The Silver Stag sat wedged between two tall timbered buildings near Eaglelight’s East Gate, its signboard painted with a leaping stag and polished so often the wood gleamed. The inn was plain by city standards, but its floors were swept, its beds had clean straw, and the ale didn’t taste like river water.

  By the second evening, the three squires were already restless. The main room was warm and loud, full of traders and guards taking their supper. A bard sang somewhere near the hearth, his voice half-lost beneath the clatter of mugs and laughter. Toby sat at a table near the back, nursing a cup of ale that had long since gone flat, staring into it as though it might tell him what to do next.

  Across from him, Zak drummed his fingers against the wood. “You think they’ve even read the letter yet?”

  “They said it could take two days,” Reece reminded him.

  “Yeah, but it’s already been one. Maybe the King’s scribe got hungry and ate it.”

  Toby smirked faintly but didn’t answer. He wasn’t much better off—part of him wanted to march right up to the castle gates and demand an answer. Another part told him that was exactly the kind of impatience Maxwell had beaten out of him.

  A barmaid passed by with a tray of steaming bowls. Toby caught the scent of roasted meat and herbs.

  “At least the food’s decent.”

  Zak leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Aye, and I could get used to this. A roof, good ale, not a drop of rain. Almost makes me forget I’m broke.”

  Reece frowned. “We still have coin. Lawrence gave us enough for lodging and food.”

  Zak lifted his mug. “And we’ve eaten and lodged. So now we’re spending the rest on entertainment.”

  Before Toby could ask what that meant, a group of men at the next table broke into excited conversation. They were city guards by the look of them—chainmail under tunics, swords at their belts, red sashes marking them as part of the watch.

  “Last chance to sign up,” one of them said, slapping the table. “Ten silvers to enter, lads. Champion gets five hundred and a fine blade from the royal forge.”

  Another guard laughed. “You entering, Jerron? You couldn’t beat a one-legged pig farmer.”

  “I could beat you, though.”

  “Not a chance.”

  Toby glanced at Zak, who had already perked up.

  “What’s that?” Zak asked, leaning toward the table.

  The nearest guard grinned. “Sword tourney, open challenge. Happens every spring before the King’s Feast. Anyone can enter. Coin goes to the prize pot and the rest to the city fund.”

  Toby sat up straighter. “A tournament?”

  The man nodded. “Starts tomorrow. Knockout duels. You win, you move on. You lose, you drink.”

  Zak’s eyes went wide with delight. “You’re telling me anyone can enter?”

  “Anyone who pays the ten silvers,” the guard said. “Sign-ups close at sundown.”

  Reece blinked. “Ten silvers? That’s five weeks’ stipend.”

  Zak turned to him, incredulous. “You’re thinking about coin right now? It’s a sword tourney! In Eaglelight! Do you know how many knights would kill to fight here?”

  Reece shifted uneasily. “One duel, and if we lose, that’s it. Ten silvers gone.”

  “Then we don’t lose,” Zak said simply, flashing that half-mad grin of his.

  Toby was quiet for a moment, watching the flicker of firelight dance over his ale. The thought of it—the crowd, the arena, the chance to test himself against men from all over the kingdom—stirred something deep in his chest. Excitement, fear, hunger. All tangled together.

  He thought of the lessons Maxwell had drilled into them and of Sire Ray’s final charge, the way power had burned through him like the sun. He wanted to feel even a fraction of that again.

  “It’s worth it,” Toby said finally.

  Reece looked at him. “You really think so?”

  Toby nodded. “Where else would we get a chance like this? Knights, squires, even mercenaries might join. We’ll see how we stand against the rest of the realm.”

  Zak smirked. “And if we win, we’ll be legends before we even get back home.”

  Reece groaned. “Fine. But if I lose in the first round, you owe me an ale.”

  Zak slapped him on the back. “You’ll win, lad. Or at least fall spectacularly. Either way, I’ll cheer.”

  They rose from the table and stepped out into the evening air. The streets of the capital were still alive with torchlight and noise—vendors packing up their stalls, banners rippling in the wind, the smell of roasted grain and oil thick in the air. They followed the noise east until they found a small crowd beneath a canvas awning marked with the tournament’s sigil.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Behind a narrow table, a pair of scribes sat with a ledger, taking down names and coins. One glanced up as Toby approached.

  “Names?”

  “Toby of Highmarsh. Zak of Highmarsh. Reece of Highmarsh,” Toby said.

  The scribe’s quill scratched against parchment. “Ten silvers each.”

  The coins clinked one by one into the wooden box.

  “Report to the East Field at dawn, by second bell,” the scribe said. “Drawings will be posted on the board. Don’t be late.” The scribe tilted his head when he noticed Toby’s brooch. “If you have a banner, bring it along.”

  When they stepped back into the tavern’s warmth, Zak was already grinning like a fool. “Tomorrow, lads,” he said, raising his mug high. “Tomorrow, the Falcon takes flight in the Eagle’s city.”

  Reece groaned. “If you start calling yourself the Falcon, I’m leaving you in the ring.”

  Toby chuckled softly, but beneath the laughter, his pulse was quick. The thought of standing in that arena, of proving himself not by word or lesson but by steel, set his blood alight. Tomorrow, they would fight. Not as students or squires, but as men testing what they had become.

  The squires woke before dawn, the faint sound of the first bell carrying through the narrow streets of Eaglelight. It was little more than a dull hum against the city’s waking breath—carts rolling, roosters crowing somewhere beyond the walls. Toby blinked at the ceiling of the small attic room they shared, the straw mattress creaking as Zak stirred beside him.

  Reece mumbled something incoherent and pulled the blanket over his face.

  “Up,” Zak groaned, voice thick with sleep—more to himself than anyone else. “Saints, it’s too early.”

  “It’s a tournament,” Toby said, sitting up. “You think knights sleep in?”

  Zak grumbled but rolled out of bed, muttering something about how real knights had squires to wake them instead.

  They dressed quickly—simple tunics, leather belts, and the white-and-blue falcon brooch stitched to their cloak’s collar. Toby strapped on his sword belt, but removed the elven blade and left it behind at the inn. Wooden swords were all that would be allowed in the tournament.

  When they stepped into the street, the air was cool and clean, the mist still clinging low to the cobbles. The city was quieter than usual, though the faint tolling of distant bells overlapped like ripples across a pond.

  Toby tilted his head, listening. “You ever notice not all the bells strike at once?”

  Zak yawned. “You’re thinking too much before breakfast.”

  “Just saying. Every tower rings a heartbeat different. Makes the city feel alive.”

  Reece smirked faintly. “You sound like Braith when he starts talking about numbers.”

  “Then I’ll stop,” Toby said, but the thought stayed with him—a hundred lives, all slightly out of rhythm, yet somehow still making harmony.

  They crossed the market square, where merchants were still setting up stalls. The smell of baking bread and roasting chestnuts drifted on the chill air. By the time they reached East Field, the second bell was already echoing faintly from the western spire.

  The field itself was enormous, fenced off with rows of benches for spectators and a raised wooden dais for the officiants. Squires, knights, and sellswords of every shape and age were warming up, stretching, sparring, and testing balance. Banners from a dozen fiefs flapped in the breeze.

  Before they’d left Highmarsh, Sire Kay had added a falcon banner to their load. Toby had dismissed it at the time, but now he understood why it was there.

  After dropping off the banner, Toby, Zak, and Reece found the weapons table, where racks of wooden swords and blunted spears stood ready. Toby chose one close to the length and weight of his usual blade, rolling his shoulders as he took his place among the crowd.

  They began to warm up in silence, the sound of wood clacking on wood echoing around them. Zak and Reece practiced short exchanges, muttering small corrections to each other as they went. Toby kept to himself, breathing slow, grounding his stance the way Maxwell had taught him. His feet rooted, knees light, shoulders relaxed, and eyes sharp.

  By the time he felt properly loose, sweat slicked his palms and his breath misted in the cold air. He hadn’t even realized how much time had passed until the next bell rang across the city, low and deep, marking full sunrise.

  “All competitors!” a herald called from the dais. “Report for the draw!”

  Toby wiped his brow and joined the line of contestants as names were called and matches arranged. The noise of the crowd swelled as onlookers began to gather. There were mostly townsfolk, some merchants, even a few guards off duty, and boys to young to enter, eager to see bloodless spectacle.

  “Match one!” the herald shouted. “Toby of Highmarsh versus Ser Marlen of House Froen!”

  A murmur went through the onlookers. The man who stepped forward was broad-shouldered, with cropped blond hair and a tabard bearing the symbol of a leaping green frog. His grin was all teeth. Toby nearly laughed aloud.

  A frog. Of course.

  Zak, standing nearby, caught the look on his face and whispered, “You sure this one isn’t for me?”

  Toby smirked. “Seems the saints have a sense of humor.”

  They met in the center of the ring, bowed to the officiant, and drew their wooden swords. Marlen’s grip was confident, his stance high and proud—the stance of a man used to being watched. Toby mirrored him, feet light, weight forward.

  The herald dropped his arm. “Begin!”

  Marlen lunged first—textbook-perfect, a testing strike to measure distance. Toby parried, the wood ringing sharply, and countered with a quick riposte. The older man grinned, circling.

  Two more exchanges followed—cautious, measured, both men feeling the rhythm. Then Toby exhaled once, focused, and let his training take over. Three strikes. A feint low, a twist, a backhand slash.

  The sound was like a drumbeat. Marlen’s sword went flying, his arm numb from the impact. Before he could recover, Toby’s blade rested against his chest.

  The officiant raised his hand. “Winner—Toby of Highmarsh!”

  For a heartbeat, Toby stood there blinking, hardly believing how easily it had ended. Then the crowd cheered, approving the quick display. He stepped back, breath quick, heart hammering in a steady rhythm that felt right.

  Zak whooped from the sidelines. “You’re supposed to make it last longer! I blinked and missed half of it!”

  Reece laughed. “At least we know our coin wasn’t wasted.”

  Toby only smiled, wiping sweat from his brow. He’d expected nerves, resistance, maybe even fear. Instead, what met him was focus, cleanly held and precise as the blow itself.

  Maybe, he thought, all that training had finally paid off.

  by JollyUmbrella

  On a small boat in the middle of unknown waters, a boy awakens with no memory of who he is or why he is at sea.

  What To Expect:

  - Complex character dynamics

  - Emotional backstories and arcs

  - Thoughtfully crafted world with rich culture and history

  - Powerful characters

  - Slight hints and possible romances

  - Awesome fight scenes

  - Long, plot-driven story with narrative twists

  Upload Schedule:

  Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, Sunday. UTC-5

  [SPECIAL] November 2025: Daily

  Accolades:

  [Participant in the Royal Road Writathon challenge]