Elit had apparently expected Adolin to be reckless, as in his first duel for Shards. Elit kept backing up, waiting for that moment of recklessness. Adolin didn’t give it to him.

Today, he fought with precision—exacting form and stance, nothing out of place. Downplaying his ability in his previous duel had not coaxed anyone powerful into agreeing to a bout. Adolin had barely persuaded Elit.

Time for a different tactic.

Adolin passed where Sadeas, Aladar, and Ruthar watched. The core of the coalition against Father. By now, each of them had gone on plateau runs illicitly, getting to the plateau and stealing the gemheart before those assigned could arrive. Each time, they paid the fines Dalinar levied for their disobedience. Dalinar couldn’t do anything more to them without risking open war.

But Adolin could punish them in other ways.

Elit stumbled back, wary, as Adolin swept in. The man tested forward, and Adolin slapped the Blade away, then brought in a backhand and clipped Elit’s forearm. It, too, started to leak Stormlight.

The crowd murmured, conversations rising over the arena. Elit came in again, and Adolin slapped away his strikes, but did not counterattack.

Ideal form. Each step in place. The Thrill rose within him, but he shoved it down. He was disgusted by the highprinces and their squabbling, but today he would not show them that fury. Instead, he’d show them perfection.

“He’s trying to wear you down, Elit!” Ruthar’s voice from the stands nearby. In his younger years, he’d been something of a duelist himself, though nowhere near as good as Dalinar or Aladar. “Don’t let him!”

Adolin smiled inside his helm as Elit nodded and dashed forward in Smokestance, thrusting with his Blade. A gamble. Most contests against Plate were won by breaking sections, but at times you could drive the point of your Blade through a joint between plates, cracking them and scoring a hit.

It was also a way to try to wound your opponent, more than just defeat him.

Adolin calmly stepped back and used the proper Windstance sweeps for parrying a thrust. Elit’s weapon clanged away, and the crowd grumbled further. First, Adolin had given them a brutal show, which had annoyed them. Then, he’d given them a close fight, with plenty of excitement.

This time, he did something opposite of both, refusing the exciting clashes that were often so much a part of a duel.

He stepped to the side and swung to score a slight hit on Elit’s helm. It leaked from a small crack. Not as much as it should, however.

Excellent.

Elit growled audibly from within his helm, then came in with another thrust. Right at Adolin’s faceplate.

Trying to kill me, are you? Adolin thought, taking one hand from his Blade and raising it just under Elit’s oncoming Blade, letting it slide between his thumb and forefinger.

Elit’s Blade ground along Adolin’s hand as he lifted upward and to the right. It was a move that you could never perform without Plate—you’d end with your hand sliced in half if you tried that on a regular sword, worse if you tried it on a Shardblade.

With Plate, he easily guided the thrust up past his head, then swept in with his other hand, slamming his Blade against Elit’s side.

Some in the crowd cheered at the straight-on blow. Others booed, however. The classical strike there would have been to hit Elit’s head, trying to shatter the helm.

Elit stumbled forward, knocked off balance by the missed thrust and subsequent blow. Adolin heaved against him with a shoulder, throwing him to the ground. Then, instead of pouncing, he stepped backward.

More booing.

Elit stood up, then took a step. He lurched slightly, then took another step. Adolin backed up and set his Blade with the point toward the ground, waiting. Overhead, the sky rumbled. It would probably rain later today—not a highstorm, thankfully. Just a mundane rainshower.

“Fight me!” Elit shouted from within his helm.

“I have.” Adolin replied quietly. “And I’ve won.”

Elit lurched forward. Adolin backed up. To the boos of the crowd, he waited until Elit locked up completely—his Plate out of Stormlight. The dozens of small cracks Adolin had put in the man’s armor had finally added up.

Then, Adolin strolled forward, placed a hand against Elit’s chest, and shoved him over. He crashed to the ground.

Adolin looked up at Brightlady Istow, highjudge.

“Judgment,” the highjudge said with a sigh, “again goes to Adolin Kholin. The victor. Elit Ruthar forfeits his Plate.”

The crowd didn’t much like it. Adolin turned to face them, sweeping his Blade a few times before dismissing it to mist. He removed his helm and bowed to their boos. Behind, his armorers—whom he’d prepared for this—rushed out and pushed away those of Elit. They pulled off the Plate, which now belonged to Adolin.

He smiled, and when they were done, followed them into the staging room beneath the seats. Renarin waited by the door, wearing his own Plate, and Aunt Navani sat by the room’s brazier.

Renarin peeked out at the dissatisfied crowds. “Stormfather. The first duel like this you did, you were done in under a minute, and they hated you. Today you were at it for the better part of an hour, and they seem to hate you more.”

Adolin sat down with a sigh on one of the benches. “I won.”

“You did,” Navani said, stepping up, inspecting him as if for wounds. She was always worried when he dueled. “But weren’t you supposed to do it with great fanfare?”

Renarin nodded. “That’s what Father asked for.”

“This will be remembered,” Adolin said, accepting a cup of water from Peet, one of the bridgeman guards for the day. He nodded thankfully. “Fanfare is about making everyone pay attention. This will work.”

He hoped. The next part was as important.

“Aunt,” Adolin said as she started writing a prayer of thanks. “Have you given any thought to what I asked?”

Navani kept drawing.

“Shallan’s work really does sound important,” Adolin said. “I mean—”

A knock came at the door to the chamber.

So quickly? Adolin thought, rising. One of the bridgemen opened the door.

Shallan Davar burst in, wearing a violet dress, red hair flaring as she crossed the room. “That was incredible!”

“Shallan!” She wasn’t the person he’d been expecting—but he wasn’t unhappy to see her. “I checked your seat before the fight and you weren’t there.”

“I forgot to burn a prayer,” she said, “so I stopped to do so. I caught most of the fight, though.” She hesitated right before him, seeming awkward for a moment. Adolin shared that awkwardness. They had only been officially courting for little more than a week, but with the causal in place . . . what was their relationship?

Navani cleared her throat. Shallan spun and raised her freehand to her lips, as if having only just noticed the former queen. “Brightness,” she said, and bowed.

“Shallan,” Navani said. “I hear only good things from my nephew regarding you.”

“Thank you.”

“I will leave you two, then,” Navani said, walking toward the door, her glyphward unfinished.

“Brightness . . .” Shallan said, raising a hand toward her.

Navani left and pulled the door closed.

Shallan lowered her hand, and Adolin winced. “Sorry,” Adolin said. “I’ve been trying to talk to her about it. I think she needs a few more days, Shallan. She’ll come around—she knows that she shouldn’t be ignoring you, I can sense it. You just remind her of what happened.”

Shallan nodded, looking disappointed. Adolin’s armorers came over to help him remove his Plate, but he waved them away. It was bad enough to show her his sloppy hair, plastered to his head from being in the helm. His clothing underneath—a padded uniform—would look awful.

“So, uh, you liked the duel?” he asked.

“You were wonderful,” Shallan said, turning back to him. “Elit kept jumping at you, and you just brushed him off like an annoying cremling trying to crawl up your leg.”

Adolin grinned. “The rest of the crowd didn’t think it was wonderful.”

“They came to see you get stomped,” she said. “You were so inconsiderate for not giving that to them.”

“I’m quite stingy in that regard,” Adolin said.

“You almost never lose, from what I’ve discovered. Awfully boring of you. Maybe you should try for a tie now and then. For variety.”

“I’ll consider it,” he said. “We can discuss it, perhaps over dinner this evening? At my father’s warcamp?”

Shallan grimaced. “I’m busy this evening. Sorry.”

“Oh.”

“But,” she said, stepping closer. “I might have a gift for you soon. I haven’t had much time to study—I’ve been working hard to reconstruct Sebarial’s house ledgers—but I might have stumbled upon something that can help you. With your duels.”

“What?” he asked, frowning.

“I remembered something from King Gavilar’s biography. It would require you to win a duel in a spectacular way, though. Something amazing, something that would awe the crowd.”

“Fewer boos, then,” Adolin said, scratching at his head.

“I think everyone would appreciate that,” Renarin noted from beside the door.

“Spectacular . . .” Adolin said.

“I’ll explain more tomorrow,” Shallan said.

“What happens tomorrow?”

“You’re feeding me dinner.”

“I am?”

“And taking me on a walk,” she said.

“I am?”

“Yes.”

“I’m a lucky man.” He smiled at her. “All right, then, we can—”

The door slammed open.

Adolin’s bridgeman guards jumped, and Renarin cursed, standing up. Adolin just turned, gently moving Shallan to the side so he could see who was standing beyond. Relis, current dueling champion and Highprince Ruthar’s eldest son.

As expected.

“What,” Relis demanded, stalking into the room, “was that?” He was followed by a small gaggle of other lighteyes, including Brightlady Istow, the highjudge. “You insult me and my house, Kholin.”

Adolin clasped his gauntleted hands behind his back as Relis stalked right up to him, shoving his face into Adolin’s.

“You didn’t like the duel?” Adolin asked casually.

“That was not a duel,” Relis snapped. “You embarrassed my cousin by refusing to fight properly. I demand that this farce be invalidated.”

“I’ve told you, Prince Relis,” Istow said from behind. “Prince Adolin didn’t break any—”

“You want your cousin’s Plate back?” Adolin asked quietly, meeting Relis’s eyes. “Fight me for it.”