared at Aemond for a long, quiet second.
Then, very slowly, Rudeus lowered his weapon. He let the heavy iron head of the mace drop into the bloody sand. He stood up straight, taking a deliberate step backward, formally yielding his aggression.
Ryekard lowered his poleaxe. He looked at Rudeus, a massive, shuddering breath of relief escaping his lips. A faint, incredibly tired, but genuinely grateful smile touched his face.
"Thank you..." Ryekard whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "Thank you, Rudeus."
Rudeus didn't say a word. He just glared at him again, a look of profound, lingering resentment, and completely ignored his older brother's plea of thanks. Ryekard also ignored the glare; he was simply, genuinely glad he had managed to stop him before Rudeus crossed a threshold he could never return from.
Seeing that the lethal tension had finally broken, and that the heir of the Duchy had officially intervened, the Chief Arbiter finally snapped out of his paralyzed state.
He raised his amplification horn with a trembling hand, his voice shaky as he formally concluded the match.
"THE—THE UNDISPUTED WINNER OF THIS ROUND IS...."
The Arbiter swallowed hard, pointing toward the black-clad figure standing in the center of the devastation.
"RUDEUS MAXIMILIAN BLACKFYRE!!!!!!!"
The silence in the Grand Coliseum was absolute.
No one cheered for him. Not a single clap or whistle sounded from the fifty thousand spectators. And why should they? They were completely, fundamentally terrified by what he had just systematically done to Aemond. They didn't see a triumphant underdog or a victorious student. They only saw a ruthless, cold-blooded monster. A monster born from the frightening, violent legacy of the Blackfyre family.
Rudeus didn't care about their silence. He preferred it to their fake adulation.
Without waiting for the medics to arrive, Rudeus simply turned around. He dragged his heavy mace through the sand and began to walk away, heading straight back toward the dark tunnel of the subterranean staging pits.
As soon as Rudeus was clear, Avalon instantly teleported from the VIP box directly into the center of the pit.
"CALL ALL THE MEDICS AND HEALERS NOW!" Avalon screamed, his booming voice cutting through the eerie silence, waving frantically toward the medical bays.
"HURRY! BRING THE HIGH-TIER POTIONS!"
While the triage teams rushed the field with stretchers, Ryekard slowly turned his back on his broken younger brother. He reached into his coat, pulled out his heavy glass bottle, and took another long, desperate sip of his ale.
Avalon looked up from directing the medics, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. He looked at his best friend.
"Thank you, Ryekard," Avalon sighed, his voice heavy with relief. "If you didn't step in and stop him when you did... I honestly don't even know what he would have done. He was going to end him."
Ryekard nodded slowly, staring blankly at the dark tunnel where Rudeus had disappeared.
"Sighs... when he released that massive, suffocating wave of killing intent... I knew he genuinely, truly wanted to kill him," Ryekard said softly, his voice thick with regret. "That's why I stopped him. Because if I didn't..."
Ryekard clenched his free hand into a tight fist, his knuckles turning white.
"Then I would have completely, utterly failed my job as an older brother..." Ryekard murmured. He let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. "No. I already did fail. I failed them both years ago. But I don't want to fail them anymore than I already have... that's exactly why I decided to step in and save Aemond's life, even though..."
Ryekard sighed, a sound of profound, crushing sorrow, and raised the bottle to his lips again.
"...I failed to do the exact same thing to protect Rudeus when he needed me."
***
The Grand Coliseum - Subterranean Staging Pits.Private Waiting Room.
"Goddamnit!"
Rudeus violently slammed his fist into the reinforced stone wall of the private waiting room. The impact cracked the stone and sent a shockwave up his arm, but he barely felt it through his thick iron gauntlet.
He was pissed off. He was genuinely, fiercely pissed off because that damn, pathetic, cowardly excuse for an older brother had suddenly decided to play the hero and physically intervene in the fight.
He paced the small, enclosed room like a caged tiger, his breathing ragged.
But then, the adrenaline began to fade. The cold logic of his past life slowly crept back into his mind.
Rudeus stopped pacing. He leaned his forehead against the cool stone wall and let out a long, heavy sigh.
"Haaah..."
He closed his eyes.
"He is absolutely right, though. Goddamnit. Because if I really, truly killed Aemond out there in front of the Emperor and the entire faculty... there's absolutely no way I would be able to walk out of this academy a free man. I would be arrested, thrown into the Imperial Dungeons, and that would completely, fundamentally interrupt my master plan to escape to the North and save Rosetta."
He pushed himself off the wall, dropping his heavy mace onto the wooden bench.
"I admit it. I let the anger take the wheel. I went way too far."
He unbuckled the straps of his black iron helmet, pulling it off and tossing it onto the floor. His green hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat.
"Sighs... if Mel were here right now," Rudeus whispered softly, a profound, aching sadness entering his voice. "If Melissa was here... I bet she would have already grabbed me by the ear, scolded me for being an idiot, and calmed me down before I even swung the mace."
Rudeus clenched his hands into tight fists. He missed her. He missed his late girlfriend with a physical intensity that felt like a gaping wound in his chest. In moments of extreme violence or emotional turbulence, she was always his anchor. Without her, he was just a weapon constantly searching for a target.
Rudeus slowly walked over and sat down heavily on the wooden bench. He leaned his head back, staring blankly up at the rough-hewn stone ceiling, trying to regulate his breathing and center his mind. He let out another long sigh, forcing the tension from his shoulders.
"There will be a next time," Rudeus muttered to himself, accepting the tactical reality of his situation. He couldn't kill Aemond today. "Yeah... there will be a next time. The Blackfyre Duchy hasn't seen the last of me."
Suddenly, the heavy iron lock on the door clicked loudly.
-CLICK!
The heavy oak door swung inward.
Rudeus didn't jump up or reach for his weapon. He simply turned his head.
Standing in the doorway, looking remarkably composed but carrying a faint air of apprehension, was Princess Veronica. Standing slightly behind her, as silent and lethal as a shadow, was her Head Maid, Amanda.
Rudeus didn't verbally greet them. He didn't stand up to bow. He just looked at them with tired crimson eyes and lazily gestured with his hand, letting them step inside the private room and close the door behind them.
"Can you quickly verify if there are any critical internal injuries on him?" Veronica ordered, stepping aside to allow a figure behind her to enter.
It was one of the senior Royal Medics, carrying a glowing satchel of high-tier restorative potions and diagnostic crystals.
The royal medic hurriedly approached the bench. Rudeus didn't protest. He silently allowed the medic to wave his glowing hands over his chest, arms, and head, performing a rapid, comprehensive magical scan.
After exactly five minutes of tense silence, the medic deactivated his diagnostic crystals and turned to the Princess, bowing respectfully.
"He is completely unharmed, Your Highness," the medic reassured her. "His mana core is stable, his vitals are incredibly strong, and aside from a few minor superficial bruises on his hands, he is perfectly, entirely alright."
"Good. Thank you," Veronica replied, nodding her head firmly in confirmation. "You may go."
Veronica then turned her head slightly, offering a subtle, commanding look to her guardian.
"Wait outside, Amy. Ensure we are not disturbed."
Amanda raised a single eyebrow, looking from the Princess to the battered boy on the bench, but she didn't argue. She nodded silently, ushering the medic out and pulling the heavy oak door completely shut behind her, leaving them completely alone in the staging room.
Veronica stood near the door for a moment, her oceanic blue eyes fixed on Rudeus. Because of her deep-seated 'Man Hater' complex and her profound aversion to male proximity, she was genuinely terrified to walk closer to him, to step into his personal space and feel the latent, violent warmth still radiating from his body.
But she forced herself to move.
She slowly, tentatively walked across the room. She reached the wooden bench and, after a moment of visible hesitation, she sat down on the far edge, maintaining a respectful distance between them.
"Are you here to formally scold me for lacking aristocratic elegance during the match?" Rudeus asked, his voice flat and exhausted, not bothering to look at her.
Veronica shook her head, her silver-blue braid shifting against her back.
"No. I'm not here to scold you," Veronica said softly, her voice devoid of its usual haughty edge. "I am here to congratulate you..."
Rudeus slowly turned his head to look at her, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
"Really?" Rudeus asked, letting out a short, cynical sigh. "I honestly thought that after watching that butchery, you would have become entirely terrified of me. Just like exactly everyone else in that stadium currently is."
Veronica met his gaze squarely. She didn't look afraid.
"No," Veronica replied firmly, her voice carrying a surprising, dark intensity. "I am not terrified. I am actually incredibly, profoundly glad you did exactly that to him."
She looked away, staring down at her gloved hands.
"Though I will rationally admit that the sheer brutality of it was perhaps taking it a little too far for a public exhibition... but..."
Veronica tilted her head back, looking up at the stone ceiling, a look of vindicated satisfaction crossing her flawless features.
"He completely deserved it. He genuinely, unconditionally deserved every single strike you landed."
Rudeus widened his eyes for a fraction of a second. He was genuinely surprised. He really, truly thought that the sheltered, pampered Princess would be horrified by the primal violence of his revenge. And yet, here she was, sitting next to him in a dingy locker room, openly declaring that his abuser ultimately got exactly what was coming to him.
"You know..." Veronica murmured, a cold, bitter edge entering her melodic voice. "Watching you dismantle him... I could honestly wish to possess the physical strength to do that exact same thing to my older brother, too."
She was actively, treasonously talking about the Crown Prince.
Rudeus stared at her. The shared understanding of familial abuse settled between them again, solidifying the strange bridge they had built yesterday.
He didn't offer empty platitudes. He didn't tell her it would be okay.
Rudeus smiled. A genuine, warm, incredibly dangerous smile broke across his face. He let out a soft, genuine laugh.
"Haha. Well, Princess," Rudeus chuckled, his crimson eyes locking onto hers with absolute, terrifying sincerity. "Just give me the formal order when the time comes, and I'll gladly do exactly that to him for you."
Rudeus offered a soft, authentic smile as he looked at Veronica. It wasn't the manic grin of a killer, or the sarcastic smirk of a cynic. It was the smile of a vanguard soldier offering his blade to an ally.
Veronica stared at that smile.
She abruptly shifted her head, violently turning her face away from him, staring at the blank stone wall.
Suddenly, without any warning, she felt a massive, thunderous pounding in her chest.
-BADUMP!
-BADUMP!
-BADUMP!
Her heart began to race at a terrifying, uncontrollable speed. A sudden, intense flush of heat rose rapidly up her neck and settled brightly across her pale cheeks.
'Stop it, you absolute fool!' Veronica screamed inwardly, panic flooding her mind as she tried to forcibly suppress the completely alien, terrifying biological reaction she was currently experiencing.
'Remember the plan! He wants to annul your engagement the second this tournament is over! He is just a convenient tool for the simulation! Do not forget that!'
She bit her lip, trying to rationalize her panic.
'I mean... even if that annulment happens, I could just easily construct another political arrangement with him later, right? To keep him close? Because he is strong...'
Her eyes widened in horror at her own treacherous thoughts.
'No! No, no, no, no! Arrggghhh!' Veronica cursed inwardly, her face burning with an incredibly dark, mortifying blush. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the confusing emotions.
At that exact, miserable moment, the air directly in front of her face shimmered.
The translucent blue system window popped up, completely invisible to the boy sitting next to her.
[System Notification:]
[ +15 Love Points awarded to the Target: Rudeus Maximilian Blackfyre ]
[ Relationship Status Update: ]
[ Distrust ------------> Acquaintance ]
[ Current Accumulated Love Points to the Target: 10 relationship points. ]
Veronica blushed even harder, a deep, vibrant crimson spreading to the tips of her ears. She glared at the floating blue screen with absolute, unadulterated fury.
'Argh! Shut up! You don't need to explicitly show me the metrics, you goddamn, invasive, foolish piece of magic!' Veronica screamed at the System in her mind, feeling completely, utterly exposed and violated by the numerical confirmation of her fluttering heart.
She took a deep, shaky breath, desperately trying to compose her features into a mask of aristocratic indifference. She slowly turned her head back to look at Rudeus, terrified he had seen her violently blushing and murmuring to herself like a madwoman.
She turned to him.
He didn't see her blush. He didn't hear her murmuring.
Rudeus was leaning back against the cold stone wall, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. His eyes were completely closed. His breathing was slow, deep, and perfectly rhythmic.
He had fallen fast asleep. The sheer, catastrophic adrenaline dump from the fight, combined with the physical exhaustion of his brutal training regimen, had finally caught up to his malnourished body. He had simply passed out sitting up.
"It seems he is incredibly tired..." Veronica whispered softly, her voice barely audible in the quiet room.
She looked at his relaxed face. The harsh, terrifying scowl of the executioner was gone, leaving behind the peaceful, exhausted features of a fifteen-year-old boy.
Slowly, hesitantly, driven by a strange, magnetic pull she couldn't entirely explain, Veronica unclasped her hands. She raised her right hand, her gloved fingers reaching out toward his face.
She wanted to touch his messy, sweat-dampened green hair. She wanted to brush a stray lock away from his forehead.
Her fingertips hovered mere millimeters from his skin.
She stopped. She violently retracted her hand, pulling it sharply back to her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs. She couldn't do it. The walls of her trauma, and her own profound, aristocratic stubbornness, were still too high.
She let out a long, shuddering sigh. She stood up smoothly from the bench, careful not to make a sound that would wake him.
She reached into a hidden pocket of her dress and withdrew a small, beautifully crafted silver medallion—the official token awarded to the victor of the preliminary round. She gently, quietly placed the award on the wooden bench directly beside his resting hand.
Without another word, she turned and walked toward the exit, her silk skirts swishing softly against the stone floor.
She opened the heavy oak door and stepped out into the corridor.
Amanda was standing immediately outside, leaning casually against the wall, her arms crossed.
As Veronica stepped out, the Head Maid immediately raised a single, incredibly perceptive eyebrow, her slate-grey eyes locking onto the Princess's face.
"Are you quite alright, Princess?" Amanda asked, her voice calm but carrying a distinct note of amusement. She noted the heavy, lingering flush on Veronica's usually pale cheeks and the slightly erratic rhythm of her breathing.
Veronica's face reddened even further under the scrutiny of her guardian. She completely ignored the question.
She simply turned her nose up into the air, puffed out her chest, and delivered a massive, incredibly defensive, highly aristocratic huff.
"Hmph!"
Without looking back, Veronica marched swiftly down the corridor, her boot heels clicking sharply against the stone, determined to put as much distance between herself and the sleeping boy as physically possible.
Amanda stood in the hallway, watching the flustered Princess practically flee the scene.
A warm, knowing smile spread across the lethal assassin's face. She shook her head slowly, letting out a soft, amused sigh that echoed lightly in the damp corridor.
"Sigh. Young love, truly at its absolute finest."