The Stilled Prince: A Game Of Blood

Steel Vs Silver Thread

In Groveward Academy, Draven was known as a legend for all the wrong reasons.

He was not a noble and was not rich. He was just street-smart in a way that made everyone else feel dumb. If you needed any rare item, a spare uniform when yours got ruined, or even someone to put the right word with the tutor to fix a failing mark, you go to Draven.

But he had one rule written in his book; nothing was free. You named your wager, you fight for it on the practice ground. Win, and whatever you wanted was yours. Lose, and he get to keep your stake and you walked away empty-handed.

Sometimes, if he was in a rare good mood and liked your face, he might still hand over the prize after you lost. Most days, though, he did not.

That was why the practice ground was already packed even though the afternoon session had barely ended.

The wide stone platform was at the middle of the field, and below it was juniors who were fighting for to stay in the front row. Girls in clean Groveward uniform giggled behind their hands. While the boys look for for better spots to watch the show. Nobody wanted to hear about this from a second-hand.

"Is the prince really fighting Draven?” a skinny boy asked, standing on his toes.

“I was right there in the hall,” his friend answered. “He is doing it for Serra. That sly bastard Draven took her Universal College slot in a wager. The Prince wants it back.”

“Fucking gods… what is he thinking?” another voice groaned. “He is Stilled and can not weave a single thread. Draven’s level one already.”

“I heard Draven said he can use his sword so it’s fair,” a girl added.

“Dammit!” the first boy slapped his thigh. “Still, no way. Level one means stronger legs, quicker hands. The Prince has nothing but normal muscle.”

Most people thinks healers were soft. But they forgot that the same Vitality threads that can knit skin could also split it.

A level-one channeler could send a ten-centimeter razor cut across your arm without ever touching you. Draven knew that trick better than most.

On top of a branch big tree, young Lord Kael of Shardfell was there. He was peeling grandnuts. He popped one into his mouth, chewed it, and smirked.

If the Stilled Prince got humiliated today, the story would spread across Elyria by nightfall. Maybe even reach other clans too.

Kael was already planning the taunts he would throw at Prince Rhaegar for the next ten years. He cracked another nut, with his face lace with smirk.

The crowd noise suddenly increased, making heads to turn.

Rhaegar just walked in. Serra hurried after him, her blonde hair bouncing with every of her step. Her gray eyes were wide with panic. “Your Highness...Rhaegar...please. Stop. You don’t have to do this.”

Rhaegar kept walking, but he glanced sideways and gave her that small, easy smile that always made her stomach flip. “There is nothing you can say that will change my mind now, Serra. What do you think people will call me if I back out at the last second? The Stilled Prince who talks big and runs?”

She grabbed his sleeve. “I changed my mind about Universal College. I will stay right here in Elyria. The college here is fine. They have good teachers. I don’t need to go.”

He stopped and turned fully to face her. Serra looked up at him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes almost wet with tears but she refused to let them fall.

She knew if he got hurt, every finger in the kingdom would point straight at her. The common girl who made the prince risk a royal heirloom.

Rhaegar’s voice softened, but his eyes stayed steady. “You’re cute when you’re trying to save me from myself. But the deal is already made. I ca not back out now or they will say I have no honor left. Besides, the pressure is really on Draven. He is the one who has to prove he can beat a Stilled prince in front of everyone.”

She bit her lip hard. “What if he cuts you? What if..”

He tapped her shoulder gently, the way an older brother would. “Trust me. I will be fine.” Then he turned and kept walking toward the platform.

Serra stayed behind with her fists clenched at her sides, as she muttered to herself, “If the worst happens… I will jump in. I swear I will.”

Draven was already on the edge of the platform. He was kneeling to tie his shoelace. When he saw Rhaegar he stood up quickly with that flashing cocky street grin.

“No joke. The prince actually showed.”

Rhaegar climbed the three stone steps and smiled back. “A deal is a deal. Man’s got to honor it.”

Draven folded his arms, looking Rhaegar up and down. “Yeah, right. But I never thought you’d wager a real family heirloom. All that for one girl?” He raised his eyebrows high and jerked his chin toward Serra. “You like her or something?”

His voice still has that street-kid British accent.

Rhaegar let out a short laugh. “Stop talking nonsense and take your position.”

Draven’s grin widened. “No sh!t. Looks like someone wants this to be over quick.” He started walking to the center of the platform, but Rhaegar’s voice stopped him.

“Hey.”

Draven turned.

“Since I’m using my sword,” Rhaegar said, “you use your defense weaves too. Make it fair.”

Draven let out a laugh. “Fine by me. As long as you don’t go crying to Daddy King when you lose.”

Rhaegar just shook his head, and stepped onto the platform, and drew his practice sword out. The slim steel caught Draven eyes.

Draven stared at it and snorted. “You think this is a playground? Bringing a practice blade instead of a real steel?”

Rhaegar spun the sword once in his hand. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to look down on your opponent before a fight starts?”

Draven raised both hands in mock surrender, still grinning. “Okay, okay. Have it your way, Your Highness.”

The crowd leaned in and was ready for the show to start.

Kael was still on top of the tree as he cracked another grandnut.

Draven dropped into a low stance, his fists tight as silver light flickered around his knuckles..

He lunged forward, punching straight at Rhaegar’s chest. His fists had that power that could bruise ribs from the inside.

Rhaegar stepped sideways quickly. Draven’s fist punched nothing but air.

Before Draven could turn, Rhaegar spin and drove his free hand hard into the boy’s back. The smack sounded. Draven stumbled forward and slammed his face into the stone edge of the platform. A groan ripped out of his mouth.

The crowd gasped. A few girls covered their mouths.

"Ahh!” Someone gasped.

“I have seen that move before!” a boy shouted.

“Where?”

“In the old war sketches. That's a Silent Guard footwork!”

“No way. That order died out.”

“Yeah, exactly the same spin!” another yelled.

Murmurs was sounding. Nobody had expected the Stilled Prince to move like that.

Blood trickled from Draven’s nose. He pushed up and wiped it on his sleeve, and laughed. “Never should’ve underestimated you…”

Rhaegar’s return the laugh. “You found out the hard way.”

Draven’s eyes flashed. He was boiling inside, but he hid it behind his smirk. He rolled both his wrists in fast circles. Silver threads bloomed around his hands. A dozens of them, thin like razor.

This was not healing weave. This was the other side of Vitality. The part they taught in war classes. One good flick and those threads could cut and open skin.

Students in the front row leaned back.

Rhaegar lifted his practice sword, his feet shifting into a light stance. The corner of his mouth turned into a smile, just a little.

He had waited fkr years to face real weaves outside of his practice. Today he would see what he could do with the steel and the years of training.

Draven snapped his hands forward and the silver threads shot out like striking.

Rhaegar moved again with his sword flashing north, center, west, east. The sword was moving fast as it cuts every thread before it reached him. Sparks of broken thread sprayed into the air.

The crowd was cheering.

“Holy shit!” Someone shouted.

Rhaegar closed the distance in two strides, still swinging his sword. He cut the last thread, pivoted on one foot, and slammed the pommel of his sword straight into the side of Draven’s head.

The sound was loud. Draven’s eyes widened in shock. Before he could recover, Rhaegar spun and kicked him hard in the stomach. The blow lifted Draven off his feet and he flew back and slammed into the far platform stone, he also bounced up and crashed face-down onto the stone floor.

Serra’s eyes widened as her hands flew to her mouth.

The entire crowd went dead quiet for few minutes. Then murmurs exploded.

“It… it ended that fast?”

“What kind of joke is this?” a tall boy yelled. “ The Prince did not even sweat!”

Someone in the back yelled in a thick street-kid accent, “That’s good for you, Draven! Teach you not to cheat folks out of their wagers!”

“He got exactly what he deserved,” another voice yelled. “ His ego was getting too big for the school.”

Draven just lay there, his face pressed to the cold stone, fresh blood was dripping from the cut on his forehead. His eyes were blinking.

It was as if the world was moving. He tried to push up but he failed and collapsed and body went still.

The boy holding the wager itemm stepped forward fast and handed both to Rhaegar with a shaky bow. “Yours, Your Highness.”

Rhaegar took them without looking away from Draven. He planted the tip of his practice sword in the stone right beside the unconscious Draven’s head, a clear line drawn in the dirt.

Up in the tree, Kael spat the half-chewed grandnut out so fast that it bounced off a junior’s head below.

“Waste of my damn time,” he growled as he jumped from the branch, and landed on the ground.

He walk away through the crowd without another word, with his face showing frustration.

Serra just stood froze to her spot while staring at Rhaegar like she was seeing him for the first time. Relief wash through her.

She was ready to run onto the platform herself. Now all she could do was breathe out a sigh of relief.

Rhaegar turned and he met her eyes across, and he gave her the same small smile from earlier.

The crowd started cheering. It was slow at first, then louder.

Rhaegar nodded to the cheering as he moved his foot to leave the stone fighting platform, but he suddenly stopped on his track. He looked up and his eyes landed on the balcony of the west tower. And it was her.

....

Note from the Archives of Oros:

​"The greatest mistake of the Weaver is the belief that a thread is stronger than a blade. We teach our children to knit skin and mend bone, forgetting that the hand that knows how to heal also knows exactly where to cut. A Level 1 channeler sees a Stilled man as a victim; a master of anatomy sees a channeler as a map of targets. Do not fear the man who can move mountains with a thought. Fear the man who can stop your heart with a splinter of wood."

​— Attributed to the 'Lost Records of the Silent Guard'