Chapter 140 - 139: Next Round.

Chapter 140: Chapter 139: Next Round.

Every now and then Gurdet wonders how on earth Khobi Frost made it out of Briyagi alive.

​Silas Luminus was a cruel man, and knew it. And revelled in making sure others knew it too. There was little he enjoyed more than crushing a man’s spirit.

He delighted in peeling back the layers of a man, inch by inch; learning his weaknesses and exploiting them until breaking point.

Beyond that, sometimes, if it took his fancy. And the more it hurt the better. To wear one’s heart upon a sleeve was just inviting him to take it in both hands and break it.

And the brighter it burned the more he wanted to snuff it out.

​Even more so, if it was a flame brought to life by Khnoji Frost.

​And so, Gurdet concludes that it is nothing short of a miracle that Khobi had even surfaced from Briyagi at all, because men who can’t keep their emotions in check make easy prey for men such as Silas.

​And right now, Khobi looks devastated . Utterly, even.

​(Perhaps he’d had thicker skin, back then.)

​Gurdet has been loosely aware of this long-standing feud between Khobi and the young Lord Rogard for some time now --anticipated it, even, because Lord Rogard was not a man who took kindly to being made a fool of, and had no shame in sending his son in to even the score --but the scale of disappointment plastered across the faces of both men is unexpected, to say the least.

And when Rogard Spidra limps off in visible, and considerable pain, Khobi --dare he say it --looks genuinely concerned for him.

​And in all honestly he’s probably right to be concerned. Not because of his ankle --compared to some of the injuries they’ve borne witness to today, Gurdet is sure that that’s nothing worth worrying over --but because of what comes next.

Of who Rogard is going to have to answer to for his failures.

​It was no secret that his father had high expectations of him.

In fact, he would brag often and loudly to anyone who cared to listen --and even those who didn’t --of his son’s achievements, and how he’d always known he was destined for greatness.

And for the longest time he was, unfortunately, right.

​Once he became a man, Rogard Spidra could do no wrong. He was an accomplished rider and swordsman, could charm the lords and ladies of a castle court like he did it for sport, and it didn’t hurt at all that he was easy on the eyes.

And his father watched on with greedy eyes as his son built a reputation of strength and unquestionable excellence, and through him, won the favour he had always coveted.

​It was a reputation that the young Rogard appeared to be having increasing difficulty in maintaining.

At perhaps no fault of his own. The illusion of perfection could only last so long, after all.

​Unfortunately, it’s unlikely that Lord Rogard will see it like that.

​His son was never supposed to embarrass himself the way he did the day before. But the fact that he had meant that he was supposed to redeem himself today.

Supposed to remind their kingdom, and all others, of just who exactly he was, and that his house was to be feared and respected.

​But accidents happen.

Men get unlucky. Duelling was funny in that someone always has to lose, but the one who wins isn’t always the one who deserves to.

​Gurdet pities the boy, really he does. And as he watches him limp off; head bowed, he finds himself sparing a fleeting glance for his nephew.

​The pressure of being who someone else wants you to be is sometimes more than a young boy can bear.

​And almost always ends in rebellion.

​"Do you think he’ll be okay?" Princess Xena whispers, craning her neck as much as she dares to get a better look at the damage, "He looks really hurt."

​"Rogard’s strong," Khobi assures her with conviction, although there are worry lines scored deep into his brow that shouldn’t be there considering his near constant claims that he and Rogard are not, in fact, friends, "...He’ll be fine."

​He says that, but it’s in a voice laced with disappointment, and laments without so many words that it’s just not fair .

​Gurdet thinks it’s delightfully naive of him to still, after the life he’s lived, think that life is somehow, fair.

Even the very nature of this tournament isn’t fair. After all, he can’t have some nameless soldier from another kingdom make him and his men look weak in his own home.

That’s not to say that the competition is rigged ; honestly, he has a little more class than that, but the truth is that today’s competition was never going to be fair, the moment Loac decided to get involved.

​He’s attended a lot of tournaments in his time, competed in some, himself, even, but the ones that had always stuck with him were the ones in which Loac had put on his sword.

It truly pains him to admit it, so he rarely does so out loud, but he is indisputably the best swordsman Gurdet has ever laid on.

​And all the swordsmen out there should be quivering in fear that any one of them could be the next to face him.

​...

​Khobi doesn’t have much time to linger on the disappointment of seeing Rogard lose. It sucks because they had unfinished business out there, and today was the day they were going to settle things.

​Have , he’s forced to correct himself, as he settles back into his seat and pushes away the bitterness to get ready for the next match.

There’s a familiar shape waltzing out into the arena for his next fight, and after having seen Montrel’s energetic first victory, Khobi’s eager to see if his next opponent will give him a bit more of a challenge.

​(They have unfinished business.)

​They’ll get their fight; he’s sure of it. It just...can’t be today.

​(He told the princess that Rogard’s going to be fine, and he hopes that he hasn’t just lied to her. He’s seen Rogard cry before, but it seemed different, this time.)

​All the same, the tournament is just getting started, and he came here to fight the best this kingdom and dozens others had to offer, and win.

And he really has no other choice, since Rogard had said, in no uncertain terms, that he wasn’t allowed to lose to anyone but him.

​As he sits back, resolve steadier than ever, a murmur strikes up on the wind. And then comes another; the stands shifting restlessly as the crowd grows agitated.

It only takes a quick look at the arena to understand why.

​Montrel’s still waiting in the ring.

​Alone. Just standing there, gazing up at the dais.

​But he’s not looking at Khobi. He’s looking at the empty space that had, up until a moment ago, been occupied by Loac.

​It’s only then that Khobi realises that Loac’s no longer in his seat, and why Montrel’s expression looks so grim.

​He’s next in line to fight his prince, and he, like the rest of them, has seen what happened to the last guy.

​And suddenly, Khobi doesn’t want Montrel to end up like the last guy. He is too good a swordsman and has been too good to him to be toyed with like that; to not be taken seriously for something he takes so seriously .

Montrel doesn’t like Loac --probably more than most --and Khobi knows that he would hate to be looked down on like that, with every fibre of his being.

​He can’t let that happen.

​Montrel might be a massive asshole in his own right at times, but deserves better than that.

​"Hey. Loac."

He calls out to him, not really expecting him to stop, but for some reason he does, right at the top of the stairs; one foot already taking the first step.

Loac doesn’t look at him; blue eyes glassy and facing out to the empty space where Montrel is waiting for him, but he pauses, like he’s listening.

​"...He’s a good soldier," Khobi tells him vehemently, driving red daggers into Loac’s profile with his eyes and hoping he feels their burn as he demands, "...Do him a favour and fight him properly."

​He has no reason to expect Loac to listen. He doesn’t owe him or Montrel anything, after all, but surprisingly, Loac seems to actually consider his request.

​Even more surprisingly, with the slightest tip of his chin, and a brief flash of blue in Khobi’s direction, he agrees to it.

​" --But remember," he adds, voice dark and foreboding, as he breaks back into motion and slowly starts down the stairs, "...You asked for this."

​The look he sends him as he says it, like he wants him to understand the gravity of what he’s asked of him, makes an actual shiver run clean down Khobi’s spine.

Not one of disgust, or of fear, but something different entirely; the kind of shiver that leaves not chills in its wake, but heat.