Fated Eclipse: The Illegitimate Princess And Her Alpha Suitors

Chapter 349: The Unseen Advantage

The footman’s voice rang out across the arena, cutting through the murmur of the crowd.

"Earl Benedict Hawthorne of Windmere."

Benedict stepped forward with measured purpose, his broad shoulders set with quiet determination. The afternoon light caught the edges of his features as he approached the wooden box, his expression calm and composed. He reached inside without hesitation, his fingers closing around the ball, and drew it out.

Two.

The number shimmered upon the scrying veil for all to see. Benedict’s expression remained unchanged as he stepped back, rejoining his companions with quiet confidence.

"Count Elias Thornleigh of Brightwater."

Count Elias stepped forward, his movements precise and controlled. He reached into the box and drew his ball.

One.

"Count Matthias Greystone of Northvale."

Count Matthias followed, his broad frame cutting an imposing figure as he approached the box. He drew his ball and held it up.

Four.

The number appeared upon the veil, drawing a ripple of murmurs from the crowd. Matthias inclined his head and stepped back, his expression unreadable.

"Baron Julian Redwick of Stoneford."

Julian swallowed.

The sound was barely audible, lost beneath the ambient noise of the arena. He adjusted his spectacles and stepped forward.

The walk to the box felt longer than it should have.

The eyes of the crowd seemed to press against him from all sides, thousands of gazes fixed upon his every movement. He kept his own gaze forward, fixed on the wooden box with its single dark slot, and tried not to think about what would happen if he drew a number that pitted him against someone he could not defeat.

Tried not to think about what could happen if the plan had failed.

He reached into the box.

His fingers brushed against something and he paused.

There was only one ball in the box?

For the briefest moment, confusion flashed through his mind.

But he kept his expression blank and then withdrew the ball.

Five.

The number appeared upon the veil, and Julian exhaled slowly, a breath he had not realised he had been holding.

He had questions about the ballot, but he would keep those to himself until he was alone with his companions.

He walked back to his friends.

Benedict gave him a small, approving nod, the gesture subtle but meaningful. Alistair reached out and patted him firmly on the shoulder.

Julian adjusted his spectacles once more, his fingers steady despite the slight tremor that had passed through them moments before.

"Baron Oliver Fairmont of Silverbrook."

Oliver stepped forward with an easy, unhurried grace, his golden-brown hair catching the light. He reached into the box and drew his ball.

Three.

The final number appeared upon the veil, and the crowd murmured amongst themselves as the matchups were finally revealed.

Six pairs.

The footman cleared his throat, his voice carrying across the arena.

"Each candidate is free to choose whatever weapons they wish," he announced, gesturing towards a rack that had been brought to the edge of the open space.

Lyria’s gaze followed the gesture, and she felt her breath catch.

The weapons were real.

Not wooden practice blades.

Not blunted steel.

Real weapons—sharp, gleaming, deadly—arranged in neat rows upon the rack. Swords, daggers, axes, and more, their edges catching the grey afternoon light with a gleam that promised pain.

A murmur rippled through the crowd as the attendees looked at each other, exchanging uneasy glances.

This was supposed to be a sparring competition.

Yet there was nothing harmless about the weapons laid before them.

Lyria’s eyes moved across the arena.

Some of the suitors appeared unfazed.

Others looked considerably less comfortable.

Julian’s voice was low, barely audible above the noise.

"I did not expect them to be real weapons."

Alistair smirked, the expression carrying more than a hint of amusement.

"Are you scared?" he asked.

Julian turned to look at him, a frown creasing his brow.

"I am not," he said slowly, choosing his words with care. "But I cannot shake the feeling that there is something more to all of this."

Lucian gave him a long, assessing look.

Evander’s voice cut in before anyone else could respond.

"For someone so clever," he said, "you do tend to be rather slow when it comes to certain matters."

Julian frowned.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Even Benedict realised it from the beginning," Evander added, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips.

Julian’s frown deepened.

Before he could respond, Lucian spoke.

"Listen," he said, nodding towards the footman, who had begun to speak once more.

"Each sparring round shall be given ten minutes," the footman announced. "The competitor who defeats their opponent within the shortest time shall be declared the overall winner."

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the assembled candidates.

"The sparring shall proceed according to the numbers drawn. A bell will signal the beginning of each match."

He bowed.

"May the Goddess be with you all."

He stepped back, and the servants carrying the box withdrew from the arena, leaving the candidates standing in the open space with nothing but the weapons rack and the weight of the crowd’s attention pressing down upon them.

The crowd began to grow louder again.

Excitement spread through the stands as people pointed towards the weapons and discussed which candidates they believed would triumph. Bets were whispered between friends, while others called out the names of their favourites.

The suitors, however, appeared more focused.

There was no room for distraction now.

The first match would begin soon.

Lyria watched Julian carefully.

He had been nervous earlier, but there was something different about him now. He seemed to have settled into himself, his attention fixed upon the competition rather than the crowd.

Just then, a figure approached Evander.

He moved quietly, his steps unhurried but deliberate, weaving through the crowd of candidates with the ease of someone accustomed to moving unnoticed.

Evander smiled.

"Perfect timing," he said.

The figure bowed, his movements respectful and precise. He was dressed in the simple attire of a valet, his features familiar to those who knew him.

Tommy straightened, his gaze sweeping across the gathered suitors.

"Your Grace," he said. "Gentlemen."

Evander’s smile widened, the expression carrying more than a hint of satisfaction.

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