A duel? Leifr's honor as a noble? His honor as a noble would be tarnished if he let a burglar walk away with his vassal's most prized possession. This was the first time Liefr felt such a boiling feeling scorch his whole body. He was hot and it burned, but at the same time it was like it wasn't even his own body. This man who avoided answering Leifr's questions! This man who criticized the Leifr's honor! This man who challenged Leifr by using his Forbannet name! This man...!

“You must see me as a fool if you think I would strike at my opponent before a duel. I accept your challenge, Sir Fi– no, Fiore. I will see Exalia returned to Lord Radek's final resting place. Even if you are no scavenger or raider, it is better to see Exalia returned to the hands of the dead than abused in the hands of a thief!”

Leifr wondered where such words came from. None of this was intentional, none of it his normal words; it was like this scorching feeling was taking control of him. Honor. Nobility. These damnable things! It was because of them that he had to challenge Fiore like that, and it was also because of them that he could not simple act now. Leifr clenched his teeth and trembled angrily, his mind asking for forgiveness from Lord Radek and his family as even though Exalia was so close it was because of Leifr's cursed honor that he must let it escape his grasp.

Twisting the reins harshly, the warhorse silently turned around and walked the other direction from Fiore. Why wouldn't he just tell Leifr? Did Leifr say the wrong things? Did he come off hostile? Well, of course he did after he pulled his damnable blade out–

The burning sensation was pushed back through a more familiar yet much less comforting sensation crawling up his arm. His cursed blade, the one Fiore challenged for. Leifr chuckled spitefully at it.

“You are as noble as I am, wicked sword. I left my home to find your origin, and yet all you do is bite whatever you touch. Even your own wielder is not safe from your fangs. Just like honor, eh? Honor...”

Leifr pulled his shield onto his back, but took a good long look at his cursed sword. Holding it up, he decided that Honor would be this blades name, as wretched a blade as Leifr's own wretched honor, a thing that caused Leifr to create conflict when there was no need.

“Honor.”

The blade seemed to celebrate its new name by inflicting a sharp pain upon Leifr's hand, to which he quickly placed it back by his waist and buckled it in place. Sighing sharply as he released Honor's handle, the pain quickly subsided. Honor. Leifr grimaced at such a fitting name.