Chapter 339: A Matter of Fairness
Chapter 338: A Matter of Fairness
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the walls of Earl Hawthorne’s chambers. The room was warm, illuminated by the golden glow of candles and the flickering flames that licked at the logs in the fireplace. Heavy curtains had been drawn across the windows, sealing out the cool night air and the prying eyes of anyone who might have been passing by.
Five gentlemen were scattered about the chamber, glasses in hand, their postures relaxed but their minds clearly elsewhere. The drinks had been poured by the Earl’s valet, who had since retreated to a corner of the room, his presence unobtrusive and his expression carefully neutral. No one would know they were gathered here, for the guards stationed outside had been instructed to ensure their privacy.
Earl Hawthorne looked around at the assembled company, a sigh escaping him.
"Since when did my chambers become a meeting place?" he asked, his voice carrying a note of weary amusement.
The others exchanged glances.
Duke Thorncrest was the first to respond, a grin spreading across his face.
"Since forever, big man," he said simply, as though the answer were obvious.
Duke Valenridge nodded in agreement, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. The firelight caught the edges of his crimson hair, making it gleam like molten copper. His pale green eyes were half-lidded, as though he were doing everything in his power to keep himself awake.
"Shall we get on with this?" he asked, his voice carrying a hint of impatience. "I have a rather unpleasant headache, and I should prefer to retire sooner rather than later."
Alistair raised an eyebrow, his expression one of exaggerated curiosity.
"Do you indeed?" he asked. "I had not noticed."
Evander paused, as though carefully considering his answer.
Then he shook his head.
"No," he admitted. "I suppose you had not."
A quiet chuckle escaped him.
Lucian leaned forward in his chair, his blue eyes fixed upon Evander with a stern expression.
"Are you merely claiming to have a headache because you possess an unfortunate habit of avoiding important discussions?" he asked. "As I recall, this is hardly the first occasion upon which you have suddenly developed one."
"He always has one," Alistair muttered into his glass before taking another sip.
Evander laughed again, the sound echoing softly through the chamber.
"Very well," he conceded. "Perhaps you have caught on to that."
He paused.
"Or perhaps not."
The amusement gradually faded from his face.
"There is something far more urgent we ought to be discussing."
His gaze travelled around the room, lingering briefly upon each gentleman.
"How," he asked, "is Julian going to survive tomorrow’s competition?"
The question settled over the room like a heavy blanket.
Julian’s cheeks reddened noticeably.
He adjusted his spectacles, the movement slower than usual, as though buying himself a few precious moments to compose a suitable reply.
The firelight reflected across the lenses, concealing his eyes.
Benedict furrowed his brow thoughtfully.
"Perhaps we should train him further than we already have?" he suggested. "Throughout the night, if necessary."
Lucian immediately shook his head.
"Julian has been training for only a handful of days," he said. "No matter how hard we push him tonight, he will not suddenly become an accomplished swordsman by morning."
His expression remained calm.
"If anything, exhausting him now would guarantee his defeat. He would enter the arena fatigued before the first exchange even began."
Julian nodded rather enthusiastically.
"I find myself in complete agreement with Lucian."
"You would," Alistair remarked dryly.
Julian ignored him.
Alistair leaned back in his chair, a mischievous gleam dancing within his eyes.
"His muscles remain entirely unsuited to combat," he observed. "They were fashioned by the Goddess for writing books rather than swinging swords."
Julian released an exaggerated groan.
"I shall choose to interpret that as praise."
"You certainly should."
Benedict sighed, dragging a hand through his hair.
"We truly do require a solution," he murmured. "We cannot simply send him into the arena and hope for the best."
"No," Lucian agreed quietly. "Hope is not a strategy."
Evander finally leaned forward, placing his glass upon the table.
"I have an idea."
Alistair’s eyes lit up immediately.
"Does it involve magic?" he asked hopefully. "Because I sincerely doubt anything else shall be of much assistance."
Benedict frowned.
"Is that even possible?" he asked earnestly. "If there truly is a priestess capable of making Julian stronger overnight, I would gladly escort him there myself."
Evander made a dry sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff.
"I wish it involved magic," he admitted. "Life would certainly be far easier."
He rubbed lightly at his temple.
"But regrettably, I know of no priestess capable of transforming Julian into a warrior before sunrise."
Evander’s expression grew serious once more.
"My plan depends upon Lucian."
Lucian’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
His posture shifted almost imperceptibly.
"I am already certain I shall dislike whatever comes next."
Evander smiled.
"You dislike nearly everything." He tilted his head thoughtfully. "With one notable exception."
The words lingered in the air.
For the briefest of moments, Lucian’s composed expression shifted.
Only slightly.
Barely enough for anyone to notice.
But his friends did.
Alistair’s grin widened.
Benedict looked suspiciously amused.
Julian quietly lowered his gaze, pretending to study his glass.
Lucian merely folded his arms.
"I fail to see how that observation advances the conversation."
"It does not," Evander admitted. "I simply wished to make it."
Another soft laugh travelled through the room.
Then Evander continued.
"You need to discover precisely how tomorrow’s competition shall be conducted."
Lucian remained silent.
"You also need to ensure Julian is paired against the weakest opponent available. If we know beforehand whom Julian shall face, we can prepare him specifically for that opponent."
Benedict slowly nodded.
"That... would certainly improve his chances."
"It would," Evander agreed.
"Not by much," Alistair added. "But enough."
Silence settled over the room once again.
Lucian remained motionless.
His fingers rested lightly upon the arm of his chair.
Finally, he looked towards Evander.
"What makes you believe," he asked, his voice low and measured, "that I would assist Julian in winning?"
The question carried more weight than the words themselves.
"Particularly," he continued, "when Julian is one of the gentlemen pursuing the Princess."
Julian shifted awkwardly in his seat but wisely remained silent.
The room fell utterly still.
Even the crackling fire seemed quieter.
Evander met Lucian’s gaze without hesitation.
Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face.
It was not teasing, nor playful.
It was simply calm.
"Because," he said,"I know that all of us gathered here value fair competition."