The tension in the ballroom was thick enough to choke on.
Leo stood with Tempest still raised, black lightning crackling along the blade, his white hair catching the chandelier light. The severed limbs of Marius's companions lay scattered across the marble floor, blood pooling around them, and Marius himself was crumpled at Leo's feet — broken, bleeding, barely conscious.
The nobles pressed against the walls, their faces pale, their breaths shallow, their eyes fixed on the white-haired young man who had just turned a duel into a massacre.
The knight's sword was still pressed against Leo's blade, holding it in place. The knight who had intervened, the one with the scar across his face, was trembling, his grip faltering under the weight of Leo's killing intent.
"You have made your point, Leo von Celestial," the Emperor said, his voice quiet but carrying across the silent ballroom. "Lower your sword."
