As they neared the wall, Biaun trotted over, extending a hand first to his towering comrade and then to the prince. Clearing his throat with a gruff rumble, the knight fixed the youth with a stern gaze, then broke into his fiercest smile.

  “You fought well, young Ozewrath. I’ll expect you and your gear at my doorstep by first light tomorrow. That is, of course, if you’re still interested in my sponsorship.”

  The prince’s eyes widened, and a burst of laughter slipped from his throat. He nodded eagerly, nearly bouncing. “I’ll be there, Master Bladesmaster Greyblood.”

  Biaun watched him with a quiet nod, his expression unreadable for a moment. But inwardly, he was pleased, genuinely pleased. The boy had grit. And though raw, there was steel in his spine and promise in every swing. He’ll make a fine swordsman, Biaun thought. Maybe even more.

  Then, as if suddenly aware of Captain Ogrebane beside him, Talose glanced his way, his excitement giving way to a flicker of self-consciousness. But the towering captain only chuckled and gave the boy a hearty wink and an even heartier slap on the back.

  “Well done, lad,” Ean said, his voice warm with pride. “Don’t ye worry ’bout me, ye skinny pup. Now why don’t ye go join yer father and let us old warriors talk about long-healed battle wounds and other such nonsense?”

  He jerked his head toward the emperor’s balcony, and with a quick mumble of thanks to them both, the prince took off at a sprint in his father’s direction.

  “So,” the captain said, throwing a curious glance at his wolfish friend, “d’ye think ye can beat him?”

  Biaun didn’t need to ask who he meant. He nodded slowly, one bushy eyebrow twitching as he chose his words with care.

  “He’s not going down easy. Portean is as skilled as elven warriors come, and I’ve yet to face one who didn’t at least rival you. His speed is his strength, no question. But he is an elf. And with elves,” Biaun said, his tone hardening, “comes arrogance.”

  He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly.

  “That,” he continued, voice lower now, “is his, and most of his race’s, downfall. They look down on humans because we don’t live as long. I’ll grant we’re a warlike people, prone to haste... but I’ve had my fill of their disdainful stares and smug remarks. They bleed like we bleed. They die like we die. And though they don’t seem to realize it... more often than not, they live much like we do.”

  From the way that his friend held himself, rigid and offended, the large warrior knew that he had hit a very sensitive subject. Though he was tempted to pry, Ean knew that the knight would say no more on the matter.

  “Well,” the towering man replied, “they be a prideful bunch, I’ll give ye that. But they’re steadfast friends to the Empire… pride be damned.”

  Biaun didn’t argue. The elves of Crystal-Mist had stood by them through the Dark Wars. He might not approve of all their mannerisms, but their virtue was undeniable.

  The two spoke quietly as the last matches of the first round unfolded. To the captain, it felt much like old times.

  Biaun was a different man when among what was familiar, and nothing was more familiar to the wolfish knight than battle. Though not given to much talk, he was more at ease with words here, and Ean knew it was the excitement of swordplay that loosened his honor-bound friend’s tongue.

  At last, the final match ended. The lotto already drawn, names were called for the second round of play.

  Ean was drawn for the first match. He would face an officer in his army named Halwyn Deirdre—a nobleman of no small skill. Next in line, Biaun would fight a retired veteran-turned-farmer named Barth Aisley, who sharecropped somewhere in Iden. After the knight, Portean was scheduled to face a mercenary named Jurgen Engelmire, followed by Lieutenant MacGillavray, who would take on an ex-con turned mercenary named Calix Carcer.

  Trumpets blasted crisp, high notes as the first combatants stepped forward. Biaun watched Ean approach the arena, his bulky frame a stark contrast to his slighter opponent.

  Before the match began, a smooth alto voice greeted him from behind, and a small but firm hand grasped his shoulder.

  “You’ve fought well today, Bladesmaster. My congratulations,” Lieutenant MacGillavray said, smiling like a panther. “I heard you intend to squire Prince Talose. I’m glad the lad will finally have the sponsor he desires.”

  Biaun kept his face straight but shrugged uneasily once her hand left his shoulder. “Yes, Lady MacGillavray. I’ve decided the youth should get away from Captain Ogrebane’s company.”

  Turning to face her, the knight let one side of his lip curl into a small grin. “You can’t blame me, Lieutenant. Ean was likely to ruin the poor lad if I didn’t step in soon. I feared that, if I didn’t, the skinny pup would start thinking all you needed to know about soldiering came from a drunkard’s bawdy tavern songs and how to stack a deck in your favor.”

  A genuine smile cracked the Lieutenant’s carefully maintained demeanor, and slowly, her icy facade melted away. Most of the Arm knew her as the Ice Queen, and that was exactly how she preferred it. In truth, only a select few were aware she had a personality beneath her wicked front.

  Ove MacGillavray had flaming red hair, emerald green eyes, and a fair complexion. Even so, Biaun wouldn’t go so far as to call her pretty—strikingly handsome was more accurate. She was tall for a woman, slim but sinewy, her rail-like frame hardened by years of training. She tolerated no nonsense from anyone—except, curiously, from Ean, Biaun, and Prince Talose, who had recently begun to win her over with his roguish charm.

  Few knew that she and Captain Ogrebane had been lovers for several years. Despite their closeness, they kept their distance during the day, each tending to their separate duties within the Arm. It was a strange sort of relationship, but as far as Biaun was concerned, any relationship was strange. Love was a battlefield he had no taste for, far too many traps and no armor thick enough.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your manservant, good friend,” Ove said, her voice softening. “Carrigan’s delicious cooking and mule-headed personality will be missed more than you know.” She gave a short, almost reluctant chuckle, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  As she spoke, she absentmindedly chewed the inside of her lip—a small, familiar habit Biaun recognized as discomfort. It was the same tell she’d had the first time they stood over a bloodied field and realized just how many friends they’d lost.

  Biaun’s jaw tightened. Carrigan had been stubborn as a mule, but he’d never left his side. Not once. The manor would feel empty without him.

  “Thank you, Ove. He always enjoyed your company.” Biaun’s voice dipped low. “Truth be told, I’m certain he liked it best when you joined the captain and me for supper.”

  Emotion crept into his words, thick and unwelcome. A silence bloomed between them, one of those silences Biaun had never known how to navigate. He cleared his throat and pressed on.

  “So,” he asked, seizing the shift in tone, “do you suppose this ex-prisoner of yours is going to give you trouble?”

  Ove followed his gaze to the arena floor, where Ean was steadily forcing his opponent into a stubborn retreat. Her eyes narrowed, but her posture remained calm.

  “I really can’t say, Biaun. Calix is... slippery.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Did you see that stunt he pulled in the arena, the leg toss?”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Biaun nodded once, solemnly.

  “From what I gather, he’s a follower of the Martial Path. That alone makes him a handful.” Her tone darkened. “Iden’s intelligence suspects he was once a Burghard assassin, but that was never confirmed. Since he got out of the hard labor camp, he hasn’t so much as stolen a copper.”

  She paused, lips pressing together in thought before continuing. “And, oddly enough, the man seems to have a soft spot for children.”

  Biaun raised a brow.

  “Spends at least a quarter of every day at the orphanages,” she went on. “Helps with whatever’s needed—repairs, meals, training the older kids in basic defense. Sometimes he just plays with them.”

  A beat passed. Then, as Ean landed the final blow and dropped into a formal bow before the emperor’s balcony, both Ove and Biaun fell silent. The crowd roared.

  They nodded to each other, the conversation would have to wait.

  Just before the herald called the wolfish knight’s name, Ove touched his arm and said, “Luck to you.”

  And then she was gone, moving quickly to the far end of the arena, vanishing after her lover.

  A few minutes later, the knight found himself kneeling before the emperor’s balcony, the thunder of the crowd swelling around him. Cheers rang out across the arena like storm winds in stone canyons. He rose slowly, lifting his eyes just long enough to catch sight of Prince Talose kneeling beside his mother, speaking with youthful exuberance. Even from a distance, the boy’s energy was infectious.

  Biaun suppressed a smile. The prince had a rare gift, disarming charm paired with genuine warmth. Even he, hardened as he was, had not been immune to it.

  But the moment passed. The wolfish knight drew a breath, steady and deep, draining all emotion from his face. He turned his gaze toward the man across from him.

  A plain-looking sharecropper, by the look of him. Nothing noteworthy in stance or attire, no flash of noble steel, no flair. Just a soldier. But Barth Aisley held his blade with familiarity, and Biaun’s instincts flared in recognition.

  This would not be an easy victory.

  Aisley was not clever, not unpredictable, but he was textbook. A soldier's soldier. He bore down with relentless tenacity, leaning into fundamentals the way a veteran mason leans into stonework. Wiry strength met discipline; dexterity matched by a machine-like rhythm. Everything the Arm prized in its footmen.

  Parry. Thrust. Recalibrate.

  Thrust. Block. Thrust. Parry.

  Reset. Advance. React. Reset.

  Biaun moved with him, strike for strike, falling into the steady cadence of trained hands at work. He found the familiarity soothing, this was sparring without ego, combat as craft. And he found himself enjoying it.

  But it would not last.

  There was no artistry to Aisley’s style. No variation. No imagination. And that, more than anything, marked his doom.

  When Biaun shifted pace, when he stopped responding in kind and instead began chaining more intricate sequences—feints into reversals, counters within counters—the fault lines began to show. Aisley’s defenses, so polished and reliable, simply couldn’t keep pace with unpredictability.

  Several minutes later, it was over.

  The two men stood at the center of the arena, blades lowered. Biaun offered a hand, and Aisley took it without hesitation. He helped the man to the side, where medics and aides awaited.

  Above them, the knight’s banner was raised to the heavens, and the roar of the crowd surged anew.

  The match between Portean and the mercenary Jurgen Engelmire ended in much the same fashion as the knight’s bout. Both combatants were skilled, there was no denying the thrill of their duel, but against the ranger’s relentless staccato advances, the outcome was inevitable. Predictable, even.

  Before long, Lieutenant MacGillavray stepped forward to face the next contender: the bald ex-convict, Calix Carcer.

  Carcer was a stocky man, barrel-chested and thick with corded muscle. His body was a canvas of many-colored tattoos, the ink forming a chaotic tapestry across his skin. But it was his head that drew the most attention, tattooed from crown to collarbone with the visage of a flaming skull. The orange flame licked upward from his neck and jaw, fading into black shadows that framed the bleached white bone stretched across his face.

  The effect was deeply unsettling.

  And then there were his eyes—piercing gray, as cold and hard as iron nails. They fixed on MacGillavray with a predatory focus, intense enough to rival even Biaun’s.

  The Lieutenant and Carcer circled each other for quite some time, trading feints and probing strikes. Each sought weakness in the other’s defenses, gauging style and rhythm. When their assessments were complete, the tempo shifted. Their blades met with growing speed and ferocity until both combatants were breathing heavily, sweat gleaming on their skin.

  As the match wore on, Carcer’s aggression intensified. He relied less on the long dia-katana in his hands and more on his legs, launching punishing kicks and driving advances that kept MacGillavray on the defensive. His blade became more shield than weapon, used only to deflect the Lieutenant’s equally fierce onslaught with her broadsword.

  The crowd held its breath as the match escalated. The two fighters seemed to forget they were engaged in a non-lethal contest. Brutality overtook restraint.

  Both bore bruises and small cuts across their faces—evidence of fists, feet, and the occasional pommel strike that had landed but failed to end it. Still they fought on.

  Finally, MacGillavray spun in a low pivot, her broadsword carving a wide arc aimed for Carcer’s chest.

  But the ex-con didn’t try to block.

  He rolled low beneath the strike, coming to his feet behind her, squarely in her blind spot.

  She kicked backward, landing a solid blow to his chest, but it wasn’t enough to throw him off balance. Carcer surged forward with a brutal flurry of kicks that drove her to the ground.

  Before she could roll away, the flat of his blade tapped her back.

  The match was over.

  From his place near the edge of the arena, Captain Ogrebane let out a low whistle.

  “Aurick’s blind eyes,” he muttered, folding his arms across his chest. “Didn’t think the skull-faced bastard had that kind o’ footwork in ’im.”

  His eyes narrowed as Carcer offered MacGillavray a hand and helped her to her feet.

  “Still… man fights like he’s got somethin’ to prove. Or somethin’ to hide.”

  Beside him, Biaun watched in silence, jaw clenched.

  “He’s dangerous,” the knight said at last, voice low. “Not just skilled, measured. He knew exactly when to hold back and when to strike. That kind of control doesn’t come from prison brawls. That’s training. Refined. Taught.”

  Ean glanced at him sideways. “Still think he’s an assassin?”

  Biaun didn’t answer right away. He kept his eyes on Carcer, now bowing with unexpected grace toward the emperor’s balcony.

  “I think,” the knight murmured, “that whoever trained him didn’t expect him to survive.”

  The stadium began to empty as a lengthy interlude took hold. While some spectators lingered, most chose to stretch their legs and seek out a suitable lunch. Meanwhile, the lottery keg was brought forth once more, and the remaining opponents were drawn. With only four contestants left, the drawing was swift, marking just three matches until the tournament’s end.

  When the task was complete, the announcer’s voice rang out: the first match would pit Captain Ogrebane against Portean, the Wild One. Following that, Biaun Greyblood would face the unexpected victor of the last bout, Calix Carcer.

  The trumpeters blared above the crowd, commanding silence as the emperor rose from his place on the balcony. With a subtle gesture toward Eros, his royal wizard and most trusted advisor, the aged ruler prepared to address his people. Eros raised a slender, exquisitely crafted wand, then motioned toward the emperor.

  A soft blue light began to glow around the emperor, bathing him in a serene radiance.

  “People of the Empire,” the emperor’s voice rang out, clear and steady, “welcome, and thank you for once again helping to make this tradition a success. It is with great happiness that I announce another year has passed, and our citizens have flourished. Our realm grows stronger with each passing day.”

  He paused, eyes sweeping the crowd.

  “It is with deep appreciation that I give credit for all that has come and passed to you, the people who make this empire the great nation it is today.”

  At his words, the crowd erupted in applause, many rising to their feet as cheers and clapping echoed through the stadium, a heartfelt tribute to their beloved ruler.

  “Today, I also congratulate those who fought bravely in the tournament but did not prevail; each of you has proven your worth.”

  He gestured downward to the four combatants standing resolute in the arena’s center, a warm smile lighting his face.

  “Above all others, you four have demonstrated unwavering dedication to the ways of the warrior, a path few would choose if they truly understood the price it demands.”

  “To be a warrior is to devote one’s life to a cause. The road is fraught with peril, pain, and sacrifice.”

  For a moment, the emperor seemed lost in thought, his gaze drifting beyond the crowd. Then, with renewed resolve, he continued.

  “In years not long past, many brave men and women laid down their lives for the good of the Empire. The Dark Wars tested our very souls. Today, my people, I ask you to honor the warriors who stand before you. Honor them in your hearts. Forget not their pain and sacrifice. It is because of their devotion that the Empire has not fallen to those who sought to destroy it.”

  “Captain Ogrebane, Biaun Greyblood, Lieutenant MacGillavray, and countless others are veterans of those terrible times. Though not all remain part of the Arm of Jerrico, each has given you the most precious gift you possess today: the protection of your freedom. There is no greater gift.”

  As the emperor took his seat, a deafening roar erupted from the crowd. All stood, hands raised in applause, honoring the warriors below.

  Beside Emperor Ozewrath, Aehyl watched as the honored warriors waved and smiled to the crowd gathered above. She noticed the knight’s chest swell with pride for a moment, but then a darker shadow crossed his rugged face. She knew, without asking, that he was both proud and troubled by the part he had played in the wars the emperor had mentioned.

  Next to the knight, Portean stood motionless, feeling out of place in the center of the arena. The honor felt distant to him, tied to struggles he had little part in. During the Dark Wars, detachments of elven bowmen had been sent to aid the humans against hordes of trolls, orcs, and ogres—but Crystal-Mist itself had never faced direct threat.

  Of the detachments sent over those six brutal wars, the Wild One had taken part only in the first. His unit saw some battles, but they were held somewhat in reserve. Kreadus had insisted that the elves from the Crystal-Mist Forest be stationed no farther than the borders of Venetia and Cynyr.

  After a short while, the crowd quieted, the brief interlude ending as the tournament resumed. The four remaining competitors busied themselves inspecting gear and stretching cramped muscles.

  Then, a trumpet blared, signaling the break’s end. Ean and Portean were summoned to the center of the arena.

  There was no mistaking it—this was going to be a match to remember.