024

Swords clashed, ringing through the air as sweat glistened on the bodies of the two young men locked in combat. Grunts and sharp exhales punctuated the rhythmic strikes, each movement precise yet laced with competitive banter. Sarang observed Nathaniel and his sparring partner, Gregory, with mild disinterest. To him, they looked like children playing war with sharp sticks, though he had to applaud their skill and strength in wielding such heavy weapons with such ease.

Nathaniel’s sword moved with fierce precision and Gregory’s defence held for a time, but under the sheer force of Nathaniel’s strikes, it eventually crumbled. With a one final swing, Nathaniel knocked Gregory onto his ass, his sword poised at his friend’s throat.

“My victory, Greg.” Nathaniel declared, lowering his sword. He extended a hand to Gregory and pulled him up.

“Good match,” Gregory panted, clapping Nathaniel on the back. “Next time, the win will be mine”

Nathaniel smirked, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead. “You’ve been saying that for years. At this point, Ruby swings a sword better than you, and she’s a lady.”

“Careful now—there are lines you shouldn’t cross in jest.”

“Ruby is also an alpha.”

Sarang approached with two white towels in hand, offering one to Gregory.

“Thank you.” Gregory said with a friendly smile and wiped the sweat from his face.

Sarang, however, turned his full attention to Nathaniel, his gaze warm, smiling lovingly as he gently dabbed the towel against his lover’s flushed skin, wiping away the beads of sweat from his neck and cheeks.

“Well done.” Sarang praised softly.

Nathaniel grinned, petting Sarang’s cheek. “Should I not be rewarded for my excellence?”

Sarang smacked his sweaty hands away, shooting him a playful glare.

“It isn’t a challenge if victory is easy.” Sarang said, tapping his shoulder.

“I should be praised for holding firm against a prodigy. Eldoria hasn’t seen war in over thirty years, so noblemen outside militant families aren’t expected to master swordsmanship at a young age.” He glanced at Nathaniel. “You were bound to win, given your training—and your father’s reputation as a national hero, after all.”

Gregory praised Lucian with profound admiration.

Sarang frowned, his posture subtly shifting. “Nathaniel wins because he trains hard,” he said, voice polite yet firm. “Talent can only go so far without hard work.”

Nathaniel smiled and pulled Sarang in for a peck on the cheek, effectively breaking the tension.

“I’d go for another round,” Nathaniel said, stretching. “But sparring with you all the time gets boring.”

“What about the guards?” Gregory suggested.

“They are paid to protect the mansion, not entertain me. Besides, they’d hold back in hopes of currying my favour.”

“Fair point.” Gregory hummed in thought. “I know a few others who enjoy swordsmanship—I could see if they’re interested. But honestly, why look elsewhere when you have a potential sparring partner right here?” He nudged toward the approaching figure.

Nathaniel followed his gaze.

Lucian.

Nathaniel considered it.

He recounted all the times he had asked—no, pleaded—for his father to spar with him during his training. Each time, Lucian had refused, offering the same dismissive response: "You are too young and inexperienced to fight me because you have never desperately desired to live."

But now Nathaniel was no longer a child. He had fought, competed, and proved himself time and time again. He would not take no for an answer this time. Gregory straightened. “Your Grace.” He and Sarang both bowed as Lucian approached, acknowledging them with a curt nod before his gaze settled on his son.

Nathaniel met his father’s eyes with unyielding resolve.

“Father…” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Spar with me.”

Lucian’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a flicker of interest in his dark gaze.

Nathaniel slowly lifted his sword, pointing its tip at him. “I won’t accept an excuse or rejection today.”

A small, almost subtle smile crossed Lucian’s lips. He removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves, his gaze briefly flicking to Sarang before settling back on Nathaniel.

“Very well, then.”

Nathaniel’s lips curled into a triumphant smile—only for it to falter when Sarang grabbed his wrist in a firm grip.

“Sarang?” Nathaniel turned, confusion in his expression.

Sarang didn’t let go. Without a word, he pulled Nathaniel a few steps away, just out of earshot of the others. Once they were at a reasonable distance, Sarang clasped his hands together, his brows furrowed in worry.

“Please withdraw your request to spar.” He said softly.

Nathaniel was baffled by the request, he raised a brow. “Why?”

Sarang exhaled. “He fought in a war and survived Nathan. He has scars on his body as proof. He will be a challenging opponent.”

“Are you saying I’m weak?” Nathaniel’s voice held a defensive edge.

“I’m saying that I do not want either of you injured.”

“It is just a spar. All that will be is a few bruises and some calloused hands. You worry too much, my love.”

He cupped Sarang’s face, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead before inhaling the soft scent of his shampoo. He placed a chaste kiss on his lips before pulling away. “I love you.” Nathaniel whispered.

Then, without another word, he turned and strode back to the pavilion.

Sarang frowned.

Lucian switched the sword between his hands, testing its weight. It was light–lighter than the swords he wielded when he was in the military. He swung it through the air, feeling the blade cut effortlessly.

Strong enough to kill a person, he noted. He hadn’t picked up a sword after Nathaniel was born so he pondered if he could even fight Gregory. He looked at his son, his sword before him and his posture in an offensive stance.

It had been years since he last picked up a sword—after Nathaniel was born. He pondered if he could even hold his own against the Pemberton boy. But when he looked at his son, standing before him in an offensive stance, his mind settled on a more pressing challenge.

“Are you prepared?” Nathaniel asked.

Lucian’s gaze flicked past him, locking onto the small, anxious lunari behind him.

The omega’s hands were intertwined, his body smaller in contrast to Gregory’s eager stance beside him. The moment their eyes met, Sarang hurriedly sat down, as if ashamed of his concern.

Lucian exhaled through his nose and refocused on Nathaniel. He nodded.

Nathaniel charged.

Metal clashed with sharp precision, ringing through the pavilion with the force of their blows. Lucian remained entirely on the defensive, his dark eyes darting between Nathaniel’s feet and the movements of his blade. Every powerful slash, every risky strike—he deflected them all with the ease of a seasoned soldier.

Nathaniel gritted his teeth. He knew what his father was doing—wearing him down, letting exhaustion claim him before disarming him like a mere child. It had always been the same. You're too young. You're too inexperienced. You have never truly fought to survive.

He wouldn’t allow it this time.

Forcing his breathing to steady, Nathaniel pulled back and lowered his sword. His gaze sharpened, determination hardening in his stance.

“Father, if you respect me as an alpha,” he said, his voice steady, “then fight me as an equal.”