Duel Tourney at Basteaux | Amelia Wulfhart vs Otto von Annenfeld (Joust)

[Fist of Ostrien]

The Wolf vs The Fist
Amelia Wulfhart vs Otto von Annenfeld​

The second morning broke over Basteaux not with stillness, but with movement.

What had been a sea of tents, banners, and restless anticipation on the first day, now stirred into full life beneath a clear and rising sun. The Tourney grounds, sprawled beyond the city's outer walls, swelled with color and purpose as nobles, knights, merchants, and common folk alike were drawn toward a single point... the Grand Lists.

At first it was a trickle.

A pair of squires rushing past with polished helms cradled in their arms. A cluster of lesser knights fastening gauntlets as they walked. A family weaving through the lanes of pavilions, the father urging haste while the children strained to glimpse the field beyond. Then the trickle became a current, crowds pressed forward in growing numbers, the murmur of voices rising into a steady roar as people funneled toward the great wooden stands that encircled the jousting field. Boots struck packed earth in hurried rhythm. Silk brushed against chainmail. Laughter, wagers, and shouted predictions mingled freely in the air. Vendors abandoned idle waiting and seized the moment, hawking wine, roasted meats, and ribbons bearing the colors of favored houses. All of it flowed toward the Lists.

The field itself stood pristine amidst the backdrop of chaos. The tilt barrier ran like a dividing spine down its center, freshly set and unmarred, at either end, the gates remained closed, guarding the approach where knights would soon thunder forth. The sand had been turned and leveled, awaiting the first violent passage of hooves. Above it all rose the Grand Stands, tiered and filled with a tide of spectators finding their place. Cloth-of-arms draped the railings: wolves, suns, ravens, lions, each banner snapping in the morning wind. Yet even this was not the heart of the spectacle, that honor belonged to the Imperial Stand. Set at the centerline of the Lists, elevated above all others, it had been transformed into a seat of power befitting the rulers of the Holy Osterman Empire, otherwise known as the REICH OF OSTRIEN. Silken canopies in black and gold were drawn taut overhead, their edges embroidered with imperial sigils that gleamed in the light. Banners bearing the double-headed eagle hung in perfect symmetry, framing the space where sovereignty itself would sit.

Imperial attendants moved with precision and urgency. Cushioned seats were inspected and adjusted. Goblets of polished silver were set upon carved tables. A retinue of guards in immaculate armor took their positions with rigid discipline, halberds grounded in unison as they secured the perimeter. Chamberlains murmured to one another, ensuring that every detail, every fold of cloth, every placement of standard was met with perfection for soon all eyes would turn there.

Soon, the Emperor and Empress would take their place above the Lists, and the Tourney of Basteaux would truly begin.

A trumpet rang out.

It cut through the noise and stilled the field. From the edge of the Lists, beneath a banner marked with the sigil of the Tourney, an announcer stepped forward, his voice carrying with practiced authority across the gathered multitude.

"Hear now, lords and ladies of the Empire! Hear now, goodfolk of Basteaux and beyond!"

A hush fell, broken only by the distant flutter of banners.

"We gather beneath the gaze of His Imperial Majesty and Her Radiant Grace to witness the first contest of this most noble Tourney!"

He turned, extending an arm toward the far gate.

"Entering the Lists, our first joust of the day! Her Lady Amelia of House Wulfhart!"

A brief pause, tension tightening like a drawn bowstring.

Then, with equal gravity, his voice rang again across the field.

"And her opponent, His Grace, the Duke of Annenfeld... Herzog Otto von Annenfeld!"

The gates stood ready.

The field waited.

"Challengers, please approach the field."

 

[The Soothsayer]

The Imperial Joust of Basteaux

Rules of the Lists as observed under the gaze of the Crown
The joust at Basteaux is a test not merely of strength, but of seat, timing, nerve, and presence. Each pairing rides three passes, with honor, spectacle, and precision weighed together in determining the victor.

---

Before the First Pass

Each rider enters the Lists with certain advantages or hindrances shaped by reputation, preparation, and circumstance:

• Those who win the favor of the crowd—or receive tokens from noble hands—may ride with heightened confidence +1 to dice rolls for the thread.
• A swelling crowd may carry a knight forward… or leave them overshadowed +1 to dice rolls for the thread.

---

The Passes of the Lists

• Riders begin at opposite ends of the field
• At the signal, they lower lances and charge
• Each pass is resolved with a single roll (1d20 + modifiers) using the onsite dice roller for posts / not Discord's Dice Maiden.
• The result reflects both the rider's control and the quality of their strike

Your post should bring that result to life—describe the charge, the clash, the aftermath.

---

Judgement of Each Pass

Rather than simple success or failure, each charge falls into one of five outcomes:

• Disaster (1–4)
  A failed charge—loss of seat, missed strike, or broken rhythm
• Weak Showing (5–10)
  Poor contact, glancing blow, or compromised balance
• True Strike (11–15)
  A clean and controlled hit—worthy of acknowledgment
• Dominant Pass (16–19)
  A forceful and impressive strike—lance breaks, opponent shaken
• Masterful Impact (20)
  A near-perfect charge—devastating contact, possible unhorsing, the crowd in uproar

---

How Victory is Determined

Each pass earns standing in the eyes of the judges:

• Disaster → No standing gained
• Weak Showing → Minor credit
• True Strike → Solid credit
• Dominant Pass → Strong credit
• Masterful Impact → Highest distinction

At the end of three passes:

• The rider with the greater overall standing is declared victor
• If neither yields, a final sudden pass decides the match

---

On Honor, Spectacle, and the Crowd

While the Lists decide the outcome, the crowd decides legacy.

A knight who rides boldly, even in defeat, may earn:

• Favor from nobles
• Recognition among peers
• Future advantage in the Lists

Likewise, a victory without presence may be remembered… but not celebrated.

---

Final Note

The joust is not a game of numbers—it is a performance of nobility under pressure.

Write accordingly.

 

[Amelia Wulfhart]

Herakon pawed at the ground, snorting with anticipation. Amelia rode into the lists, black stallion, darkened steel armor, and black surcoat adorned with gold embroidery, wings unfurled behind her. She donned her helmet, visor up to keep her face revealed as she allowed the destrier to trot sideways, as he shook his head and whinnied energetically. She met the Emperor's gaze, giving him a polite nod of her head before offering a salute to the gathered nobles, a closed fist over her chest. Amelia was cold and calm, not anxious or nervous. Coiled, like a serpent, cool in the saddle and at ease, the reins of the black destrier held loosely in her left.

With that complete, she pulled her visor down, the snarling likeness of a wolf masking her face, and snapped the pins closed to keep it in place. Amelia twisted, pulling Herakon so that he turned to face her challenger. She spoke no words, but offered him the simple salute as well.

Amelia led her steed around and spurred him onward to a canter towards the end of the list, whistling as she arrived by her rack. "Lance."

Tomas ran over, passing the long wooden spear up to her waiting grasp. "Here you are my lady." The teen said in a half-whisper as he stepped back out of the way. Amelia offered the faintest smile beneath her helm as she stared down the lists, eyeing her opposition ready himself. The crowd murmured, no grand cheers or hoots yet. She wasn't one to work them onlookers either, to gesture to them or beg for their involvement. If they did, they did. She did not come to appease them, but to test her mettle.

"Drat." Elspeth muttered as the horn blew and Amelia's name was called to enter the lists. "She's first?" The woman asked as she stuffed her favor back into her sleeve looking a little disappointed, looking up at Marguerite.

"Appears so. And versus our neighbor, Duke von Annenfeld." Marguerite answered, not really watching the Lists, but not avoiding them in her eyeline. "I've never met the man, could be interesting." Their father was likely to be incensed, in his own way. Such a duel could embarrass him, the family, or potentially make an enemy of a man not known for his subtlety or forgiveness. The blonde considered for a moment ordering her guard to withdraw on Amelia's behalf. But that would be worse optics, or Amelia would never forgive her. Marguerite was not sure which made her hesitate more.

Otto von Annenfeld

 

[Karl von Osthaus]

KARL VON OSTHAUS

HOLY OSTERMAN EMPEROR

Lilianna von Osthaus | Otto von Annenfeld | Amelia Wulfhart​

The murmur that had settled over the Grand Lists shifted, it was subtle at first, like wind turning through banners before rising into something greater. From the rear of the Imperial Stand, beneath the heavy drape of black and gold, movement stirred.

The Imperial retinue emerged.

Standard bearers stepped forward in measured procession, their poles crowned with the double-headed eagle of the Empire, cloth unfurling in the morning light. Behind them came the Aaven guard, armored in midnight plate, their presence not loud, but absolute. Steel rang softly against steel as they took position along the edges of the stand, forming a living wall of discipline and authority... and then..

He appeared.

The Kaiser himself stepped into the open view of the Lists, the full weight of the Empire carried in presence. Clad in regal splendor edged with gold, the sigil of the Empire rested proudly upon his breast, catching the light as he advanced. His bearing was measured and unhurried, each step deliberate, each movement controlled. At his side, walked the Empress, Lilia von Osthaus, her hand in his. Together they crossed into the forefront of the Imperial Stand, the crowd responded, not as one voice, but as many. The masses rose, swelling, crashing together into a thunderous acknowledgment of authority, both the good and the bad kind. Nobles stood. Banners dipped. The common folk surged forward in their places, voices lifting in cheers, oaths, and cries of anger from those who would not sell out, those whose voices which were drowned out in the chaos.

Karl did not rush the moment.

At the edge of the stand, he released the Empress's hand, not abruptly, but with quiet certainty and stepped forward alone. He turned to the masses, and with a measured commanding motion, raised his hand with a simple gesture.

The effect was not.

For a fleeting moment, the Tourney was not the center of attention.

He was.

Then, as the roar crested, Karl lowered his hand.

Without flourish, without excess, without any show of ego, he turned and ascended the final steps of the Imperial Stand. The throne, set high, framed in black and gold, awaited him and his Empress. He took his seat and matched both gazes of each warrior.

He gave his uncle a nod, and then matched gazes with Amelia, giving her too a firm nod of approval.

 

[Otto von Annenfeld]

OTTO VON ANNENFELD Duke of Annenfeld • Fist of the Empire Amelia Wulfhart​ The far gate opened without flourish. Like Amelia, there was no shouted declarations marking his arrival beyond what had already been given. Where others might have entered the Lists to be seen, Otto von Annenfeld entered to begin. His warhorse did not prance. It moved forward in a controlled, deliberate stride with muscle beneath dark hide shifting with restrained power, breath steady, disciplined. No wasted energy. No display. The Duke sat as if forged into the saddle itself, adorned in black plate catching the Dawn's light in muted reflections. Its surface etched with pale, angular script, old words, sharp and severe, cut into the metal like vows that could not be broken. Across his chest, the sigil of the iron fist stood stark and unyielding. His helm, East Merevingan in its make, gave him a silhouette more warlord than knight, a presence that did not invite admiration so much as measure it against him. He did not acknowledge the crowd. Not their murmurs, not their weighing of names, not their quiet speculation of how the former Regent may fair. If he heard it at all, it found no purchase. His world had narrowed long before the gate opened, to the line of the Lists, to the distance between, to the rider already waiting at the far end. He saw her, he saw the black stallion. The winged gold upon dark. The wolf-faced helm now lowered into place. There was no hesitation. Only recognition. A slight shift of his gauntleted hand brought his mount into alignment with the barrier. No flourish followed. No answering salute given for the crowd's sake. But very briefly and deliberately, his lance dipped, just enough to acknowledge both Amelia and the Imperial host. Then it rose again. The horse stilled beneath him. The line was set. Across the Lists, Amelia waited, silent and ready. So did he. No bravado. No theatrics. Only the quiet, unmistakable presence of a man who had come not to perform... ...but to break what stood before him. NO MERCY. NO STEP GIVEN.​

 

[Amelia Wulfhart]

Amelia sat, her focus building. Around her the noise rose, the clamor of the crowd, the braying of horses, the clutter of nature all fell away.

Silence.

The steady beating of her heart in her chest, her breath calm and measured. The black stallion beneath her snorting and pawing at the ground. Through the slits in her visor she could see him waiting there, lance ready, black armor glinting in the raws of the morning sun. The rest of the world seemed to fade into the background. Nothing else mattered.

The flag was readied by a servant, the boy letting it hang low in the middle of the lists.

Amelia took a breath, her legs tensed around Herakon's body, stilling him and bringing the ornery beast to focus after having let him vent his agitation for the salutes.

The flag raised, fluttering in the wind as the servant pulled it up and ran to clear the lane.

Amelia's spurs kicked back into Herakon's stomach and the beast launched forward, mud and dirt kicking up behind him as the stallion began to pound down along the line with a thunderous beating of hooves. Behind her she could hear Tomas whistling sharply and clapping his hands, a trick some squires used to help usher a horse down the line, but it wasn't necessary. He was just mimicking something he had seen, not something she or her father ever would have taught him.

Her lance dipped low as she shifted it into the cradle, leveling it at her opponent across her body. The raven-haired girl leaned forward in the saddle, muscles tensing. The wings she wore whistled out their wicked hiss in the wind as she charged.

She breathed deeply, one last breath before the impact.

She braced.

Otto von Annenfeld

 

[Amelia Wulfhart]

Result.

 

[Otto von Annenfeld]

Result.

 

[Otto von Annenfeld]

Duke of Annenfeld • Fist of the Empire​

Tags: Amelia Wulfhart​

The world did not narrow for Otto.

It clarified.

Distance, rhythm, and line. All of it laid bare before a warrior's eye, each stride of his mount would be measured, each breath controlled beneath the weight of steel. The roar of the crowd did not vanish, it simply became irrelevant as his veteran eyes honed in on his opponent.

The flag dropped.

The call was made and across the Lists, she came, not as noise, but as a living force of nature.

His black stallion surged with violent intent, hooves tearing into the earth as Amelia too drove forward without hesitation. Her form dropped low, committed, her lance already finding its line, no adjustment, no doubt. The hiss of those wings cut through the air like a warning given too late.

"Good."

Otto moved at the proper moment, his body practicing what a dozen tourneys had wrought him before. A subtle pressure of heel and his warhorse answered, pushing even harder, moving forward in disciplined power. No wild burst, only acceleration, controlled and relentless. The lance lowered into place with practiced ease, settling beneath his arm as though it had never been anywhere else. He held longer than most would.

Long enough to measure. Long enough to see. And in that final breath... he committed.

But she was already there.

Her timing was perfect. The impact came not as a contest, but as a statement as wood shattered. The crack of her lance striking true echoed across the Lists as it exploded against his guard with violent precision. The force drove through armor and into body, not enough to unhorse, but enough to break the line of his control. His own strike, set a fraction too late, would likely only glance or skid across her armor with a jarring deflection, robbed of any true force. A damn good hit, he had to admit as the world returned all at once. The thunder of hooves, the roar of the crowd rising now to their feet, no longer contained of their zeal. His mount carried through the pass, but the disruption was undeniable. A shift in the saddle, a correction forced rather than chosen. He had almost been de-horsed by this woman, this stranger whom he had never met.

At the far end, Otto brought his warhorse around in a tight, controlled arc, the movement sharp, efficient. No wasted motion as he reset along the line.

There was no outward reaction save only his exhalation and pain management. No frustration. No acknowledgment given to the crowd or the result of the first pass, only stillness. Across the Lists, the reality had been made clear as she struck first, and struck well. Blood rushed down from within his armor, the stoic Herzog reached forth and pulled the shrapnel from his person as pain flooded his system.

"Lance!"

Otto settled the lance once more into his grasp, posture unbroken despite the imperfect pass.

The next would not be.

 

[Amelia Wulfhart]

A fraction of a second. Her body tensed, braced for the impact. Her right arm shifted forward just slightly, the lance held by it struck true, exploding into splinters as it smashed into Duke von Annenfeld. His own lance tipped up ever so slightly off its line, striking Amelia on her left side and sliding up to her pauldron.

For an instant it snagged on the pauldron, pushing her backwards in the saddle, threatening to pull her out of it for the briefest of heartbeats. Then the lance bent upward in the middle, not a shattering or splintering of a true hit, but a fracture in the woodgrain snapping it in half due to the odd angle without delivering the bulk of the energy into her body. Still, she felt it throb through her side as Herakon carried her through the first pass, as she began to haul up on the reins.

Herakon slowed from his trampling charge, braying and snorting as she came to the end of the line at a canter, tossing the splintered lance down into the dirt, twisting in the saddle to keep her focus on von Annenfeld. Her ice blue eyes regarded him across the distance, wheeling her stallion about and letting the tension in her legs loosen. The horse's earlier agitation returned, stomping and side-stepping.

"Lance." She asked, calm and quiet. No pride settled on her features, no hope for the next pass.

The spear was passed up to her waiting grip, fingers clasping around the wooden shaft, adjusting it in her palm until she was satisfied with its placement.

Amelia kept her gaze locked on von Annenfeld as the servant with the starting flag returned to the middle of the lists.

"Oof," Elspeth whispered as the lances struck the riders and horses carried them through to the other end of the lists, riders wheeling about and readying themselves for the second pass. "That looked like it hurt." Her hands coming together in a soft clap as she spoke to Marguerite.

"I can't imagine it feels nice," the blonde answered with a soft laugh. She was perfect, composed, no reaction to the strike. But inside, she wondered. With how much grace did von Annenfeld take a first showing from an unknown knight? Not even a knight. Amelia had never been given the title of dame officially. And would he resent such a thing delivered by a young woman?

She wanted to cheer Amelia on, to offer her support more vocally, but restrained herself. Amelia was not even supposed to be in the tournament. Von Annenfeld was their neighbor and a member of the Imperial family.

Otto von Annenfeld

 

[Otto von Annenfeld]

Duke of Annenfeld • Fist of the Empire
​

​

Tags: Amelia Wulfhart
​

A pull on the reins, sharp, and controlled came as the warhorse pivoted beneath him in a disciplined arc, hooves biting into the churned earth as it came about. There was no pause to measure the crowd, no glance toward the stands, no acknowledgment of the splintered wood left behind in the dirt.

The pass was done.

It had been enough to learn.

"Lance!"

Otto did not wait. Before the servant had fully settled, before the field could breathe between clashes, Otto had already called for another lance, his mount was already stepping forward into line again. Not rushed, but immediate. Intent made clear through action alone.

Pressure of heel, then forward.

The warhorse surged once more, this time with less restraint in the opening stride, still controlled, but faster to its full pace as Otto rode hard. The distance closing with deliberate aggression. Otto lowered the lance early, but not recklessly, guiding it down into the cradle with a steadier, more deliberate line than before. No correction would be made mid-charge, there would be no wasted motion. His posture shifted differently now, less upright at the onset, more committed forward into the rhythm of the gallop, aligning his body with the strike sooner. Where the first pass had been measured..

This one was decided.

Closer.

His aim did not wander, it fixed low along her center mass, tracking the movement of her mount. He needed to be closer, without distraction he adjusted for the rise and fall of the stride, letting the rhythm of the horse dictate the final alignment rather than forcing it. Faster. The distance collapsed, it was all flowing naturally. At the final stretch, Otto leaned into the charge, with force, driving the lance forward along its line, tightening his grip as the hopeful moment of impact approached.

​

 

[Otto von Annenfeld]

Result.

 

[Amelia Wulfhart]

The duke spurred his mount even before the flag was raised, barreling down the line like a thunderclap. Amelia allowed herself the faintest smile of recognition. He's rattled, she thought, eager to make up the ground he had lost in the first pass. She enjoyed the test of skill, the opportunity to ride against some of the greatest and most experienced warriors from across the Empire. It was a proving ground, no shame in defeat, no glory in victory. Just a measure on where one stands and where one must improve to stand above that place tomorrow. The raven-haired woman tensed her legs around the great black stallion beneath her, spurring him forward. Herakon snorted, his breath heavy as the clods of dirt and spray of dust kicked up behind him, a great black beast hurtling into the line. He surged into a gallop, pounding hooves into the fresh dirt of the lists.

Amelia drowned out the crowd, the onlookers who murmured and clapped, their cheers for both riders. It was all nothing, becoming a blur at the edges of her peripheral. Her opponent stood out as the one clear object in her vision.

Her lance leveled out and slipped into the cradle on her side, steadying the weapon as the tip aimed down the line at her enemy. The snarling visage of the wolf pressed closer and closer. Her body tensed, she leaned forward towards Duke Otto von Annenfeld, settling her aim at his center mass, the long lance leveled and steadied in her grasp.

She breathed in, the last breath before impact.

Her body stilled, the noise all around fell quiet in that breath. No low murmur from the crowd, no pounding of hooves, or the heavy breathing of their steeds as they met in the middle of the lists. Just them, the Duke and the Dame coming together once again in a vicious dance.

She braced her body.

Impact. She felt his lance hammer into her right ribs, just below her breast, driving the wind from her lungs with a heavy blow as his lance splintered and broke near the end. Not the cleanest of hits, but not one she could ignore either.

Amelia blinked at the moment of impact of her own lance.

Otto von Annenfeld

 

[Lilianna von Osthaus]

Empress of Reich of Ostrien • Inquisitor of the Sanctus (Quaesitors)
"High Osterman" | <"Poleaskan"> | ["Aeterna"] | ~ Thoughts ~ ​

---

​

Objective: Attend on the Tourney.
Location: En route to Basteaux
Equipment: Outfit (no crown)

Karl von Osthaus​

I never liked situations like this; I never liked being the centre of attention. And yet, I had been ever since the moment we returned from the failed crusade and I moved into Aaven Castle, after Karl had asked me on the road home to become his wife. Though the court had not known for months, as it had not yet been official. There had only been rumours, whispers that we were lovers and that was why I was there. But we were not. Even our first kiss had only come at the wedding, when the priest granted permission. And from that moment on, with my coronation taking place on the very same day, I became even more the focus of every gaze.

As we drew closer, all eyes turned toward us. I was already preparing, as etiquette demanded, to follow Karl a few steps behind him. Yet he took my hand, and we walked forward together, side by side. Though I still felt inexperienced in matters of diplomacy, and the intrigues and shadow-games were far from me, I knew that, like everything else, this too held immense significance for both the nobility and the people.

I knew perfectly well that, among all possible brides, I had been the worst choice from a diplomatic standpoint. With me, the Reich gained no land, could not expand. My home had become a vassal of King Martin, an enemy, though once it had belonged to the Kingdom. Even the voivode had betrayed Karl. I could imagine the contrast between Karl and myself as we walked toward our place. He bore the presence of a ruler in every sense, charismatic and unmistakable. Anyone could tell he was a sovereign without any need for ornate regalia. The people saw the Emperor in him.

I did not.

Perhaps in the first few minutes of our first meeting, yes. But afterwards, I saw Karl behind the ruler's mask. Where others saw a harsh, distant, untouchable sovereign, his cold gaze and unyielding eyes, I saw something else. I saw my soulmate, my dearest friend, and the man I loved. When I looked at him, I saw the tired man with whom I laughed freely when we were alone. Within those cold eyes, I saw the gentle look, the smile he gave me when he turned toward me, when we spoke or when we found the rare time to play.

Of course, I had seen his distant, cold side as well, and his anger, when I told him I was sensitive to magic and that I served the Sanctus as an inquisitor. But we overcame it, through long and difficult effort. There had been a moment when I believed I would never again see the man I loved, but thankfully, that was not the case. And now, walking hand in hand, it meant everything.
Even in Aaven's throne room, when we received others, he would often take my hand, showing unity and stability. Showing that our bond was not merely diplomatic, but born of his own choice, that he had chosen someone he loved and deemed worthy.

Even if I did not feel worthy.

The Reich stood on stable ground. I could only imagine how many noble houses he had angered by choosing me over their daughters. Karl wore royal regalia. So did I, but mine was more modest. The people and the nobility alike had grown accustomed to seeing me in simpler garments, often akin to those of a priestess or nun, as I walked through Aaven to visit hospitals and temples, distributing food and tending to the sick. It was not a noble act, certainly not a royal one, but it was who I was. The Sanctus had always been close to me.

That was how they knew me, in Aaven, and perhaps across the entire Reich. This time, however, I did not wear white, but black, to match Karl's attire. My gown was less ornate, adorned only with minimal golden embroidery, depicting the double-headed aquila and the symbol of the Sanctus. It was restrained, far less ostentatious than his. The dress itself was simple in cut, though its sleeves reached the ground. A cloak accompanied it, made of equally modest material, its aquila embroidered in plain yellow thread rather than gold. My headgear was black as well, matching the gown. Over it rested a delicate golden tiara, into which fresh spring flowers had been placed. The flowers were more striking than the tiara itself.

Aside from that, I wore only one visible piece of jewellery: a rosary bearing the symbol of the Sanctus, hanging from a golden chain, reaching down to the aquila upon my chest. I often concealed my hair. In my case, it was early greying, not the radiant silver of the Taoar, but the pale tone of age. Yet modesty and devotion called for it to remain hidden beneath the headgear. I had heard the whispers that my modesty and piety were well known among the court and the nobility, and that this, too, had been part of why Karl chose me.

I believed that I might be Empress, but I did not rule over the people and the Reich.

I served them.

"I rule by serving, and serve by ruling."

The service of the Reich, the people, and the Sanctus, and the well-being of all, mattered most to me.

As we walked hand in hand, I gently squeezed my husband's hand in encouragement, though truthfully, I believe it was I who needed it more. When we reached our place and he released my hand, I stepped slightly behind, observing from the background. I still envied him, how naturally all of this came to him. And I prayed to Theos that I would never have to do such things, for I did not believe myself capable, and I did not wish to make the court a subject of ridicule.

I knew I was still young, but I would never possess Karl's charisma. I only ascended toward the thrones once Karl had taken his seat. As etiquette demanded, upon the final step, I raised my hands before my chest, forming the aquila with both of them as I curtsied before the ruler. I was his wife, but beneath him in rank. Everyone needed to see that. Only when Karl granted permission did I rise, then take my place, my gaze shifting toward the two competitors. This was personal for us, Karl's uncle was among them, and his opponent was a lady.

The duel unfolded quite interestingly. What I regretted most was that we ourselves could not participate. It would have been good practice, or a chance to see how much I had improved since our engagement, the last time I had been in real combat. Though when I became a full inquisitor, that too had been measured.

"The Lady is surprisingly skilled, and I think she has caught your uncle, Lord Otto, off guard. Who do you think will win?" I asked softly, a faint smile upon my lips.