Chapter 349: The Drawing of Lots

Chapter 348: The Drawing of Lots

The King’s voice carried across the arena, commanding the attention of every one present.

"How we shall proceed, however, has yet to be announced," he continued, a deliberate pause allowing the anticipation to build among the gathered crowd.

Lyria took a look around to see if everyone was listening because there was a huge crowd, and the King did not seem to even be shouting. Then she paused.

She should have noticed it. His voice was amplified.

She almost shook her head at herself for not realising it sooner. Of course. With so many people gathered in the arena, there was no way his natural voice could have carried that far without some form of magic assisting him.

"The matches shall be determined through a ballot," the King continued.

A murmur rippled through the crowd, curiosity mingling with excitement.

"Each suitor candidate will step forward and draw a ball from the box."

The King gestured towards the open space at the centre of the arena, where two servants had appeared carrying a large wooden box between them. They set it down upon the stone floor with careful precision, its surface polished to a deep, rich gleam that caught the grey afternoon light.

The box was simple in design, unadorned except for a single slot at the top, just wide enough for a hand to pass through.

"Any candidate who draws the same number shall be opponents," the King continued, his voice ringing clear and unwavering. "And the overall winner shall be determined by how swiftly they defeat their opponents. Speed, precision, and skill shall be the measure of success."

The rules seemed straightforward enough.

Lyria glanced towards the suitors, wondering how many of them had already begun calculating their chances. Some looked calm, while others appeared considerably more tense.

In the corner where the suitor candidates had gathered, a quiet exchange passed between them.

Alistair leaned towards Julian, his voice pitched low enough that only his companions could hear.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

Julian nodded, his jaw set with determination, though there was a tightness around his eyes that betrayed his nerves.

"I am as ready as I shall ever be."

Lucian gave Julian a long, assessing look. Then his gaze dropped pointedly to the spectacles perched upon Julian’s nose.

"And what do you intend to do about those?" he asked. "They shall not survive a single blow."

Julian’s hand moved instinctively to adjust his spectacles, a gesture so familiar it had become almost unconscious.

He had been so focused on training with Benedict that he had not thought about them. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could speak, Evander’s voice cut in.

"I have a solution for that."

Julian turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised in suspicion.

"You do?"

Evander smiled, a slow, knowing expression that held more than a hint of mischief.

"After you have drawn your number, you shall find out."

Julian frowned at the cryptic response, but he did not press further. He adjusted his spectacles once more, then nodded, his attention returning to the King, who had just finished his speech.

And to Julian’s shock, he did not hear what the King had last said, though he knew his companions had not either, to be honest.

The King lowered his hand, signalling that the proceedings were about to begin.

Everyone in the arena took their seats, the rustle of fabric filling the air. The suitor candidates remained standing, a cluster of finely dressed men at the edge of the open space, their postures varying from relaxed confidence to barely concealed tension.

A footman stepped forward, positioning himself beside the wooden box. Another servant remained nearby, ready to assist if needed.

The footman unfurled a scroll and cleared his throat.

"The drawing of lots shall now commence," he announced.

The crowd fell into expectant silence.

"Duke Lucian Aurelgrave of Eastmere."

Lucian stepped forward with measured grace, his expression betraying nothing. He reached into the box, his hand disappearing into the darkness within, and withdrew a small ball. He held it up for all to see.

The scrying veil shimmered to life above the arena, displaying the number he had drawn.

Four.

A ripple of murmurs passed through the crowd. Lucian’s expression remained unchanged as he stepped back, his gaze steady and unreadable.

"Duke Alistair Thorncrest of Highmoor."

Alistair approached the box with an easy, confident stride, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. He reached into the box without hesitation and drew his ball.

Three.

He held it up with a flourish, as though the number itself were a victory, before stepping back to rejoin the others.

The footman’s voice rang out again.

"Duke Marcellus Frostmere of the Northern Reach."

Duke Frostmere stepped forward. He reached into the box and drew his ball.

Two.

He inclined his head and stepped back.

"Duke Evander Valenridge of Blackmere."

Evander moved forward with the unhurried grace that had become his signature, his crimson hair catching the grey light as he approached the box.

He reached inside, then drew the ball within and held it up for all to see.

Six.

The number shimmered upon the scrying veil for all to see.

A flicker of something crossed Evander’s face—not quite a smile, but close. He stepped back, his pale green eyes scanning the remaining candidates with quiet interest.

The footman continued.

"Marquess Rowan Blackvale of Duskwell."

Marquess Blackvale stepped forward, his expression carefully neutral. He reached into the box and drew his ball.

Five.

He held it up briefly before stepping back.

"Marquess Adrian Silverwyn of Crestfall."

Marquess Silverwyn stepped forward. He drew his ball and held it up.

One.

A few murmurs travelled through the arena as the number appeared above them. Silverwyn merely inclined his head and returned to his position.

Only a handful of candidates remained.

The tension in the arena seemed to grow with every number revealed.

"Marquess Corvin Hale of Westreach."

Corvin stepped forward with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. He reached into the box, his hand emerging with a ball clutched between his fingers.

Six.

The number shimmered upon the scrying veil.

Evander’s smirk widened ever so slightly, the expression barely perceptible to anyone not watching closely. Corvin, however, wore a smug expression of his own, as though the number six had somehow been a personal victory.

He stepped back, his gaze flickering briefly towards Evander.