The Villainess Wants To Retire-Chapter 365: The Emperor and The King

Soren just laughed, the sound bright and dangerous.

"My turn, Your Majesty."

The crowd murmured, the sound rippling through the ranks of guards and servants who had gathered on the ramparts to watch. Jorel Draen stepped forward. He didn’t take a practice sword. He drew his twin steel blades, the metal singing as it left the scabbards.

Soren gripped his practice sword, his heart leaping. "Now this will be a proper fight."

Jorel offered a slight, knowing smirk. "Don’t hold back on my account, Sire."

"I wouldn’t dream of it."

They began to circle. Jorel’s style was unlike anything taught in the Nevarian academies. He used a "Featherfall" stance, staying light on the balls of his feet, his body swaying like a reed in a storm. Then, he exploded into motion.

It was the "Twin Phoenix" rotation, a blur of dual blades that created a literal wall of steel. He moved with a relentless, aggressive rhythm, his fire magic flaring occasionally to heat the air and create shimmering feints that played tricks on the eyes.

Soren stayed defensive at first, his practice sword moving in tight, economical arcs. He let the ice magic respond to his mood, and the temperature in the yard dropped ten degrees in seconds. Frost patches bloomed on the ground, creating treacherous footing for anyone but him.

They fought for five minutes. It was a masterpiece of back-and-forth violence.

Jorel was a whirlwind, his twin blades snapping at Soren’s guard from angles that should have been impossible.

Soren had to try. For the first time all day, he had to spare some ounces of his will on the man in front of him. The heat of Jorel’s fire magic clashed with the chill of his blood.

The crowd was riveted, silent in their collective bated breath.

Jorel lunged, both blades scissoring toward Soren’s midsection. Soren saw the opening. He didn’t parry; he stamped his foot.

A wave of ice magic surged through the earth, instantly freezing the mud beneath Jorel’s front boot. The man slipped, just a fraction of an inch, but in a duel of this caliber, a fraction was a mile.

Soren caught him mid-rotation, his practice blade sweeping up to stop a hair’s breadth from Jorel’s jugular.

They both stood there, Jorel panting, steam rising from his body into the frigid air. They were both grinning.

"You’ve improved since the festival," Soren said, lowering his blade and reaching out to clasp the man’s shoulder.

Jorel sheathed his swords, bowing his head in a gesture of genuine respect. "I had good motivation, Your Majesty. Can’t let the Emperor who freed my father look bad by having weak guards."

Soren laughed, the sound echoing off the ramparts. "Weak? You nearly had me three times."

"Nearly doesn’t win duels, Your Majesty," Jorel said with a dry, road-worn humor.

The applause from the crowd was thunderous, but it died a sudden, strangled death as a voice cut through the cold from the edge of the pit.

"Impressive swordwork, Emperor Soren."

Soren turned, the smile vanishing from his face as if it had never been there. Caelen was standing at the entrance to the yard, his cloak furred with light snow.

He wasn’t dressed for training; he was in his formal leathers, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword.

"Your Majesty." Jorel stepped back immediately, his eyes darting between the two men.

He didn’t need to be a seer to recognize the sudden, toxic shift in the atmosphere. This wasn’t about the reserves or the blizzard. This was personal.

Caelen stepped forward, his gaze raking over Soren, not with respect, but with a challenge that made years of friendship almost non-existent.

He watched the way Soren breathed, the way the frost clung to his skin, his face a mask of simmering resentment.

"Though I remember you being faster," Caelen continued, his voice carrying a jagged, loaded edge. "Perhaps marriage has... softened you. All those hours behind closed doors can take the edge off a man’s steel."

The yard went deathly quiet. A comment like that was more than a taunt; it was a deliberate strike at Soren’s pride, a public reminder of the woman they both laid claim to.

"Has it?" Soren asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous, velvet purr. He felt the ice magic in his veins begin to sharpen, the glow in his eyes intensifying until it cast blue shadows on the snow.

A long, suffocating pause stretched between them.

"It’s been a while since we fought, hasn’t it, Caelen?" Soren said, tilting his head.

"Years," Caelen replied, his hand tightening on his hilt.

"Perhaps we’re due for a match," Soren said, baiting him. He wanted Caelen to swing. He wanted an excuse to vent the dark, possessive energy that had been building in him since he saw that look in the other man’s eyes at dinner.

Caelen’s jaw tightened, his knuckles turning white. He knew it was a trap. He knew he was outclassed here, in the heart of Soren’s power. But the jealousy... the image of the bite mark Soren had left on Eris’s neck was a goad he couldn’t ignore.

"Perhaps we are," Caelen said.

Soren didn’t hesitate. He tossed the wooden practice sword to a startled squire and reached for his side. His real blade, a masterwork of enchanted steel and glass, hissed as it left its scabbard. The air around the blade hummed with a low-frequency vibration of pure frost.

Caelen drew his own sword, the Solmire steel gleaming with a pale, golden light.

The murmurs in the crowd turned into a frantic, low-voiced buzz. This wasn’t a spar. These were real blades. This was a duel between a king and an Emperor, and there was no priest to bless it and no judge to stop it.

"Soren," Ryse stepped forward, his hand out in a warning gesture. "Think about what you’re doing. If you draw blood—"

"It’s fine, Ryse," Soren said, not looking away from Caelen’s burning eyes.

Jorel leaned toward Ryse, his voice a low whisper. "Should we stop this? The Emperor’s eyes... they’re different. Colder. This isn’t just a match."

Ryse shook his head, his expression grim. "We can’t. If we interfere, we insult both of them. It’s between them now. Let’s just hope no one dies before the sun comes up."

They faced each other in the center of the pit. The audience was growing by the second; knights, servants, and palace staff were rushing to the ramparts, their breaths hitching as they realized what was about to happen.

"The Emperor and the King are fighting!"

"Real swords!"

"This is about the Empress, isn’t it?"

"Someone’s going to get hurt..."

Soren didn’t hear them. He only saw Caelen. He saw the man who had loved her first, the man who thought he still had a right to her heart. He felt the dragon in his blood stir, a primal, icy roar that demanded he break his rival. 𝕗𝕣𝐞𝐞𝘄𝐞𝚋𝚗𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹.𝚌𝕠𝚖

"Begin."