"It’s probably best to let him out before he burns it down."

The Patriarch of the Yecine took another step forward into the sand as Lirades spoke her line to her co-conspirators, feeling the searing accusations exuding from the man who had yet to show himself - and knowing it was his duty to meet them head on. Taking his blade off his back and holding it by the scabbard, he waited and endured this theatrical display... the same as he had done with the Goltbred heiress.

Part of his mind questioned this situation. If he had not perhaps been brought into one of that taboo wielder’s Illusions like the others this time. Seeing the frost on the ground that no one else had mentioned - and in fact were surprised about after that brunette had been ’retrieved’ by Qatrand - had been a message that he received. Not with the assurance that she was unable to overtake his mind, for the feel of her spirit was still enormously pressuring, but that Elua had chosen *not* to for some reason.

’And that reason could have been so I stop questioning whether I have been taken in or not.’

His downcast eyes, tracing the details on the sand for any sort of imperfections, blinked and looked up as Navuill er Yecine walked into view. The young man wore the estate tailored style of black suit as well as any his age, with a work record that was as dense year over year as any new young elder. Qatrand had ended up less of a bar to measure against and more of an irreplicable enigma - but her few year older cousin had a much more tangible sense of hard work to results achieved.

The bare blade already held in his hand was just as proper, a long heavy sword of their traditional design... but not of their usual makers. While he had leased a serviceable weapon from the estate’s armory, to replace his own after its drastic overuse during the Descent, the one he wielded now was a recent gift. An item handed over by a tall blonde with pigeon blue eyes, but commissioned by a red-haired wife with pear-colored ones.

An eager Talva er Ryleon, on her way to visit the Goltbred estate and allow her son to see Onya on the girl’s home ground, found it a small issue to stop on the way at the Ironclad Order to present it to him. While technically it was paid for by the Warden Patrician, Rezzue had taken the loan - and the priority favor to use that territory’s blacksmith - in payment for traveling to the Astral Exclave in the first place.

The two had gone back and forth over who did or did not owe what, but Qat was stubborn and would not let her go ten months ago... without agreeing to *something* for watching out for her half-siblings. That wife chose to shift the imposed goodwill onto her husband. A man who needed a new sword to really call his own, like she had needed a bow. One whose steely weight required technical commitment in every swing and whose edge demanded respect from everyone in the range of its arc.

Gray eyes all but requested the same esteem as his well-maintained weapon as they swept over the arena, though they did not stick on anyone in particular. He was upset with too many people to single anyone out. Even if that was exactly what the plan was. The Patriarch would not be standing where he was right then if he didn’t *have* to be the family’s scapegoat.

"Elder Navuill er Yecine has invoked the right of formal challenge. Today, we stand here to witness the Rite of Ratification."

The old woman’s voice carried clearly throughout the arena, like it had been trained to do long before all of the elders present had even been born. When she was under fifty years of age, she had presided over every First Blood ritual in this very place - in that very seat. A time long past when the daughters of this family who wanted it were still given opportunity, purpose, and much more deference.

Details which she had often needled the current generations with... to boldly deaf ears. Now, they were all but forced to listen, in a way quite different than just Lirades’s nagging about the degradation of the Yecine heart and soul. They would hear it through the acknowledged application of martial might versus the exact same - a duel as proof.

"The first council recognized that strength to guide this family must be proven to those who follow. Our leadership and its meaning had always been demonstrated, not inherited through seniority or imposed by majority. That is why the identity of the family head is to be resolved here, in this sacred arena. Consecrated by countless drops of Yecine blood - and that of the innocent beasts we whet ourselves upon."

Those who knew the details of the plan - or at least this one - did not flinch. Yet so many others grit their teeth, clenched their hilts, or otherwise showed off their discomfort. Deciding the one in charge through strength of arms was a step seen by many as too close to chaos... the kind that disrupted the orderly way of things now, where their positions and resource incomes were more secure.

"Since I have the opportunity, I’ll admit that I find it telling. That this Rite was allowed to gather dust, only after the seats of power became comfortably entrenched enough that those sitting in them *preferred* not to take the risk. Of standing up and taking greater responsibility."

She chuckled then, a mean sound without mirth that she had owned since she was a beautiful youth of the Yecine who refused to take insults by turning the other cheek. The kind of ’laugh’ that so many had heard before she struck them explosively in the solar plexus... quite literally, instead of the figuratively of her calmer wisdom.

"I bet many of you would try to claim it was for the family stability. That you never dared to do the same as this young man. I bet just as many of you know you are lying."

"If they do not, then I will feel even more belittled."

The Patriarch began to slide the sheathing from his blade with the grace of a man who had been fighting battles with the trademark weapon longer than most. As one of the oldest active cultivators on the council, he had seen the love of duels rise and fall in society like bloodsport itself was a factor of life adhering to some invisible tidal force. Muscle memory so deep it had outlasted the deterioration of nearly everything else about his tenure settled the readied weapon in their style’s primary high stance.

"My voice will not ask if you have the numbers of majority required by the Rite. My body answers this challenge. My mind accepts all outcomes."

Navuill’s own blade had risen to mirror the old man’s ’calm’ aggressive stance, but the Empath’s ’anger’ was still a sharp heat. Everyone watching could feel the moment it almost reluctantly settled and pulled away. Not cooled, but finally directed entirely on the opponent. All without hatred or genuine bloodlust... for family was always above all, and that also meant true killing blows or intentional maiming were to be avoided.

The goal was proving strength in a way that no one could argue against. Permanently losing a soldier to an argument, no matter how official, was as anathema to the black suit and black hair loving family identity as it was to most martial cultivators of this era. Duels were absolutely not always bloodless, but they did tend to end in yields... or in mercy validated by the witnesses. The Patriarch understood this as much as those watching.

’If the young lion means to eat the old, then he must understand that the old grew old for reasons.’

That what was intentionally on the line was personal pride - and a risk of accidents was merely a matter of course. Which was why his first step was not tentative or probing. Two lengths of metal swept forward in the classic opening wrath cut, a high diagonal that used a single motion to force the opponent backward or to commit to a block. One that would test their entire frame, especially when delivered with the clear Intent behind it... that suggested no matter what he felt about who was right, the man was not going to perform a defeat for anyone’s convenience.

The impact of the cross traveled through four arms and confirmed what Navuill already knew. Clean technique, Primalist strength... this man had been killing Voidlings, stopping bandits, placing in competition, and training members of this family with this exact weapon since before Navuill’s parents were even born. A whole century was clashing directly with only a quarter of that time. But it was also a man silently wavering in his conviction against one who could take being *silent* no more.

Both men shifted their weapons to press for advantage, neither backing off as their blade angles twisted and hips employed footwork that danced on loose sand to keep up. Close the gap, pursue the other side of the guard, and end matters as expediently as possible was the Yecine way. Physical cultivation was the sweetheart path of martial respect on the continent. But it was not always the quickest or most aggressive way to win.

Fire came suddenly to Navuill’s weapon, riding along the edge with an intense flare as essence was fed into a sigil, engraved on the pommel, that was set to ignite a small reservoir of oil. Quite unlike the desperate grinding for metal sparks to use as fuel along a fortress hallway - or the flint rod he used to keep on patrols. His wife had given a set of basic requirements to the smith... and the man who liked challenges and collaborative work was more than happy to bring in a ’good’ sigilist to help out.

The Patriarch had fought with (and against) Fire Element wielding cultivators before, but never in a combination like this. Essence assisted swordsmanship the likes of Corde hez Iralev was not only difficult to use mentally, but the techniques ended up being very personalized. Which made them hard to teach to others despite often being relatively easy to counter in some form.

In this case, he knew that the use of an Element was more bluff and distracting display that looked impressive than anything else. For Navuill was never going to burn the leader of their family with it. He was just proving a point by making use of physical, essence, and spiritual energies in tandem this day. Applying three way pressure that forced the counters by the Patriarch to come from a place so deep in his training that conscious thought was barely involved.

Several of those strikes even forced the younger man to give ground... and one even drew a gashing line of red across the younger man’s forearm, where a feint had been read correctly and punished. Bleeding that was stopped in the next instant, as that Fire jumped from his weapon to cauterize the wound without missing a beat in his Yecine style bladework. Every exchange was another demonstration of both’s skill. But most importantly, every step he forced the angry challenger back was proof.

That the transition of power was not being handed over cheaply.