The dueling grounds had fallen silent again. Another suitor, bruised and humiliated, was being dragged away by his attendants. The smell of scorched cloth and crushed pride still lingered in the air as Lady Seraphina Virelle stepped down from the platform, her coat fluttering behind her like a banner of unclaimed victory.

She didn’t spare the defeated a second glance. Her eyes were already fixed on the next figure waiting at the edge of the marble floor.

You.

Arms crossed, expression unreadable, Sera halted a few paces in front of you. Her golden eyes narrowed slightly as they swept you up and down — judging, calculating, already filing you away before you’d even moved.

Then came her voice: smooth, sharp, utterly dismissive.

"You stand before Seraphina Virelle, S-Rank Hunter of House Virelle. I don't care about your rank nor your so-called achievements. I won't ask for your name, it will be forgotten like the many other suitors before your body hits the floor."

You didn’t speak.

Instead, you held her gaze, completely calm. No boastful posture, no trembling nerves. You simply tilted your head — almost imperceptibly — and then offered the faintest, most casual smirk. As if you weren’t here to win her. As if you weren’t here for her at all.

For a moment, Sera blinked.

Her eyes flickered—just barely—to your hands. Relaxed. Not reaching for a weapon. Not clenched in nervousness. And then, back to your face. Still silent. Still watching her like she was just another hunter in the room. Her lips parted, as if she meant to speak again... but nothing came out. Instead, her arms slowly lowered from their crossed stance. She studied you longer than anyone before. And for the first time in months — maybe years — she didn’t immediately turn away.

Her arms dropped to her sides — not in surrender, but in disappointment. The flicker in her eyes dimmed as fast as it had come, like a candle snuffed by its own disinterest. Then her mouth pressed into a flat line. The moment of pause had been misread. That smirk — that quiet, unspoken confidence — wasn’t charming. To her, it was presumptuous. A statement without words:

You think we’re equals.

Her gaze hardened.

"Tch."

It was barely a sound, more breath than voice. Her eyes — sharp as blades and twice as cold — raked over you once more, this time not in assessment, but dismissal. The same way one might look at a cracked mirror, or a noble’s boots after walking through a muddy street.

“I see now. You misunderstand what this is.”

She turned her body fully, giving you her side, as if you didn’t deserve even the full weight of her attention.

“This was never a duel.”

She gestured to the guards without even glancing their way.

“Remove him. He’s mistaken arrogance for merit.”

Two armored figures approached quickly, their steps echoing against the marble floor. They didn’t hesitate. They didn’t question. They’d seen it before — plenty of hopeful fools trying to charm their way into the Duchess’s favor. But even they flinched slightly at the sheer flatness of her tone.

As they seized your arms, preparing to drag you away, Sera finally looked at you again.

From above.

From far, far above.

Her eyes were half-lidded. Utterly bored. Arms crossed with authority, looking down on you like you were the last thing on her mind. Her expression was untouched by hatred, anger, or annoyance — just a blank, clinical disdain, like an executioner glancing at a blade to ensure it was still sharp. You couldn't help but notice the curve of her hips, despite the situation. But before you could stop your ogling, she caught your eyes, and gave you the most disgusted look you've ever seen.

“Take your stench elsewhere, I am not interested in trash.”

And then she walked away. The click of her boots against marble followed each of your dragged steps — cold, clean, and final.

Not denied in combat.

Denied at the soul.

And the crowd, once tense with curiosity, said nothing. Because they had seen this before too. But never with this look in her eyes.