The last of the therapeucy was finally clearing from his head, and it could have chosen not a worse time to do so. The thrill and confidence leaked out of him like water from holes in a bucket, leaving only its vessel behind; hollow, light-headed, slightly dazed. This is why no competent man would ever accept a therapeut's administrations between duels. Gods damned Akai, who had convinced him to allow his wounds be treated in the first place. They were shallow cuts! Topical salves and a good dressing would have sufficed.

Oh, gods.

Images of the past few hours returned to him through a haze. Kiet leaned forwards on the bench to bury his head in his hands. What had he done? What had he said? And up in the battlements, too, where any patrolling soldier could have seen—

'They are calling for you, maharaj.' Akai's boots crunched up the pit and stopped before him. 'You've drawn against your nephew.'

He needed not ask which.

Between him, Khaisan, and the High Khan's two remaining contesting sons, they had eliminated all but each other. Now Khaisan had defeated High Prince Bara Qwa, and whoever won the next round was to meet Amargai for the grand prize.

Kiet groaned to his feet. 'Let us be done with this, then.'

He skimmed the platform above as he strode down the walkway, and sure enough was she there, sitting with Chei, though she turned away from his gaze.

Nothing else matters. Her words rang in his ears, and suddenly the blood pounded back to his head with a vengeance. Luckily had he the perfect outlet for it.

The crowd went wild when he stepped on stage to join his nephew. Their roars overwhelmed whatever it was the tournament master said, but Khaisan bowed, and then Kiet bowed, and then they drew their swords.

'Just as when we were children, uncle!' said Khaisan, barely audible over the cries above and around them. He carried his favoured dha—a gently curved, single-edged blade he called Silverspine for its crossguard winged up and around like the feathered caudal fins of its eponymous fish.

Khaisan was yet complacent from his victory against Bara Qwa. But the Napoan High Prince had spent not the greater half of his first two decades sparring against Khaisan; learning his tells, the vague patterns in his movements, his stronger strikes and weaker guards.

As predicted, his nephew begun with his signature eight-winds stance: sword raised high and upright before him, curve of his blade angled to fall faintly over his shoulder. An offensive stance meant to both push Kiet into a higher guard and to bait him into Khaisan's open quadrants.

None of his own favoured stances helped much against Khaisan. His nephew knew already the length of his kalis, which took away half the advantages of the silent stance, and Kiet's longer blade would only cripple him in a resting serpent.

Besides which, Khaisan would be expecting—and prepared for—both. But there was one thing he'd not anticipate.

Kiet struck first and immediate.

He rarely did in combat, but this time, he needed not draw Khaisan out. He, too, knew already the reach of Khaisan's dha—and though by far not a longsword, his own kalis had a good ten inches on Silverspine. It gave him the advantage as he swiped at Khaisan's inviting left. His nephew was quick enough to parry down, but the unexpected blow meant it came awkward and weak. He failed to control Kiet's blade, and with a quick weave of his kalis, Kiet won the overbind and thrust into Khaisan's opposing shin.

He cried out at Sandyakala's sting. 'You caught me unprepared!'

'A master bladesman remains always prepared.'

There was just enough blood on the tip of his sword for the tournament master to call out a point. Khaisan fumed, not as brash now as he danced between balanced guard to eight-winds. He poked here and there, out of measure, capering cirles around Kiet, just edging him to strike again.

But finally was it Khaisan who struck the next offence. It was the twitch of his lip that gave him away. His dha came swinging down from eight-winds accompanied by a loud snarl, but instead of advancing, he lunged low with a sweeping slash of his blade.

Kiet swivelled back, caught the horizontal cut to his torso. Khaisan's blow was powerful enough to gut him right through, had it landed. Powerful enough for him to redirect its force into an overcut. His kalis came slashing down the top of Khaisan's shoulder.

Silverspine fell with a dull thud upon the stage.

'Fool!' Kiet yelled over Khaisan's howls, shaking from his reflexive retort, pacing around his nephew at a distance to see the extent of his wound. A clean cut ran half the length of his pauldron, right through to the skin and flesh underneath. Blood spread down and around his black leather like a rose blossoming in the night. Kiet jerked his head frantically at the therapeut to come. 'You overcomitted that strike and for what? In battle would your head be now rolling upon the grass!'

'You bastard!' Khaisan leapt from his feet, grabbing his dha and coming in fast, feverish, with swing after swing.

Kiet ducked and backed away, deflecting each blow on the strong of his sword, the rush building within him with each clash and clatter of steel.

He was invigorated before, now was he intoxicated. Dhvani's silver-servant held nothing on Khaisan—none of his raw desperation, his fervour ... it made each miss, each successful counter all the more satisfying.

Kiet twisted aside before his feet met the edge of the stage.

My turn.

Khaisan was tiring, the pain finally sinking into him by the looks of it. Kiet pushed back, taking now the offence. His nephew struggled to keep his blows at bay, stumbling in the recovery.

How much easier would it be, to rid of his nephew in fair duel? With all these eyes upon them, none would be able to claim it a violent coup, a dishonourable assassination. If anything, it would be considered an unfortunate mishap. An overzealous blow, driven in the heat of competition. How much time would it spare, how much effort? Certainly would it save you from many things. His gaze flitted in the split-second between parries towards Isla; this time she dared not tear her eyes off him.

But then again ...

Judhistir may be dangerously lenient of Kiet, but he doubted the Rama would tolerate him the murder of his heir apparent, accidental or otherwise.

Khaisan panted as he bounced back another blow, his hair clinging now to the sweat drenching his neck and forehead. What a mockery would he make of the realm; how much weaker would it fall beneath his incompetent rule.

Kiet disengaged a timid strike, tossed his blade into his offhand—wholly unnecessary; frivolous, even, but worth every inch of the disdain on Khaisan's face. He retaliated before his nephew even could blink. High for his chest, then low for his knees, Khaisan lurched and hopped away until at last he stumbled and fell back with a clatter of steel.

'Yield.' Kiet tempered down his accruing bloodlust, stopping his blade inches from Khaisan's neck.

His nephew glared up at him, and that was when he felt the tug on his feet.

It came from low, just above his ankles.

And again. Stronger, this time.

What—

The third tug came strongest of all, and this one accompanied by Khaisan's own feet, sweeping between his. Kiet fell back, his kalis flying as he turned to catch himself. Khaisan leapt on top of him, driving his entire weight down his body. Pain shot through his brow as his nephew lifted and slammed his head down upon the stage, again, again.

'That's a point, master!' Khaisan's laughter echoed dimly in his ear.

The blood stung his eyes. Kiet fought through the spinning in his vision, his nephew now pulling him by the back of his gorget. He heard gasps scattering through the crowd, saw Khaisan's hand reach for the kalis several paces from his face ...

'You might be a better fighter, uncle,' he hissed low in his ear, 'but in battle you'll never even get past my theurgy!'

Kiet grabbed his arm, right around the black wrist band that poked through his sleeves.

They were cold to the touch.

Son of a frigid bitch!

Khaisan released his hold on the gorget and with his now free hand scrambled for Kiet's fallen blade. He tried to throw him off, but the weight on his body was inhuman. It kept him pinned down—unless he struck Khaisan with his pranopeucy, he'd never break free. His own bloodrune glinted where it lay, embedded in the hilt of his kalis, and unlike his nephew, he had it not replaced with a counterfeit prior to their match. Such subterfuge was beneath him.

He groaned as Khaisan pulled him back by the hair, exposing his neck.

'Yield.' The edge of his kalis hovered dangerously close to his skin, so sharp that even the gentlest caress would draw blood.

'I knew you've greatly changed since we were boys, nephew.' His voice was quiet, but he knew Khaisan could hear him still beneath the rumbling of the crowd. 'But never did I think the years would turn you into a dishonourable craven.'

'Craven?' Khaisan tightened his grip on Kiet's hair. 'It is you the craven, uncle, who dares not even acknowledge his thirst for the throne! Instead you flee for petty distractions, returning only once you've found yet another way to undermine my very existence.'

'How highly you regard yourself. Truly, never once do you cross my mind whilst I am away.'

'Yield!' he yelled, this time pressing the blade up into Kiet's neck.

Well, there goes another point. Still Khaisan's mind-bending bore down upon him. And still he could bring himself not to yield. It was no longer even a matter of winning. He could easily call foul and submit his nephew's bloodrune cuffs to inspection—but before all these foreign delegates? It would dishonour more than Khaisan; it would dishonour Judhistir, the Ametjas name, the entire Surikh reputation ...

Kiet laughed at his nephew's guile. Khaisan knew him far too well. This ploy would only have ever worked against him.

The crowd waited for him to yield. Isla looked like she could either faint or slice Kiet's neck through herself, which made him laugh only harder, and down in the pits below her, Akai stood with a face burning red, one foot already upon the stage steps.

Small victories, huh? Gods damn you, captain.

Kiet raised his hands and yielded.

       
❖ ❖ ❖
        

☆ this chapter is dedicated to LeeNicole7 ☆

Video: Music is OST from the video game Ghost of Tsushima
Image: Original artists unknown

Well, Akai did try to warn him Khaisan would cheat ¯\(ツ)/¯ But do you think Kiet should have just told everyone?