A Duel of Honour

1587-12-22
Bonona

Bonona taught with a piazza before it offered a hall. In the wide square a silver-haired master faced a young noble who wore pride like polish. They saluted, set measure, and let the distance breathe. Their feet drew circles on the stone. The blades spoke in clear notes, thrust answering cut, parry answering feint. When the moment came the master took the noble’s sword with a turn of the wrist and a small step that looked like courtesy. No blood, no shout. Respect held the air still.

The name passed through the crowd as a whisper that everyone knew. Aquil Maros. The refinement was not softness. It was control, line, and timing arranged so cleanly that anger had nowhere to stand.

I stood among tradesmen and clerks and felt the lesson settle. If this city had a dance, he was its choreographer. In the morning I would seek him and carry Merryen’s wish as a pledge, not a plea.