259 A Single Strike

William had seemed promising at first.

A man of composure and wit.

But perhaps he had misjudged.

In the end, it seemed William was nothing more than another empty-tongued fool.

Ainar let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head.

“The foreigner.”

His subordinate nodded, already knowing who he meant. “He had a chance to step back, but instead, he’s walking straight into his grave.”

“Blind faith in his subordinate,” Ainar muttered. “Even if she’s trained, even if she’s capable, no warrior can win like that.”

He could imagine the battle now.

One or two fights—perhaps she could win those with sheer speed. But repetition was death.

By the third, her patterns would be recognized. By the fourth, her weaknesses would be exposed.

By the fifth or sixth, she’d be cut down before she even moved.

If she could change her style with each battle, it might be different. But William had placed an even stricter condition—every fight, a single strike.

It was an impossible gamble.

“Fool,” Ainar muttered. “He strangled himself with his own arrogance.”

“Arrogance?” Gormsen scoffed, stepping up beside him. “Call it what it is—cowardice. A man who hides behind a woman doesn’t deserve a warrior’s death.”

Unlike Ainar, who seemed almost disappointed, Gormsen looked eager—impatient, even.

“He’s already dead,” he continued. “This just makes it official. At least our father won’t have to waste another breath thinking about him.”

“And the Guide?” Ainar asked. “What do you think happens to his authority when the prophecy fails?”

“Who cares?” Gormsen waved a hand dismissively. “The old man spent years getting in our father’s way. If he falls with the foreigner, good riddance.”

Ainar frowned. “His influence is necessary. He’s held this land together longer than you think.”

“You’re too soft.”

The two brothers locked eyes.

It always came to this—disagreements that led nowhere, differences neither was willing to compromise.

Normally, Gormsen would have pushed back harder.

But not today.

Not when there was a more pressing matter to resolve.

“Tch. Whatever. We can argue later. First, we watch the foreigner fall.”

Ainar said nothing.

He simply turned back toward the gathering, watching as the warriors formed a loose ring.

A cry rang out from the crowd.

“The king—no, the foreigner is here!”

“The chieftain has arrived!”

William and Ivar stepped into the open at the same time.

Ivar’s presence commanded immediate respect.

William’s arrival brought only murmurs.

“Everyone is gathered,” Ivar said, his voice carrying easily over the crowd. “Let’s not waste time.”

There were no speeches, no drawn-out formalities.

The trial would begin now.

Ivar turned to William, his one good eye gleaming with anticipation.

“Foreigner. Will you keep your word?”

William barely even paused.

“Of course,” he said. “My warrior will fight in my name.”

He nodded once.

Felicia stepped forward.

The moment she moved, the murmurs turned to open disbelief.

“He’s actually sending a woman?”

“What the hell is he thinking?”

“He swore to stake his life on this!”

“He’s insane.”

Ivar’s smirk widened.

William had already lost.

Even if this woman fought well, it wouldn’t change the perception of the tribe. A woman standing as a warrior was a direct violation of everything they believed.

And if she lost—

Ivar’s gaze drifted toward his sons.

“Well?” he asked. “Who among you will take the first challenge?”

“I will.”

Gormsen’s right-hand man stepped forward.

Not just any warrior—Strad, one of the most skilled fighters in the tribe.

A veteran. A killer.

He was the kind of opponent who would make this a quick execution.

Ivar nodded, satisfied.

“Very well. Warriors, step forward. Prove your strength, and in doing so, prove the worth of the leader you serve.”

His voice rang out over the crowd.

But no one cheered.

The air was heavy.

This wasn’t a warrior’s duel.

It was an execution.

Strad rolled his shoulders, stepping into place across from Felicia.

His expression was unreadable, but his voice carried clear disdain.

“Woman,” he said. “Do not resent me for what happens next. Your lord is the one who—”

“Still alive, are you?”

Strad blinked.

“…What?”

“It’s already over,” Felicia said. Her tone was calm, almost bored. “Stop talking and die.”

A flash of irritation crossed Strad’s face.

“What are you—”

Something wet trickled down his throat.

He frowned.

His hand reached up.

It came away slick with blood.

What—

Strad staggered.

His vision blurred.

The cut had already severed his voice—his final words slipping away, unheard.

He barely managed to take a step before his body gave out.

A dull thud echoed through the clearing as his head rolled to the ground.

Silence.

No one moved.

No one spoke.

The gathered warriors stared, struggling to process what had just happened.

A kill without a single clash.

A clean, precise execution.

Felicia stood unmoving.

And then, she spoke.

“Next.”

“How dare you!”

Goremssen took a step forward, his body moving before his mind could catch up, driven by the blood rushing to his head.

Felicia whipped her head toward him, her gaze sharp and unwavering.

“Are you next?”

At the icy tone of her voice, Goremssen flinched, his body trembling involuntarily. A primal instinct told him that if he so much as reached for his weapon, his head would be the next to roll.

Shame burned within him at his own hesitation, but he could not let the matter rest. He raised his voice, desperate to turn the situation in his favor.

“She dares to use magic in a sacred duel!”

“Magic?”

“Chieftain! You must punish this woman and her master for defiling the duel with sorcery! I implore you—deliver judgment!”

Felicia tilted her head slightly, as if she had just heard something absurd. Magic? She barely understood its workings, let alone had the ability to wield it.

But the others—warriors and tribesmen alike—reacted differently. Murmurs of agreement spread through the crowd like wildfire.

“Magic! Yes, that must be it!”

“There’s no other explanation. A mere woman could never…”

“I knew something was strange, but now it all makes sense.”

“Silence.”

At Ivar’s command, the growing unrest was smothered in an instant. The chieftain turned his gaze to Felicia, studying her carefully before speaking.

“Woman, do you have an explanation?”

“An explanation?”

“You mocked a warrior in a sacred duel by using magic. That is a grave sin. Neither you nor your lord shall escape punishment.”

Felicia did not respond. She merely smiled—a strange, knowing smile—as she slowly raised her sword.