Leybound Chapter Forty-Four | A Challenge (Patreon)

The sun was setting in the north, throwing golden rays onto the citadel of Morbian, a blob of land clinging onto the mainland, the high white stone walls and the uniform orange tiled roofs of the buildings packed inside. The citadel looked different, but of course, it was the same. It was him who had changed. 

It had always been his ambition, but now it just seemed so small. A petty kingdom. The tower that rose in the middle like a gnarled giant's finger of black stone. How he had obsessed over it, even redesigning his entire mansion so that he could view the thing from every room. 

It had started with Riot, a small jealousy that had eaten away at him. His breeding, his heritage, and his skill as an arcanist all seemed to mean absolutely nothing in the wilds, where men like Riot and Loic thrived. Rough, uncouth, men. 

He wasn’t fool enough to let pride or jealousy turn to hatred or resentment. He wanted mastery of this new, hard and dangerous world, and the anticipation was tangible. 

The six surviving members of his household guard stood around him like warriors from another age. Battle hardened and rough. They met the glares of the Faelen around them easily. 

The gates finally opened, and a group came out, headed by Myam-tal. He was wearing one of Moran's coats, a padded velvet garment that he used to wear to stave off the chill of the morning. Two weeks ago, he would have flown into a dignified rage that Myam-tal had stolen his clothes, but now, who cared about a coat? He had a blade, and his ley power haunched at the back of his spirit. 

“Brother.” Moran gave a slight inclination of his head. 

“Half-brother,” Myam-tal corrected, gazing down his long nose. He didn’t bow, and Moran didn’t care.

Myam-tal seemed to sense something different about him as he took a half-step back, his delicate shoes scraping on the cold ground. “Your flight through the wilds was most undignified, but you have come to face me after all, so I must give you some credit.” 

The slight had the snap of a damp twig, but the Faelen officers gathered behind Myam-tal still tittered and held their embroidered handkerchiefs to their mouths. How could he have ever thought they were sophisticated? They looked like sad performers, with powdered faces and wigs and embroidered clothes and shoes.

One of Myam-tal's followers was a man who had been disfigured and lost an eye. This was the captain from the east that Riot had told him about. The man's remaining eye narrowed, and he leaned forward to whisper to Myam-tal before turning on his heel and striding back into the citadel. He would look for Riot, but that was out of Moran's control. “I challenge you, Myam-tal,” he announced in a clear voice. 

The laughter turned into interested chatter, like a flock of peacocks gabbing over a new hen in their midst. 

“State your terms, but do not insult me,” Myam-tal replied.

“Your victory will gain you my surrender. Mine, access to the Sun Tower.” 

Laughter erupted now, a polite sniggering and chuckling. “I refuse, honorably. I hold the city, and you are not a worthy enough prize that I should have to trade for it. Had I any knowledge of a pig sty in the surrounding area, perhaps we could come to some agreement and you could move in directly.” 

An eruption of sneering, disdainful laughter followed the words. He felt it, like a small wound, but he would harden himself until the laughter could no longer bite, and he would start today. 

Myam-tal insulted him by turning his back and walking back to the city. 

“A friendly bout then? The honor of the citadel I call my own against the sty of hogs in the echo that your mother calls home.”

The laughter stopped, and Myam-tal turned, his expression deadly. “What is your aim here, I wonder?”

Moran gave a short bow. “Honor and glory, brother.”

“On my honor, I accept. Establish a dueling ground!” Myam-tal declared. 

The faelen clapped and clamoured, waving their lace cloths and word was passed throughout the citadel.