Fated Eclipse: The Illegitimate Princess And Her Alpha Suitors

Chapter 356: A Lesson in Humility

Lucian was the first to break among their circle.

He had been trying to hold it in, his lips pressed firmly together, his shoulders shaking with the considerable effort of containing himself. But when he saw Evander slap Marquess Hale across the face—the sound echoing across the arena like a thunderclap—he could no longer contain himself.

The laughter spilled out of him, raw and entirely unrestrained.

Alistair was not far behind.

His usual easy grin had returned, wider than ever, his eyes bright with amusement as he watched the Marquess stumble backward, one hand pressed against his reddening cheek.

”I cannot believe he actually did that,” Alistair said, his voice carrying a note of genuine admiration. ”I have never seen anyone slap a man of his standing in the middle of a competition before.”

”Neither have I,” Lucian admitted, still chuckling.

Julian, however, appeared rather more bewildered than amused. His brow was furrowed, his gaze fixed upon Evander with an expression of genuine surprise.

”I never even thought he knew how to fight,” he said slowly. ”Every time he appeared during my training sessions, it was always one excuse after another. He would give instructions from the side, or offer a few comments, but he never actually demonstrated anything himself.”

He paused, his expression becoming increasingly incredulous.

”And whenever I asked him to show me something directly, he would claim to have a headache and excuse himself.”

Benedict laughed at that, the sound warm and genuine.

”Julian,” he said, shaking his head, ”Evander comes from a family of pirates. Surely you did not think he could not hold his own in a fight?”

Julian’s frown deepened.

”I know nothing of the Blackmere territory,” he admitted. ”Only what everyone knows. That it is a place of wealth and trade. That they shelter wolves who have nowhere else to go. That the family has a reputation for being...” He hesitated. ”Unconventional.”

Alistair’s smile twitched.

”That is a rather polite way of putting it.”

Julian glanced at him.

”What would you call it?”

”Interesting.”

Lucian snorted.

”That is even more polite.”

Julian ignored them.

”And Evander does not seem particularly eager to share more about it either,” he continued.

Alistair’s expression shifted slightly at that, something flickering behind his eyes.

”Most of us do not know much about one another’s territories,” he said quietly. ”Not truly. We know the surface details, the things written in histories and repeated at court. But the deeper truths—the things that matter—those are kept close.”

His voice was thoughtful, almost distant.

Julian opened his mouth to ask what he meant, clearly intending to press further into whatever lay beneath those words.

Before he could, however, a tremendous cheer rose from the stands.

The commoners were the loudest, their voices rising in a cacophony of whistles, laughter, and enthusiastic shouts. They had clearly enjoyed the spectacle far more than the nobility had.

Those who had been holding flags and banners bearing Marquess Hale’s colours looked thoroughly displeased. Their faces were flushed, their expressions tight with barely concealed frustration. One elderly gentleman appeared so offended that he had lowered his banner altogether and was now staring at the arena as though he had personally witnessed an affront to the entire aristocracy.

The Marquess himself looked as though he were only seconds away from exploding.

His jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscles in his neck stood out. His hands were curled into fists at his sides, and his eyes burned with a hatred that seemed to consume everything else.

Evander, however, did not appear to care in the slightest.

He removed his spear from the Marquess’s neck with deliberate slowness, as though he had all the time in the world. Then he turned towards the royal dais and bowed.

It was a deep bow, far deeper than was strictly necessary.

Lyria, watching from her seat, felt certain that he was mocking them.

There was something almost insulting about how perfectly courteous he appeared.

The King remained quiet. His expression revealed nothing, his posture as composed as ever.

The Queen, however, was a different matter entirely.

Lyria glanced towards her and noticed immediately that something had changed.

The Queen’s nails had elongated, their tips sharp and dangerous. A crack ran through the arm of her chair, as though she had gripped it with far more strength than it could withstand.

Yet she withdrew her hand almost immediately.

By the time anyone might have looked twice, her expression had already smoothed into careful neutrality.

Beside her, Jacinta huffed beneath her breath.

”Useless fool,” she muttered.

Lyria wondered who she was referring to.

Her gaze shifted back towards the arena, where Marquess Hale was now bowing to the royal family. His movements were stiff and forced, as if he were trying desperately to preserve what remained of his dignity.

Ah.

Lyria understood immediately.

This had been planned.

Just as she had suspected Lucian’s match had been planned.

The Queen had intended for Lucian and perhaps Duke Valenridge to be humiliated, to be taught a lesson about challenging the authority of the crown.

Yet something had gone rather spectacularly wrong.

Lucian had won despite the odds.

And Duke Valenridge had not merely won.

He had humiliated his opponent in return.

It was rather poetic, really.

Lyria almost felt sorry for the Marquess.

Duke Valenridge turned towards the stands and bowed to the commoners. The cheers increased at once, the commoners taking up his name with renewed enthusiasm.

”Valenridge! Valenridge! Valenridge!”

”Aurelgrave! Aurelgrave! Aurelgrave!”

”Thorncrest! Thorncrest! Thorncrest!”

”Hawthorne! Hawthorne! Hawthorne!”

”Redwick! Redwick! Redwick!”

”Silverwyn! Silverwyn! Silverwyn!”

The names echoed across the arena, each one carried upon a wave of enthusiasm. The commoners had found their champions, and they were making their preferences known with very little regard for aristocratic decorum.

His time was announced: one minute and thirty-two seconds.

Evander walked back towards his companions, his spear returned to the rack, his expression still carrying that faint, unreadable smile.

Benedict reached out and patted him on the shoulder.

”That was well done,” he said.

Evander chuckled.

”After the numerous stunts the Marquess pulled,” he said, ”it was obvious that I had to teach him a lesson.”

Julian frowned at that.

Alistair’s smile widened.

”I knew very well that was why you humiliated him.”