CHAPTER 49: LLOYD V. ISOBEL II

Our blades sang through the air. Isobel’s rapier was a blur, thrusting and parrying with the precision of someone who’d trained her whole life for moments like this despite her just being an Illusion Mage. I met her strike for strike, my longsword heavy but sure in my grip.

She pressed forward, her purple eyes fierce, black hair still mostly contained in that tight bun, though a few strands had escaped to stick to her sweat-dampened forehead. The fur trim on her silver armor shifted with each movement, gold patterns gleaming from the afternoon light.

"Who are you to claim that you deserve ownership of this House over its rightful owner?!" She shouted, her voice echoing through the battlefield laced with a raw edge I’d never heard from her before. "House Greaves has existed for centuries! My family’s blood soaks these stones. I will not let it fall to you!"

I didn’t yell back. I already knew it was her way of psyching herself out. Besides, I’d told her that I’d take on her fears and anxieties. Well, this was what that meant. Instead, I sidestepped her lunge, feeling the whoosh of her blade past my shoulder, and countered with a controlled sweep aimed at her legs. She leaped back gracefully, the heels of her boots clicking on the ground.

Isobel snarled, summoning a Minor Illusion mid-stride: a spectral wolf lunging from the shadows to my left. I ignored the phantom growl, trusting my eyes over the trick, and drove forward. Our weapons clashed, the impact jarring up my arms. She twisted away, but not before I nicked the edge of her forearm, chips of metal falling with the impact. She didn’t flinch, instead using to duck and swipe at my open midsection. Thankfully, I managed to backstep the attack before she could do any damage.

"What do you know of sacrifice?" Her words tumbled out hot and fast as she circled, rapier weaving like a serpent. "I was born to this. Every night with Grandfather studying and learning. Dinners with my family. Training with Grandmother. Playing with Laurence. Homeschooling with Mother. Learning to run the House with Fater. I... I won’t let you undo that. I can’t!" There was a crack in her voice then.

Sweat trickled down my back, my breaths coming deeper now. This wasn’t a quick skirmish. It was a grind, each exchange testing limits. She feinted high, then struck low, an illusory appearing in her off-hand for a sneaky jab. I twisted, feeling the tip graze my thigh through the leather, a sharp sting that made me grit my teeth. But I pressed on, swinging my sword in a wide arc to force distance.

The battlefield felt smaller with every clash, tapestries fluttering from the displaced air. She channeled a Mage Hand, a blue magic-fuelled hand, that pushed me back and knocked me off balance for a split-second. I recovered, lunging with a Divine Smite, giving my strike extra bite. It connected with her guard, nearly wrenching the rapier from her grip. She cursed under her breath, stepping back, chest heaving.

Isobel recovered fast, moving to strike from the left while an illusion followed from the opposite side. I focused on the telltale signs: the real one’s ragged breathing as opposed to the clone’s perfect silence. I shattered the illusion with a backhand swing, then turned to block her true thrust. Our faces were close, blades locked, her purple eyes searching mine for... something.

The battle dragged on, muscles burning, wounds piling up. I landed a solid hit to her shoulder, denting the silver armor, but she responded with an unorganized burst of multi-colored aura, rainbow lights exploding in my vision. I averted my eyes just in time, shaking off the disorientation, and charged. She dodged, but I clipped her leg, drawing a hiss of pain. Still, she wouldn’t yield, summoning three clones at her side.

They swarmed, rapiers flashing. I fought through the haze of fatigue, ears tuned to the real one’s heavier steps in that ornate armor. Slash, parry, bash. One clone down, then another. The third feinted, but I read it, driving my sword into its midsection. It popped like a bubble. Isobel was alone now, breathing hard, bun fully unraveled, black hair cascading wildly.

We clashed again, closer to exhaustion. Her strikes were desperate, fueled by raw emotion. "I refuse to give my House to someone who would run it to the ground. I refuse to stand idly by and lose my legacy! My birthright!"

"I won’t run it into the ground, Isobel. That won’t be possible with you by my side," I commented, a smile on my face.

"Tch. More honeyed words. As if I’d believe them."

"Then let my actions prove them, Isobel."

Isobel thrust her rapier at my chest, which I once again swatted away with an upward swing. She held my gaze, a hint of a defiant smile on her face. "Lyra told me she wanted me to be more honest with her. Fine. I’ll be honest then." She pushed me back with Mage Hand once again before gathering an absurd amount of aura. "Lose today, and you’ll be made my Paladin. Win, and I’ll give up House Greaves as promised. Though, if your actions prove that you’re unfit to lead my House." The aura gathered a her hands, impossibly, dangerously potent. "Expect your life to come to an abrupt end."

I managed a laugh. "You’d kill me instead of giving me advice?"

Isobel did not laugh. "You’ve encountered me before, Lloyd. You should know how serious I am about this House."

She was right. Isobel truly was willing to do anything for House Greaves. With that, her ultimate declaration: Succeed or die. It still was funny in a way. It was the most "Isobel" ultimatum in the world. Either way, if things worked out the way I wanted them to, I wouldn’t have to worry about–

"Here’s the perfect opportunity to prove yourself to me!" Isobel shouted suddenly, appearing behind me in a blink. I spun to face her, but she moved in turn with me, remaining behind me. She placed her hands on my head, and pressed inward, causing me to scream from the pain. "Will you survive?! Prove to me that you’re strong enough to lead this House, Lloyd May!"

The world collapsed around me in an instant. One second, the hot, gritty dust of the arena beneath my boots was a steady, grounding presence. The next, it was gone–slipping away like sand through my fingers. I blinked, expecting my eyes to adjust, but instead, everything around me shifted. The statues lining the arena seemed off somehow. Their stone faces seemed to be... moving? But that was impossible! They were made of stone... Right?

"Lyra?" I found myself calling, voice trembling. She should’ve been close. She had to be close. But... no. Only the haze of pearlescent light, clouding the space in soft, undulating swirls, like the sky was shattered and the pieces are floating around me.

I tried to move, but I felt no ground beneath my feet. I wasn’t not standing. I was... floating. I glanced around, trying to gather my bearings, but all I saw was more of the ethereal haze stretching infinitely in every direction like I was floating in a pearlescent lava lamp.

Then, I felt it once again: a pressure on my head. Warmth. Isobel

. Her hands were still there, fingers pressed into my temples, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. It was like she was pulling my mind apart, pulling it away, stretching me thin. I wanted to scream, but the air in this space was so heavy and thick that I couldn’t get enough oxygen to make the sound. My thoughts scrambleed, trying to stay solid, but they slip away.

I focus on the figures I know. Lyra is back now in the area where the stands should’ve been, standing on air. She ws with Mr. Shaw and his niece, Mileena. They didn’tlook like themselves, though. Not entirely. Their faces were painted with expressions that shouldn’t ave been there. Surprise. Fear. Lyra’s hands trembled at her sides, her mouth hanging slightly open as though she was seeing something she didn’t understand. Mr. Shaw’s wrinkled brow was furrowed deep, his mouth tight in something between a frown and a grimace. And little Mileena was just... staring at me, wide-eyed, like she’s watching something she shouldn’t be.

Why were they looking at me like that?

I wanted to ask them what was happening, but my mouth didn’t work. My vision was twisting and warping constantly, fracturing into so many pieces, each one a new angle of something I couldn’t comprehend. The statues were moving, I was sure of it now. I saw their faces shift, their eyes... They were looking at me!

It was Isobel’s doing, I finally realized. Her magic, her illusions. This was obviously her doing... right? I... wasn’t so sure. This felt too real, too deep. I couldn’t hold onto anything. I couldn’t see anything. Only an endless, shifting nothingness.

I tried to speak again, but nothing came. My voice was swallowed whole, leaving me lost in this space where nothing existed except the statues... and the fear.

"Was this it?" I wondered. "Did I die?"

Nothing. No confirmation. No denial. Just me and the–

"So, you’re the man of the hour, are you?" A voice called. I turned–... I turned? I could move again! I tested the ground, stepping cautiously on... whatever I was standing on before finally turning towards the speaker.

The speaker was a familiar man. Older, purple eyes, silver hair, lavish suit the same silver and gold as Isobel’s armor, familiar rapier at his side. I’d seen this man before, because his mural was on Isobel’s goddamn wall.

"Alexander Greaves...?"