Chapter 133 - 132: It’s Time.

Chapter 133: Chapter 132: It’s Time.

​As soon as Khobi’s foot hits the first stair, Loac calls out to him.

​"...Nice sword you got there," he states casually, more to the open air than directly to him, and the words are meaningless because Khobi’s pretty sure Loac hasn’t so much as spared a glance for his own family, let alone the blade he’s holding.

​"It is," he replies, without as much bite as he’d like. He makes up for it with a heavy glare that if looks could burn, probably would have melted clean through rock.

​Infuriatingly, Loac doesn’t so much as flinch when he meets his gaze; just gives him a cursory once-over that, for once, doesn’t leave Khobi feeling like he needs Binny to scrub his skin clean off.

​If anything, he looks almost amused .

​"Nice armour, too," he comments offhandedly, "...Where’d you get it."

​"...I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at," Khobi assures him darkly, and hates that he feels the need to justify himself to this guy, of all people.

"A servant gave it to me. Not that it’s any of your business." Coz it’s not. "...What are you even doing here?"

​The question makes Loac push off the wall and take two long, predatory steps towards him.

Instead of backing away, Khobi obligingly drops back down off the step to meet him toe to toe, and eye to eye; red juxtaposed against blue.

​"...Same as you," Loac drawls, voice low and lazy; casually and somewhat meaningfully resting a hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip, "I’m here to fight."

​"...I’m not here to fight," Khobi tells him plainly, red eyes scalding as he squares up to him; staunch and planted, and undeniably confrontational, "I’m here to win."

​Loac considers him and his words for a long moment. Eventually, his eyes; pits so blue they’re almost black, drop away from his face to the sword in his hand, and when they flit back, a smirk rises to his lips with them.

It makes Khobi want to punch him; a feeling that’s exacerbated by what he says next.

​"That’s it," Loac drawls with a low, derisive snicker, all-too deliberately shouldering him as he passes him by to ascend the dais.

Khobi makes sure not to give any ground, and throws him a burning glare over his shoulder.

"Show some spirit. I could use some entertainment."

​It takes every ounce of Khobi’s willpower not to deck the guy right then and there.

Because honestly, the guy’s a total asshole. He’d deserve it, and he’d probably even get away with it.

He has before, after all. But he knows that that would achieve nothing. That punching him wouldn’t be nearly satisfying enough.

​If Loac’s decided he’s come here today to fight, then he’ll show him a fight.

​And that he’s not some kind of cheap entertainment.

​Khobi makes sure to use the other set of stairs. And if he walks a little faster to beat Loac to the top, that’s no one’s business.

​"Oh good," Gurdet remarks dryly, having watched the majority of their most recent exchange from afar with more amusement than concern.

Neither his nephew nor his unwilling fiance greet him; opting instead to both fling themselves into their respective chairs and obstinately refuse to look at each other, like squabbling children.

He’s not at all surprised, and yet is still, somehow disappointed. "I can see you both came prepared to be adults today."

​He half expects them to immediately start blaming each other, as children are prone to do when scolded, but instead finds himself (undeservedly) on the receiving end of withering glares from two fronts.

​Gurdet thinks he must be getting soft.

​Silas never would have allowed someone to look at him like that, and live.

​"I’m surprised you even came today at all, Loac," he adds offhandedly, sending a wide smile in the direction of his beloved nephew, who has already kicked his feet up on the railing and is making a great show of pretending that he doesn’t want to be there.

A show which Gurdet doesn’t buy for one second.

​Simply because, for one, he’s here.

​The thing that has Gurdet puzzled, is why .

​"A lot of people have said that," Loac hums back, and makes his cousin tense when he leans back in his seat and closes his eyes like he’s fully intending to just sleep through the entire event.

Gurdet’s eyes narrow as he catches another strange lie. There are hundreds of places in the castle --thousands, even --better suited for dozing the day away, yet his nephew; the one man who probably intimately knows all thousand of those places, chooses the one spot where a screaming crowd and a battlefield of soldiers has gathered?

​"Have they, now, hmm?" he replies conversationally, and hasn’t the foggiest why his daughter flings him such an aggrieved look.

​"Not to my face," Loac replies flatly, and then, just for an instant, cracks open one eye to reveal a faint sliver of blue, and somehow, Gurdet has the feeling that the look, and the words that follow aren’t intended for him.

"...For the most part."

​But whatever he has to say, Khobi’s in no state to hear. Like a drunken fool sitting at the fireside in twilight, seeing his fate in the fire, he’s just gazing out upon the stage laid out for them in wonder;childish dispute with his betrothed completely, and utterly forgotten.

Gurdet can’t blame him.

Displays of swordsmanship are popular and lavish affairs and he has gone to great lengths to ensure that today is not quickly forgotten.

Crade has a reputation of wealth and unparalleled fighting prowess, and it never hurts to remind the other kingdoms of such things.

​Frankly, he’d be offended if Khobi wasn’t speechless. Months of preparation have led to this, after all. And he intends for it to be a spectacle.

​Gurdet stands, and the world falls silent for him. They wait, on bated breath, and he lets them hang in anticipation for a long moment, because he knows how much they adore the drama of it.

They’re excited --his guests, the soldiers, his people --and they want violence, and blood. He’s certain that they’ll get some of both.

They’ve come too far and waited too long to be content with anything less.

​So, with a smile, he bids them all welcome.