An awkward silence stretched across the arena.
Despite the cold wind that still bit at the air — winter not quite finished with them yet — the tournament announcer was busy mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. He stumbled over his words so many times that it was almost painful to watch.
“Um, this is… that is to say…”
“Do something about this! You’ve been an announcer long enough, haven’t you…!”
The announcer wasn’t the only one in a panic.
Do you have any idea what it took for me to get here?!
Aven was close to losing his mind entirely.
His family had bribed their way into this tournament at enormous cost. An enormous cost. And of all the opponents to be drawn against first — it had to be Prince Isierd.
This was a disaster.
This is a dream.
Aven stared blankly as Prince Isierd walked toward him, blinking again and again as though repetition might change what he was seeing. It didn’t. Nothing changed.
Before he knew it, Isierd was standing directly across from him.
“Th-then, the match between Aven of Baron Vanlude’s household and His Imperial Highness Prince Isierd Declair will now begin. P-please greet each other.”
“I… look forward to it. …Your Highness.”
Aven extended his hand, his face drained of all color. Isierd took it with casual indifference and gave it a single shake.
I’ll exchange a few blows and then pretend to fall. It’s a shame, but there’s nothing for it.
It wasn’t as though he could actually beat a prince, after all.
Aven composed himself inwardly as he stepped back to a proper distance. He leveled his gaze forward.
And that was when he noticed.
Wait — when did he settle into his stance?
At some point — Aven hadn’t even seen it happen — Isierd had already taken his position and was simply waiting for him to finish.
…I must’ve been so rattled that I was moving slowly.
Whatever bribes had gotten him here, Aven was no slouch. He wasn’t quite at the level of the First Imperial Knights, but he’d been assessed as someone with the potential to make one of the lower-ranked orders without trouble, given enough time to grow.
Aven gripped his sword with both hands.
He lunged forward. The moment he felt his blade meet Isierd’s—
Isierd’s eyes shifted to something in the distance, then went cold.
Aven flinched instinctively and glanced back over his shoulder.
What on earth did he see to make his expression go like that…?
Perhaps that was why. That one moment of distraction was all it took.
“Ahh!”
“I-Isierd wins!”
Aven clutched his wrist and stared numbly at his sword, which had sailed far across the arena floor. The announcer blinked at the absurdly swift conclusion, then reached up to raise Isierd’s hand.
A profound silence fell over the tournament grounds.
Every noble in attendance had precisely the same thought.
What kind of match was that?
Normally, as a matter of basic courtesy, both parties would exchange at least several blows — enough for each side to show off a little. But this…
A handful of the adult nobles in the stands snapped open their fans in a hurry, hiding their expressions behind silk and ivory as they murmured anxiously to one another.
“Surely Prince Isierd won’t end the next match the same way? …Our family’s child is competing today.”
“…Mine as well.”
The women exchanged deeply worried glances.
A nearby noble clicked her tongue and shook her head firmly, as if to dismiss their concerns.
“Don’t worry yourselves, ladies. No matter how skilled Prince Isierd is with a sword, that was a bit excessive. The Vanlude boy was simply… lacking, by all appearances.”
“You think so?”
“Of course. Did you see him drop his sword? It nearly flew all the way to the barrier. Tsk, tsk — I had some expectations of him, being from the Vanlude family, but if he’s been that neglectful of his training…”
Those expectations proved spectacularly wrong.
The next match was the same. And the one after that.
What was more, with each successive bout, the sword flung from its owner’s grip flew higher — and drifted closer to the protective barrier around the arena.
By the last one—
Ting—!
The blade struck the barrier directly and clattered to the ground.
Nothing but a long, hollow silence drifted through the arena.
⁂
Meanwhile, Yuta, who had been watching the whole affair from the stands, was practically in tears — not because she was sad, but because she desperately wanted to roll on the floor laughing and couldn’t.
Oh, this is genuinely going to kill me.
Pressing her hand over her mouth and swallowing her laughter had long since exhausted her. Her shoulders ached.
“…Doesn’t Isierd look even angrier now than before?”
“Pfft — no, no…” Yuta wheezed. “The angrier he gets, the better. He’s doing wonderfully right now, Riersha.”
She gave a thumbs-up just as—
Ting—!
A sword struck the barrier directly in front of her and tumbled to the ground without ceremony.
“Pffh—!”
Yuta’s face fell forward as she completely lost the battle against her own laughter, shoulders shaking violently.
At first, she’d planned to play along with Olivia’s request just enough to get what she wanted in return. But…
This is turning out to be far more entertaining than I expected.
Yuta’s green eyes sparkled.
Her cousin seemed to be labouring under quite a serious misapprehension, but—
There won’t even be room for Olivia to wedge herself between those two.
From where Yuta stood, there was something unmistakably taut between Isierd and Riersha. It might not be the kind of clear, conscious romantic feeling one could name — but it was there.
She was glad Olivia was watching from the other side of the arena. All Olivia would be seeing from that angle was Isierd winning match after match.
“No matter how ya look at it, Isierd’s really mad. …Is the tournament always like this?”
“No, this is genuinely unusual. I’ve never seen anything like it either.”
It might well be the first time in the entire history of the Hunt Festival.
Eventually, the announcer apparently reached his limit and could be seen stepping forward to issue Isierd a formal warning.
Riersha watched the exchange and furrowed her brow slightly.
“So that’s bad, isn’t it.”
“Exactly. Which is why I need you to look out for me for a while, Riersha. Something unfortunate might happen to me otherwise.”
“…Hm? What do you mean by that?”
“I am currently fearing for my personal safety. Prince Isierd has been staring at me like he wants me dead.”
“Oh. Well…”
That was something Riersha had started to notice too. At first she’d told herself it was her imagination.
But every time she exchanged words with Yuta — every time their shoulders drew a little closer together — she felt it.
To test the theory, Riersha quietly edged herself a little nearer to Yuta.
Isierd’s gaze slowly tracked toward her.
Their eyes met directly.
Riersha sucked in a sharp breath, startled, but she didn’t look away.
Isierd stared at her for a long moment, expression unreadable, then opened his mouth.
Wait for me.
Unless she had completely misread his lips, the meaning was clear.
For some reason, a chill ran up Riersha’s spine.
Yuta’s plan had succeeded — so why did she feel so…unsettled?
“Congratulations. He just said to wait for him, didn’t he?”
“…”
“See? You did what I said, and it worked.”
Yuta looked thoroughly satisfied with herself.
Moments later, the next young noble climbed up into the arena with his shoulders hunched practically to his ears. Having watched competitor after competitor knocked out without ceremony, his complexion had gone an impressive shade of green.
Riersha watched him with quiet sympathy, then turned her gaze to Isierd.
For some reason, she had the distinct feeling that if she said something now, he would actually listen.
Take it easy, Isierd.
As expected, Isierd seemed to catch her lip movement.
He adjusted his grip on his sword — a little more loosely this time — and answered her with a firm look of his own.
Then move away from those two.
The moment Riersha read those words, she stepped swiftly away from Yuta’s side before she had even consciously decided to.
What followed was remarkable.
Whether it was the announcer’s warning that had done it, or Riersha putting a full pace of distance between herself and Yuta — probably both — something had changed.
Starting with the very next match, Isierd began exchanging at least several blows with his opponent, as proper courtesy demanded.
“Prince Isierd wins!”
“Thank you so much, Your Highness!”
The young noble who had climbed up looking distinctly green came back down beaming, bowing deeply. He had managed to walk off the arena floor without losing his sword — which, at this point, felt like a genuine triumph.
Yuta watched him go, and finally gave up entirely on holding it together.
She burst out laughing.
