The Prince's Script

Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Duel of the Fools

The morning sun didn’t rise; it bled over the horizon, turning the training grounds into a gilded arena of dust and impending violence. Duke Wahid stood in the center, his chest puffed out like a pigeon in plated steel, his rapier already singing as he slashed the air.

"You’re late, boy," Wahid barked, his face a roadmap of spoiled ambition. "Or are you just hoping the executioner saves me the trouble?"

Kirun walked onto the sand, his boots crunching. The steel in his hand felt like an extension of his own arm—cold, heavy, and ready. He didn't look at the crowd, but he felt their eyes, a thousand needles pricking his skin.

"I was busy finding my spine, Duke. It’s hard to locate in this castle," Kirun said, his voice echoing against the stone walls.

Wahid sneered, adjusting his stance. "Your father should have smothered you in the crib. It would have saved the kingdom a lot of embarrassment."

"Maybe. But then you’d have no one to play with, right?" Kirun stepped into the circle.

Suddenly, a scrap of parchment blew into the sand at Kirun’s feet. It wasn't paper; it was a fragment of the diary, glowing with a soft, pulsing ink.

‘8:15 AM: His reach is long, but his ego is longer. Bait his lunge by dropping your guard.’

Kirun took a breath, his heart racing. "Is that the best you’ve got, Wahid? A bit of monologue and a fancy coat?"

"I’m going to carve 'coward' into your chest, Lucius," Wahid growled, circling him.

"You’ll have to get past my guard first," Kirun said, and with a deliberate, reckless flick of his wrist, he lowered his sword entirely. He stood wide open, his ribcage exposed.

A hush fell over the audience.

"You fool," Wahid hissed, his eyes widening. He lunged, a desperate, greedy strike aimed straight for the heart.

‘Step right. Pivot. Strike the flat of his blade.’

Kirun moved with a fluidity he hadn't possessed an hour ago. He didn't block; he danced. He stepped into the Duke’s space, his own blade catching the edge of Wahid’s rapier with a sharp, metallic ping. The force sent the Duke’s sword spiraling into the dirt.

"What—?" Wahid stumbled, his momentum carrying him forward.

Kirun kicked the Duke’s lead foot. Wahid went down face-first into the sand.

"Did you trip over your own ambition, Duke?" Kirun stepped over him, the point of his sword hovering inches from the man’s throat.

Wahid gasped, his face mottled with purple rage. "You! You were always a hack! You cheated!"

"Cheating implies I had to work for this," Kirun said, tapping the Duke’s nose with the tip of his steel. "I’m just better than you. And it’s not even close."

The crowd erupted into a confused, murmuring roar. Sartika was in the front row, her eyes narrowed into thin, violet slits. She wasn't clapping.

"Surrender, Duke," Kirun whispered, loud enough only for Wahid to hear. "Or I’ll let the audience see exactly how much you’ve been embezzling from the crown."

Wahid’s eyes bulged. "How do you know about that?"

"I know a lot of things," Kirun said, pulling his sword back and sheathing it with a sharp click. "Get up. Go home. Try not to choke on your lunch."

Kirun turned his back on the man, walking toward the tunnel. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity.

"Lucius!" Sartika called out, her voice cutting through the noise.

Kirun stopped but didn't turn. "Not now, sister."

She caught up to him, her gait predatory. "That wasn't you. That technique—you looked like you were being puppeteered by a master."

"Maybe I just had a good breakfast," Kirun said, his ribs still throbbing.

"You’re lying," she said, her breath hot against his neck. "And you’re bleeding through your tunic."

Kirun looked down. A dark, wet stain was blossoming across his side. He must have torn the stitches during the fight.

"Just a flesh wound," he muttered, trying to keep his footing.

"It’s more than that," she whispered, stepping closer to support his weight. "You’re changing, Lucius. But be careful. If you get any better, the people who want you dead won't just send assassins. They’ll send an army."

"Let them," Kirun sighed, his head swimming.

"You’re arrogant," she remarked, her voice losing its edge. "I almost like it."

"Almost?" Kirun offered a tired smirk.

"Don't push your luck." She pushed him toward the infirmary doors. "Go. Fix yourself. The final round of the challenge begins at noon."

Kirun slumped into the room, locking the door behind him. He collapsed into the chair, his hands shaking. He reached for the diary, but it wasn't there. He searched the sand of his memory, the fight, the rush. Nothing.

‘11:00 AM: Check your sword hilt.’

Kirun frowned. He picked up the heavy steel sword he’d brought back from the arena. He examined the hilt, the pommel, the grip.

Nothing seemed out of place until he caught a flicker of something in the leather wrapping. He pried it open with his fingernail.

Hidden deep inside the grip was a small, pressurized vial of dark, viscous liquid, rigged to shatter the moment the sword was swung with force.

His stomach dropped.

If he had used that sword to parry against the Duke’s strike, the vial would have broken. The acid—or poison—would have sprayed directly into his eyes, blinding him instantly.

He wasn't just being challenged to a duel. He was being set up to be crippled.

He looked at the sword, then at the locked door of the infirmary. A soft, rhythmic scratching came from the other side.

Click. Click. Click.

The sound of metal on metal.

He lunged for the sword, but as he moved, he heard a hiss. The hilt was smoking.

Someone was already working on the lock, and they weren't using a key. They were using acid.