DROSMERE
In the grand marble chamber of the White Palace, the great council had convened.
The White Sovereign sat at the head of a circular obsidian table, flanked by the most powerful nobles of Drosmere. Across from her sat the Empire's delegation— Isla, Duke Lucas de Kustoria, and Joshua of House Venir, the Empire's envoy.
Between them, under a cruel spotlight, knelt the three captured kidnappers. Shackled, bruised, silent.
This meeting was not for justice. The outcome had already been etched in the hearts of all present.
War was inevitable.
Lucas studied the White Sovereign with quiet fury. Her composure was cold, but Lucas saw what others might miss—a flicker of surprise, even betrayal. She hadn't known. But she was Queen, and queens do not get to hide behind ignorance.
Joshua spoke first, calm and razor-sharp:
"Kidnapping the heir of a noble house is a direct provocation. An act of war."
His voice carried no threat, only truth. Joshua was no famed warrior, yet his insight cut deeper than most swords.
The White Sovereign's expression faltered. Her gaze shifted toward her nobles. Their guilty eyes told her all she needed to know.
She had been played.
She tried to bargain—diplomatic language, softening tones—but it was too late. The Empire's wrath had already begun to turn.
And then—she acted.
Without ceremony, she rose from her throne and unsheathed her blade.
In one swift, brutal arc, she beheaded three of her nobles, their blood painting the marble red.
Gasps filled the chamber. Even the Empire's side stirred.
Why now? Why so sudden?
The Empire wondered: Was this justice—or a cover-up? By killing them before interrogation, had she silenced those who might speak truths she didn't want known?
The tension climbed higher.
Lucas stood.
And without a word, he walked toward the kneeling kidnappers. One by one, he drove his bare hand into their hearts, snuffing out their lives with ruthless precision. Even the boy who had helped his son escape was killed.
Mercy had no place in his eyes.
The Flame Emperor—once beloved for his warmth—was turning colder.
Even the Saintess had whispered of this… that perhaps his soul was beginning to darken.
The White Sovereign, still poised, spoke at last:
"With that, is the matter closed?"
Isla's smile was sharp.
"No. The true matter begins now."
He raised his glass and pointed it toward the queen.
"Will it be war… or you kneel?"
Silence.
Then her voice rang out, fierce and unyielding:
"Drosmere will never yield."
Isla nodded once, without surprise.
"Then war it is."
He stood to leave, when her voice echoed again—louder, this time.
"I, as the White Sovereign of Drosmere, invoke the Duel of Honor.With The fate of our kingdom on the line."
A murmur spread like wildfire. Isla and Lucas exchanged a glance.
Exactly as expected.
The queen was willing to risk her life to preserve her people. It was noble. It was bold. And it was perfect.
The Empire, too, had reason to accept. They could not afford heavy casualties. Dracia awaited. So did the Demon King.
Isla replied with finality:
"Very well. If we win, Drosmere belongs to the Empire."
The White Sovereign met his gaze.
"And if I win, Drosmere remains sovereign—forever. But win or lose, the people of Drosmere are not to be harmed. That is my condition."
Isla raised his hand in acknowledgment.
"Agreed. Then name my champion: Lucas de Kustoria."
The queen placed a hand on her own heart.
"I will fight for my people myself."
The date was set.
And so, the world held its breath.
The Duel of the Century.
The Flame Emperor vs. The White Sovereign.
A Six-Star Aura Master vs. a Starless Monarch.
And only one would walk away.