Fated Eclipse: The Illegitimate Princess And Her Alpha Suitors

Chapter 351: The Earl’s Display

The first match lasted seven minutes.

Both men were equally matched, their skills finely balanced, each blow met with a counter, each advance answered with a retreat. The crowd watched with bated breath as swords clashed and feet scraped against the stone floor of the arena.

But it ended with Duke Silverwyn emerging victorious.

He was quite smug about it too, a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he lowered his sword and acknowledged the cheers of the crowd. His opponent, Count Thornleigh, had a deep frown etched upon his face. He was vexed—that much was obvious from the tight set of his jaw and the way his hands gripped his sword a moment longer than necessary before he released it.

Count Thornleigh was injured as well, a thin line of red blooming along his forearm where Duke Silverwyn’s blade had found its mark. Duke Silverwyn was not unscathed either; a bruise was already forming along his ribs, visible through the torn fabric of his shirt.

But he had won, and that was what mattered.

They both walked away from the open space, one triumphant, the other seething. Cheers went up from the crowd, the commoners loudest of all, their enthusiasm unrestrained.

On the dais, Lyria watched them go, her gaze lingering on Count Thornleigh’s retreating form. She knew little of the man, but she could not help feeling a flicker of sympathy for him. He had fought well. He had simply not fought well enough.

The second match was about to begin.

Alistair turned to Benedict, his voice low and sincere.

"Good luck," he said.

Lucian gave Benedict a single, firm nod. Benedict returned it, his expression calm and composed, betraying none of the tension that might have been coiling within him.

Which was quite surprising, though no one, at least not amongst them, doubted for even a moment that Benedict would emerge victorious from this match.

He moved to the weapons rack, his strides purposeful and unhurried. His gaze swept across the array of blades before settling on a sword that felt right in his hand. He tested its weight, then turned to face the open space.

Duke Frostmere had chosen his own weapon and now stood waiting, his posture alert, his eyes fixed upon Benedict with quiet intensity.

They walked to the centre of the arena and took their positions.

Then the bell rang.

The sound had barely faded when Benedict moved.

He closed the distance between them in an instant, his sword arcing toward Duke Frostmere with devastating speed. The Duke was quick, his blade rising to block the attack, but the force of it sent him sliding backward, his boots scraping against the stone.

Benedict did not give him time to recover.

He attacked again, his movements fluid and relentless. Each strike was precise, each advance calculated to deny his opponent even a moment to regroup. Duke Frostmere defended as best he could, his sword meeting Benedict’s again and again, but he was being pushed back, his footing uncertain, his defence crumbling.

It was not even a full minute before Duke Frostmere’s sword left his hand.

The blade clattered across the floor, sliding to a halt several feet away. Duke Frostmere stared at his empty hand, then at Benedict, who stood over him, his sword now pressed lightly against the Duke’s throat.

Duke Frostmere’s expression was one of shock, his eyes wide with disbelief. He had lost. He had lost quickly, decisively, and without ever having a real chance to fight back.

He was not weak. He may not have been a war hero, but he was strong—stronger than most. But the Earl had simply been faster, sharper, and more relentless. He had not allowed the Duke to settle into the fight. He had ended it before it could truly begin.

Duke Frostmere hit the ground with his hand, a gesture of defeat and frustration.

Then the cheers went up.

The commoners were the loudest, their excitement unrestrained. Whistles and shouts filled the air, echoing across the arena. Even some of the nobles were clapping, their composed demeanours cracking just enough to reveal their appreciation for what they had just witnessed.

Benedict had won.

He lowered his sword and stepped back, offering Duke Frostmere a respectful nod. The Duke returned it, his jaw tight but his eyes carrying a grudging respect.

Alistair let out a low whistle from where he stood.

"Big man is really good," he said, his voice carrying a note of genuine admiration.

Lucian glanced at him.

"Did you ever doubt it for a second?" he asked.

Alistair shook his head.

"No. But then again, Duke Frostmere is the second strongest suitor after Big Man. I thought he would have put up a better fight."

Julian spoke up then, his expression thoughtful.

"I do not know much about fighting," he said, "but I suspect Benedict did not give the man a chance to even fight back. From the very beginning, he was on the offensive."

Lucian nodded slowly.

"Benedict likely knew his opponent would be an even match, similar to the previous fighters," he said. "He sought to avoid giving his opponent the opportunity to make a comeback. That was smart."

Alistair smirked.

"Big man is smart," he agreed. "But he is also quite dense."

No one argued with that.

On the dais, Jacinta fanned herself, her eyes fixed upon Benedict with undisguised interest.

"My," she said, her voice carrying a note of breathless admiration, "Earl Hawthorne is certainly skilled."

Lyria said nothing, though she found herself nodding inwardly. She had always known the Earl was capable—she had seen him train, had witnessed the quiet discipline he carried with him. But this was different. This was raw, unfiltered, and undeniably impressive.

She watched him as he walked back towards his companions, his expression calm, his posture relaxed, as though he had done nothing more than complete a simple task.

The commoners were still cheering for him, their enthusiasm undiminished. Even some of the nobles were looking at him with renewed interest, their earlier dismissiveness replaced by something closer to respect.

Lyria shook her head, forcing herself to look away. She should not think about him. Not after what had happened during their last date. He had left so abruptly, so strangely, and she still did not fully understand why. She doubted he would even want to be around her now.

She focused instead on the commoners, who were still celebrating Earl Hawthorne’s victory.

Everyone was impressed by him, it seemed.

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