I slowly looked back over at Sir Stonewall, as I’d come to think of him. Stonewall was still conversing with Nick in the hall’s corner, his lackeys—as they were mostly identical aside from a slight difference in circumference, I’ll refer to them as Pot and Kettle—posted up against the wall at attention some distance away.

The tall one sitting across from me I thought of as Dent, on account of the baseball-sized crater in the side of his helmet.

I fought my initial impulse to swap titles to <Cruel Lens>. It would have been better for the negotiation, but if things went badly I needed <Jaded Eye>, and if it all went to hell in a handbasket, reserving the option to switch to <Scathing Shell> could be a literal lifesaver.

Dent had crossed one leg over the other and was leaning to one side, seeming to relish in how his weight abused the wooden chair beneath him, intentionally forcing it to creak. Stonewall chose him for a reason. I’d expected someone craftier, less direct, but in some ways this worked better for my intended result.

“Are there any rules to this negotiation?” I asked.

“Aren’t you old enough to know that in the real world, there aren’t rules?” Dent’s smarmy voice echoed from within his helmet. “Maybe—”

Thanks for the green light.

<Subjugation> flared from my outstretched fingertips beneath the table. A chunk of my mana drained away, but I estimated it was less than half, closer to a third. Dent stiffened, twitched once, then stilled. I sucked in a breath, surprised by the absence of backlash. There was no reaction from the rest of the room. It’d been a calculated risk with caveats. If anyone had noticed or cried foul, I’d simply point out that Dent had literally just told me there were no rules.

I hit him with <Suggestion> before he could say anything to give us away.

“Continue with this negotiation as you would have before. Anything I say out loud should be reacted to according to your personality and previous predisposition, while any commands you receive in this manner should be considered law.”

“Maybe what?” I prompted.

Dent resumed his snide commentary. “Maybe things are different where you come from, out there with the savages.”

“Anyone who exists outside the realms of Flauros is a savage?”

“It’s more—one could say—an educated guess.” Dent drummed his fingers on the table, feigning boredom. Then pointed at Nick. “If he dies, you know what I’d like?”

“What?” I asked, completely fine with taking a passive role now that I held an advantage.

Both of Dent’s hands slammed down on the table, and he leaned forward in a snakelike motion. “I’d like to put my thumbs through your eyes. Nice and slow. Scramble them around a little until there’s nothin’ left but jam.”

This was why he was chosen. He clearly wasn’t the smartest of the bunch, or <Subjugation> would have failed. Dent was the type that preferred strong-arming his way through a discussion, using shock tactics and nastiness to throw the other party off-balance.

I leaned back, considered it. “A life is not a small thing—”

“Oh, I’d leave you alive.”

That was chilling.

“Fine. My sense of sight is not a small thing. In fact, I value it quite highly.” I leaned back and picked out some gunk between the outside knuckles of my gauntlet. “As the challenging party, there would need to be equal concessions from your side.”

“Like what?”

“For starters, the duelists need to be using similar weapons.”

“Swords, of course,” Dent said, a little too carefree.

The intended deceit was obvious. It didn’t surprise me. As of now, the only order I’d given Dent was to act how he normally would, and in this situation, he’d be acting in bad faith. I remembered the way Nick fought during the trial. How powerful Stonewall felt. If Nick didn’t have his full defensive kit, that was a problem.

“Swords and shields,” I corrected.

Dent huffed. “Makes no difference. Just a question of how long we draw it out. Minutes, rather than seconds. What else?”

“The swords should be of similar make, rarity, and power.”

“Should we have the craftsmen construct a bassinet for a mid-duel nap while we’re at it?” Dent guffawed.

“Do you have crafters?” I asked, genuinely curious.

His laughter trailed off. “Eh. No. They died.”

“This is non-negotiable.” I tapped my cheek. “If you want my eyes.”

That shut him up. He shifted his head from side to side, considering. “Mm. Fine.” He nodded toward the racks of weapons in the center of the room. “But he’s gotta use one of ours. Not the other way around.”

“Done. Final pre-requisite for your condition. I’d like to summon my familiar.”

Dent lost some of his devil-may-care attitude, irritation flaring. “Don’t think I’m ignorant of what happens when your ilk gets left to their own devices. To what purpose?”

I sighed. “Look around. We are the challenged party, yet we’re surrounded by your men, your servants, your…” I glanced disdainfully at the swirling ring of shadows, further back than before but still ever-present. “… Creatures. If anyone in your camp had a problem with the direction the duel was going and others came to their aid, there’s likely little I could do about it, with or without my familiar. Regardless, I’d prefer the extra security.”

“And what manner of monster is this familiar?” Dent asked cautiously.

“A dog. Slightly larger than average, unexceptional otherwise.”

Dent went through the mental calculations of what chance a dog had against heavy armor and apparently liked the result. “Done,” he said, with a smile in his voice. “Such fun to be had. With you, me, and your overgrown mutt.”

I ignored him and jotted down the three conditions we’d established, pressing hard. I added a subsection for “results,” adding an entry for what would happen should each contestant win, and inscribed Dent’s demand lightly, letting the rolling tip of the pen do most of the work.

I’d barely finished when Dent leaned against the table, forcing the edge further into my gut. “There’ll be no magic. No spells of any kind.”

Huh. Unless things had changed, Nick didn’t have any magic besides the defensive barrier spell, but there was no need to give that away for free.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I know better than to judge a man on his appearance,” Dent growled. “And even if he’s just a sword, there’s a chance you’d cast somethin’ on him to tip the scales in your favor.”

I considered that. As the conditions went, it was severely double-edged. It’d deny Stonewall from using anything nasty he was holding in reserve but would also severely restrict my ability to meddle in the duel itself. If Stonewall was drastically more powerful than Nick, there was only so much I could do from the sideline compared to whatever bullshit ripple magic Stonewall could be hiding. If the power divide was too drastic, I couldn’t be blatant with <Probability Cascade> without Nick or the Knights noticing, neither of which would end well. Pushing back was an option, using my influence over Dent to force him to rescind the condition. But if the terms were too one-sided, the Knights would have ample reason to suspect foul play.

It was a net gain at best, a net zero at worst.

I voiced my displeasure and argued, eventually letting Dent wear me down and conceding, pressing firmly as I jotted the condition down.

“What do we do in the event of a breach?” I asked.

“A what?” With his accent, the “what” sounded like “wot.”

“If either side interferes with the duel,” I restated.

“Well.” He rested his chin on his fist. “If you interfere—and by interfere I mean squeeze out even the tiniest spurt of magic—we kill you. After I put your eyes out, of course.”

“Of course. And if your side interferes? You’ll all honorably put each other to the sword?”

Dent snorted. “Never going to happen. Come up with something else.”

“Sounds fair to me, considering that if I so much as ‘spurt’ magic onto the ground, my life is forfeit.”

He crossed his arms. “Your life isn’t worth a single Knight of the Round, let alone the lives of every being in our domain. Come up with something else.”

I mirrored his posture, stalemating us for a time and buying myself time to think. I looked toward the swirling shadows, circling like a tornado from hell. When Stonewall had removed his gauntlet to challenge Nick to a duel, his arm comprised the same shadow.

“Argue, but eventually comply with my next request.”

I sighed dramatically. “We’ve already established that if your camp goes back on their word, we stand little chance. Compensation, then. Any man who interferes will be punished by forfeiting his armor and arms, which will be relinquished to me.”

“The armor alone would be far too heavy for your scrawny form.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’d sell it even if it fit.”

Again, Dent audibly choked, trying not to laugh. “Madness. Your friend is about to die, and you’re here, divining a method to make a profit when he does.”

“Those are my terms,” I said coldly.

“You know what?” Dent chuckled. “Sure. You can have the arms and armor of any Knight who breaches the rules of engagement.”

“Any being who breaches the rules of engagement,” I clarified.

“Aye.” Dent slowly nodded. “Any being.”

The rest of the negotiations went smoothly. Dent seemed pleased with the apparent outcome. As pleased as I was with the actual outcome. I signed my name, and once I explained the custom, he signed his where I’d underlined.

Sir Kay.

“Here. Your copy.” I handed him the top sheet and removed the sheet at the bottom, placing it in my inventory before he looked at it too closely.

He watched me in confusion. “Magic?”

“Just triplicate,” I said, but he was still staring at the page. “Carbonless paper that passes the ink down to the bottom copy. Saves me the annoyance of writing everything out twice.”

“Watch yourself, Wizard.” He didn’t seem pleased, but I suspected the displeasure was out of suspicion of magic itself, rather than anything more specific. He stared at me, then seemed to disregard it as foolishness and walked with loud, clanking footsteps across the hall toward Stonewall.

With the negotiations settled, I let out a breath of relief, trying to ignore the feeling that I’d dropped the ball. I’d done everything I could to safeguard us while still technically abiding by Nick’s wishes. If the Knights’ so-called code was pure aesthetics and they made a move, we’d have a shot.

But aside from doing whatever I could to establish a fair competition, I’d done precious little to tip the scales of the duel itself in our favor. Everything else was up to Nick.