Disappointment passed through the crowd like a low groan. The fight stopped without a conclusion.
They wanted to complain. Loudly. But no one dared, not with the Former Duke Eason, not with Keepers around.
In the end, their voices were kept low yet obvious.
Several soldiers stood with their mouths slightly open, still staring at the battlefield where black flame scars cut across the sand. The place looked as if someone had taken a burning claw and dragged it over the desert. Glassy patches reflected the late light. Smoke rose in thin lines, twisting with the dry wind.
"That was it?" one soldier muttered.
"They were about to use the big ones," another said, sounding personally betrayed. "That flames from Rio, and that shadow thingy pulled out that cannon thing."
The scarred captain crossed his arms, his old armor creaking at the shoulders. "That cannon thing would've sent half of you idiots running behind the tents."
The second captain snorted. "Running? Half of them would've fainted standing up."
A few soldiers looked away, offended because it was probably true.
Samantha stood near a supply wagon with her arms folded, her cold eyes still fixed on the smoking battlefield. "Tch. What a bunch of damn dogs," she said. "You wanted blood that badly, go bite each other."
One soldier opened his mouth.
Samantha turned her gaze on him.
He closed it and suddenly found the ground fascinating.
Orlane, solid as a stone post, watched the field with a grounded frown. "It was right to stop it," he said. "That wasn't a spar anymore."
Rio dragged his square-shaped sword back toward camp, his face twisted with irritation. "It was finally Smokin' hot."
Klaus, or Enigma, whatever you want to call him, walked several paces behind him, quieter. Sword of despair was long back in his storage ring, yet the black flames lingered faintly. His expression gave away little, but his fingers flexed once at his side, as if he could still feel the force of Rio's strikes through his bones.
At the center of the commotion, Eason looked painfully relaxed.
The old man leaned on his cane near the desert's edge, wearing the kind of mild smile that made him seem harmless to anyone stupid enough to believe in smiles. The two copies of him were gone now, leaving only the original, or at least the version everyone had decided to accept as original.
Ulon marched toward him with visible annoyance.
"Old man," Ulon said, pointing toward the scorched battlefield, "why did you stop it?"
Eason lifted his brows. "Because the word enough has meaning, young man."
"That was about to end with a climax."
Eason chuckled softly, though his eyes remained sharp. "I understand the disappointment. Truly. The young do enjoy explosions, blood, and reckless decisions performed at high speed."
"But the bet...I mean, the people want results."
Eason's smile thinned by a hair.
"Coins can replace weapons," he said. "Coins can replace tents, horses, armor, even the wine Rio has undoubtedly stolen from someone's private stock."
Rio looked away with suspicious timing.
Eason continued, voice still light but carrying quiet weight. "Coins cannot replace soldiers. They certainly cannot replace powerful allies. And I have no intention of exhausting mine for the sake of a dramatic finish."
Ulon snorted. "Dramatic finishes are important."
Elaine, who had been standing nearby with flawless posture, turned her composed gaze toward him. "Only to fools and playwrights with poor structure."
Samantha's mouth twitched. "Damn. That's a good one."
Ulon frowned at Elaine. "I'm saying we could handle it."
Eason tilted his head.
"Could you?" he asked gently. "Tell me, Ulon. Are you as capable as Priestess Illumi?"
The air changed.
It was slight, but everyone near the desert's edge felt it.
The mutters faded. The two captains stopped exchanging comments. Orlane's gaze shifted toward Eason. Even Samantha's cold expression sharpened.
Ulon froze for a breath.
Then he scratched the side of his jaw and looked away. "Not really."
No one laughed.
He quickly added, "But I never failed to heal anyone. Unlike the Priestess."
Silence dropped hard.
The wind dragged sand across the boundary between camp and desert. Somewhere behind them, canvas snapped softly against a tent pole. A cooking pot hissed over the fire, forgotten.
Eason's face darkened.
Not openly. Not in anger that shouted.
Worse.
His pleasant old-man mask stayed in place, but the warmth behind it vanished. His eyes became still, deep, and terribly old.
Priestess Illumi had once been a Keeper.
That was not a name to throw around just to win an argument. Even though he's the one who mentioned it first.
Ulon seemed to realize it too late. His shoulders lowered slightly.
Elaine stepped forward before the silence became dangerous.
"Ulon," she said, voice smooth and refined, "I advise you to stop speaking. Your meaning has departed, yet your mouth continues to chase it."
A soldier coughed into his fist.
Samantha smirked. "That's the cleanest way I've heard someone say, 'shut the hell up.'"
Ulon opened his mouth, then saw Elaine's calm expression and Eason's quiet eyes.
He gave up.
"…Fine," he muttered. "No more talking."
"A wise decision. Your head will stay where it was for now," Eason said, his smile returning as though someone had placed it back on his face.
Elaine glanced toward the battlefield. "We require everyone at their best. Rio's curse, Enigma's black flame, and whatever else both of them are hiding should be preserved for tomorrow, not wasted for camp entertainment."
Orlane nodded once. "Agreed."
The scarred captain sighed. "Shame, though."
The second captain looked at him.
"What?" the scarred one said. "I can agree with the decision and still be disappointed."
That broke some of the tension.
A few soldiers chuckled. Others began to scatter, returning to their duties with reluctant steps. The camp slowly resumed its rhythm: boots on packed dirt, weapons being checked, quiet voices, the clink of metal cups, the dry snapping of the fire.
Klaus noticed Charles standing apart from the others.
The man's cold gaze was not on the battlefield anymore.
It was on Shane.
Shane stood near the darker edge of camp, half-turned away from everyone, looking as composed as ever. He seemed untouched by the noise, the firelight, and the unfinished duel. Yet his fingers tapped once against his sleeve.
Charles approached him.
"Do you have time to speak?" Charles asked.
Shane looked at him.
He did not answer.
He simply turned and walked away from the crowd.
Charles followed without another word.
Klaus watched them go until his sight no longer touched their backs.
Some conversations, he thought, had sharper edges than swords.