“And why would I do that?” he said haughtily. His friends chuckled beside him but were decidedly more subdued.

Rezkin cocked his head as he stared with icy-blue eyes. “Through your negligence, you have upset the lady and ruined her dress. An honorable man would provide recompense and an apology.”

The young lord scowled, “Are you questioning my honor?”

“Are you?” Rezkin retorted.

The man’s dark blue eyes flicked over Frisha, and he smirked as he said, “I see no harm done. She would look better without the dress anyway.”

Frisha gasped and flushed bright red. Lady Joselia stomped a foot and said, “Tieran, you are a cad!” To Frisha she said, “That is Tieran, eldest son of the Duke of Wellinven of House Nirius.”

“Ye-e-e-e-s,” Tieren drawled. “You may call me Lord Nirius. If you are very nice, you may call me Lord Tieran,” he said suggestively.

“I am about to call you dead,” said Rezkin coldly, “if you do not apologize to the lady. I will not stand for you besmirching her honor with your lewd remarks.” Rezkin’s muscles flexed, and he seemed to expand to fill additional space around him. His icy eyes appeared to barely hold a deep darkness in check. To the young lord’s dismay, Tieran felt a sudden wash of fear. Tieran was not sure why, but this man’s imposing presence had a familiarity that unsettled him. His hand immediately went to his hilt, but he stopped short of drawing the blade.

Rezkin subtly shook his head once. “We have already determined you lack honor. Let us not find that you lack intelligence as well. If you draw that sword, you do so with your last breath,” he warned dispassionately.

It was that cold, emotionless assurance that got to the young lord. Nothing in the imposing man’s voice or bearing said bluster. For some reason, Tieran knew he did not want to fight this man. It was like staring into the maw of a hungry wolf. Tieran continued to grasp the hilt of his sword, more for comfort than anything, as he glared at the other man.

Rezkin cocked his head curiously as he studied the noble. Tieran gripped his rapier but failed to draw the weapon, giving Rezkin ample warning and time to prepare for the imminent strike. Surely a future duke would have greater Skill, he thought, therefore there must be some other reason for continuing to grip his sword.

“I am aware that some blades are enchanted, giving their wielders extra advantage. Perhaps this is why you continue to grip yours? Does it make you more intelligent?” Rezkin inquired with a mixture of condescension and genuine curiosity.