The courtyard of the outer estate had never been so quiet,as if the air itself had become reluctant to move.
Jude's third brother stood frozen, his expression caught between disbelief and embarrassment. Vex had already stepped back, still staring at his own hand as if he expected his sword to return. Almost everyone in the hall knew Vex and Vin were the strongest among them — the two closest to being acknowledged by the inner family. And yet Jude, the youngest, the least regarded, the one whose talent had always been brushed aside, had beaten him.
Not with desperation.
Not with raw strength.
But with absolute control.
Eyes shifted. Whispers crawled through the space, each hushed enough not to dare offend the Patriarch, yet loud enough to be heard by those who needed to feel it.
On the stone steps, the second born's fingers curled slowly. Darisn had been watching with a neutral gaze the entire time, but something subtle had changed behind his eyes. He didn't blink as he replayed the match again and again in his mind. The footwork had been clean. Too clean. No unnecessary movements. No wide swings. Each step was timed, measured, executed as if the body already knew what would happen before it occurred.
"This isn't natural instinct," he thought. "It's trained."
Beside him, Elara sat with her hands resting lightly on the arm of her chair. Her expression remained composed, but her attention had narrowed entirely onto the figure below. The way he stood. The way he breathed. He didn't carry himself like children their age did. There was a quiet distance to him, as if part of him was far removed from this place.
Jude stood in the center of the courtyard, his wooden sword tilted downward, tip just grazing the stone. His breathing was even. Not rushed. Not heavy. Nothing about him suggested he'd just fought.
Then he lifted his gaze.
"Patriarch," he said, his voice carrying cleanly across the open space. "I would like to make a wager."
Silence fell instantly.
It wasn't a polite silence. It was the type of silence where even breathing felt out of place.
Some of the outer children stiffened. Others exchanged quick glances. A few almost laughed, though the sound died in their throats before they dared let it leave.
Was the youngest stupid… or simply unaware of his position?
The Patriarch's eyes lowered to him, cold and sharp like carved obsidian. "Proceed."
Jude did not hesitate. "I will challenge every remaining candidate of the outer estate. If I win… I will request a private audience with you."
The hall froze.
For a moment, no one even reacted — just stared as though unable to process what they had heard.
Then the murmurs burst out like cracks forming through ice.
"Every candidate…?"
"How many remain?"
"Forty-eight…"
"He's lost his mind."
Children who had once mocked him now looked away. Others leaned forward, trying to see more clearly, as if a better angle might reveal the joke.
The Patriarch watched him. Long. Without speaking.
Jude held his gaze. He didn't bow. He didn't look away. He just waited.
Most of the outer children could barely maintain eye contact with him for two seconds, yet this one stood unmoving.
"Very well," the Patriarch finally said. "I accept."
A wave of shock passed through the entire estate.
Even those who carried calm faces felt unease tighten in their stomachs. No one challenged every candidate. Not even Vin or Vex had ever suggested something so absurd. Forty-eight opponents. Even if he was skilled… fatigue alone would break him.
But Jude's expression didn't change.
"And so it begins," the guardian declared.
The first challenger stepped forward.
He was a branch member of the Avernus line, tall, broad-shouldered, with a stance that showed careful training. His eyes held hunger. A chance to impress the Patriarch like this did not come twice in a lifetime.
As he walked into the ring, the stone floor echoed beneath his steps.
Jude didn't move.
"Begin," the guardian called.
The branch member attacked first — a wide horizontal slash aimed to intimidate, to force Jude back.
But Jude stepped into it instead of away. A slight pivot. A turn on the ball of his foot. His wooden sword snapped upward, striking at the center of the man's grip. The wood cracked. The blade flew from his hand before he even understood what had happened.
It hit the stone with a hollow sound.
"Defeated."
A low murmur rippled again.
That was too easy.
The second challenger stepped in.
Younger than the first, faster, clearly chosen for agility. He came with quick strikes — light on his feet, aiming for Jude's blind side.
Jude didn't back away. He stepped sideways once, just enough to let the swing pass his shoulder, and tapped the challenger's wrist. Simple. Controlled. The blade dropped.
"Defeated."
The crowd's murmurs started to change tone.
The third came.
The fourth.
The fifth.
Each different in build, in approach, in pride.
And each one fell the same way.
Sometimes Jude disarmed them.
Sometimes he knocked the wind out of them.
Sometimes he sent them skidding across the stone with a precise blow to the ribs.
Never brutal.
Never excessive.
Just enough.
Too enough.
He didn't waste movement. He didn't waste breath. He didn't even waste emotion.
As more challengers fell, the atmosphere shifted.
It no longer felt like a sparring demonstration.
It felt like observation.
On the steps, Darisn slowly leaned back, his jaw tightening.
"His footwork doesn't resemble ours," he muttered under his breath. "It's not outer estate training. Or inner."
Elara said nothing. But her eyes didn't leave Jude.
Below, the line of challengers began to thin.
Children who had once been eager were now stepping forward reluctantly. Some tried confidence. Some tried fury. Some tried desperation.
None lasted more than a few exchanges.
His body moved with a rhythm that didn't belong to a child. Each time a sword rose, his response was already correct. As if the attack had already happened somewhere else.
"Is he predicting them?" someone whispered.
"No… it's worse," another answered. "He's controlling them."
By the time half the challengers had fallen, the entire courtyard was silent again — not from shock this time, but from pressure.
The sound of swords striking stone echoed across the estate like a slow drum.
Disarmed. Displaced. Defeated.
Jude's grip never trembled.
His breathing never changed.
Sweat never even formed on his brow.
When only a few remained, fear had begun to leak into their expressions. Not open fear. But the kind that tightens the body right before impact.
Eventually, only one stood unmoving.
Vin.
The second strongest of the outer children.
He stepped forward without expression, his eyes unreadable, his posture balanced. His sword was held lightly, not tense, not arrogant.
He didn't look at the others. He only looked at Jude.
And the entire courtyard held its breath.