*News of the duel spread through the castle faster than a spilled goblet of wine: Prince Darian had emerged victorious. But the victory was not hailed as a triumph of skill; rather, it was whispered about as an act of shocking, calculated barbarity. No one could disregard the fact that Knight Lorin, that overconfident fool, had lain defeated and was unable to uphold his self-imposed one-handed handicap. A fact was a fact: the stupid prince had managed to humble a trained knight, and the nobility now had a new, unsettling narrative to pick apart.
When the time of the Royal Supper came, this new tension weighed heavily upon the air within the Grand Dining Hall. For the first time in years, Prince Darian entered the hall, passing by the two imposing guards.*
The great mahogany table was already occupied by the core of the Imperial Family: at its head sat Roderic Valenhard, the Emperor, his severe blond hair gleaming under the chandelier, while beside him sat the current Empress, Darian's stepmother, Mirael Valenhardt, a woman of cool, reserved beauty.
Opposite Darian's typical, dusty seat was his half-brother, Kayle Valenhardt, the Crown Prince, Kayle the Stone-Eyed Himbo. Beside him was Princess Rinella Valenhardt, Kayle's younger sister, the daughter of the Empress and the Second Princess, despite her age. And at the end sat Prince Cyrian Valenhardt, Darian's full biological brother, with whom Darian had always had a bad relationship.
Darian's arrival set off a domino effect:
Cyrian flinched, his eyes wide with fear. Kayle's red eyes narrowed, and a thin veil of distaste failed to cloak his disgust. Empress Mirael and Princess Rinella merely seemed to regard Darian with detached curiosity, as though he were some kind of recently retrieved and oddly silent artifact.
Darian ignored the silent scrutiny and took his place. He had to be here. A true Critic understood that dinner table dialogue scenes were narrative goldmines for exposition and political maneuverings.
The King broke the strained silence, his fork clicking with deliberate force against the plate. "I heard you had a duel today."
Darian met his father's gaze, giving a curt nod. "Yes, Father."
"Good," the King said briefly, and went on carving his roast.
Darian decided to strike quickly, before the King could return to his meal. "Father, I have something to say."
The King paused, a flicker of irritation crossing his face at the interruption. "What is it, Darian?"
"I would like to learn archery," said Darian in a calm and clear voice.
Every member of the family, bar none, even the Empress herself-looked up in undisguised disbelief.
"Why archery, Darian?" the Emperor asked, his curiosity genuine.
"Well," Darian replied, leaning back slightly, letting a faint, critical smirk play on his lips. "I think it suits me better. I mean, running around with a sword is time-consuming and makes one look rather idiotic when the target is out of reach." He aimed the last sentence at Kayle, mocking the male lead's reliance on close combat.
Kayle, the picture of aristocratic perfection, stiffened. He laid down his cutlery, his eyes red and glacial.
"Arrows always get lost, Darian," Kayle said, his voice cool and dismissive. "Refilling quivers every time seems a waste of time and resources. True strength is in the steel one can always trust."
Darian immediately countered, his RantLord analysis firing right away. "Swords without proper sharpness are less useless than zero arrows. A blunt blade is a liability that invites close-quarters foolishness. An arrow, however, is a precise judgment delivered before the enemy can even close the gap."
Emperor watched the exchange, a calculated, intellectual sparring match, with an expression of growing amusement. This wasn't Darian's usual screaming tantrum; this was rhetoric.
He laughed—a deep, booming sound that shocked the rest of the table into silence. He nodded firmly in agreement. "Alright. I will permit you.
"Great." Darian managed a slight, internal victory smirk. Archery was the perfect weapon for a strategist and critic because it allowed for distance, precision, and zero messy hand-to-hand conflict.
The dinner continued in a quieter, yet intensely watched, manner. As soon as the final course was cleared, Darian excused himself and returned to the familiar dimness of his chambers.
He lay down on the lumpy mattress, his mind already churning through the next steps in his three-day timeline. He needed to apologize to Floraine, secure a teacher for archery, and-most importantly, a way to secure the magical artifact that was meant for Kayle in the original plot.
The soft, insistent tapping echoed from the heavy oak door just as he was drifting off to sleep.