I woke up to the sound of someone trying to fold a shirt quietly and failing miserably.
This is an art form that no one has ever mastered — the act of "quiet packing" is a lie we tell ourselves, like "just one drink" or "this haircut will fix my life." My eyes cracked open just far enough to see Rodrick crouched over his bag, wrestling a tunic like it had personally insulted him.
The morning light leaked in through the shutters, pale and cold, and my body felt as if it had been filled with wet sand in the night. Salem was already up, of course, moving with that same infuriatingly precise calm that made him look like he'd been awake for hours. Dunny was nowhere to be seen, which meant he was probably outside trying to look busy.
Packing, in theory, should have been a brisk, no-nonsense affair. But traveling with my particular companions meant it was an elaborate, drawn-out ritual involving too much commentary and the occasional passive-aggressive sigh.
I was halfway through deciding whether I should bother folding my coat or just crumple it into my bag when Salem glanced at me.
"You're taking too long," he said in that smooth, mildly disappointed tone he'd perfected over years of existing. "We leave in ten minutes."
I stared at him over the edge of my coat. "Oh, forgive me, Your Grace, for not meeting your impossible standards of speed-packing. Maybe next time I'll just burn my belongings and save us both the trouble."
Rodrick snorted. "Wouldn't be the first time you've set something on fire for convenience."
By the time we were actually ready to leave, I had managed to cram my things into my pack, feeling mildly victorious despite the fact that Salem had clearly finished ages ago. We filed out into the hallway, boots creaking on the warped floorboards, the muffled sound of the tavern below seeping up through the walls.
The air smelled faintly of stale ale and wood polish, the scent that every inn in every town seems to have bottled and reused for centuries. I caught sight of myself in the warped hallway mirror — hair slightly unkempt, shirt halfway untucked — and decided it was an aesthetic choice rather than a sign of laziness.
We descended the stairs, our footsteps thudding against the wood, the noise below growing louder with each step until the murmur of voices and the clink of mugs filled the air like static.
When we reached the bottom, the first thing I noticed wasn't the smell of breakfast or the sight of the bar — it was her. The receptionist from last night, the prim woman with the glasses and the tightly wound bun, was moving frantically from table to table.
Her face was pale, her eyes darting with an urgency that didn't match the lazy slump of the morning drinkers around her.
"Has anyone seen him?" she asked for what must have been the fifth time, her voice pitched just high enough to carry but not quite break.
A few men just waved her off, others blinked at her like she'd interrupted a very important moment in their personal conversations with themselves.
"The bartender," she clarified, scanning their blank expressions. "Where is he?" For some reason, I felt a flicker in my chest at that, but quickly stamped it out.
She moved past us, clearly too preoccupied to notice we'd stopped to watch her. Rodrick raised an eyebrow at me, but I just shook my head and kept walking. Salem didn't so much as glance in her direction, his eyes already fixed on the door. Whatever panic she was in, it wasn't our problem — and frankly, if I started making every strange disappearance my problem, I'd have no time left for anything else, including living.
We stepped out into the crisp morning air, the sunlight hitting my face like a polite slap. The street was quiet compared to the tavern, just the sound of our boots on packed dirt and the distant call of gulls. It was the kind of weather that tricks you into thinking the day will be easy.
The wagon was waiting where we'd left it, Dunny perched on the driver's bench looking far too pleased with himself for someone who had likely done none of the packing. We climbed in, the boards groaning under our weight, and settled into the back.
Salem wasted no time in producing a book from his pack — an unassuming thing bound in plain leather, but the way he handled it was almost reverent.
"The archives," he said by way of explanation. "From the Northern Cathedral. A gift from the City Council, courtesy of Cecil's efforts."
Salem's gaze fixed itself onto one of the pages. "According to these records, the Northern Cathedral has hosted the tournament for centuries. They've always maintained control over the proceedings, though their reasons for doing so have shifted over time."
He paused, eyes narrowing slightly as he traced another line of text with his finger. "The champion… earns more than just prestige. The official purse is one million crowns."
I must have blinked. "One million crowns?" I repeated, because sometimes your brain needs a moment to get the words through customs before you can believe them.
Salem gave the faintest shrug. "That, and an audience with the prince himself."
I let my head thunk back against the side of the wagon. A million crowns wasn't just money — it was land, walls, servants, the kind of life that made people stop calling you by your first name. You could buy an entire estate with that kind of wealth, complete with vineyards you'd never personally walk through and a library full of books you'd never actually read.
And the prince… saints above. An audience with anybody from the royal bloodline was rarer than snow in summer. There were ministers, dukes, and entire guild councils that had begged for years and been turned away at the palace gates. Yet here, it was a prize you could walk away with for winning a fight. I could already feel the hook sinking in, the dangerous little whisper that said, You could take it. You could win.
But I forced the thought back down where it belonged. The money, the estate, the gilded access — none of it mattered if I didn't get Lysaria back. Everything else was bait, sweet and poisonous. She was the only prize worth taking.
I turned back to Salem, watching him over the rim of my knees. "You've been in the tournament before, then?"
He glanced up, shook his head. "No." The word was clipped, final, but before I could push, he went on. "In fact, I haven't been to many tournaments at all. Due to…" He trailed off, the sentence hanging there like a loose thread, tempting me to pull. But something in his expression made me stop. Whatever that "due to" was, it wasn't something he planned to share before breakfast.
He flipped another page, his voice resuming its measured rhythm. "The tournament is divided into two distinct phases. The preliminary phase, and the final bracket. The preliminary is rumored to be… unconventional. The records are vague, but I suspect that's intentional. They want surprises."
I nodded slowly. "So, in other words, we'll be walking into something they don't want us prepared for."
"Correct." His gaze slid briefly to me, sharp enough to make me feel like I'd just agreed to an unspoken bet. "So be ready for anything."
I smirked. "Anything is my specialty."
After that, the conversation shifted into training — or rather, Salem deciding it was training time whether I liked it or not. I sighed, pushed myself upright, and tried to follow his instructions while the wagon jolted over every rock and rut in the road.
My balance was questionable at the best of times; doing precise energy work in a moving wagon was about as easy as threading a needle during an earthquake. Rodrick watched from the other side of the wagon with an expression that was either mild amusement or quiet judgment — possibly both.
Hours passed like that, the steady rhythm of hooves and the creak of wood marking time. The sun had shifted lower in the sky by the time Dunny's voice broke through the monotony.
"We're here!" he called, his tone just this side of smug, as if he'd personally dragged the city closer by sheer force of will.
I leaned out through a flap in the side of the wagon, my heart giving a small, unexpected thump. The first thing that hit me wasn't the sight, but the smell — salt and seaweed, the tang of brine carried on a breeze that tasted faintly of iron. The air was sharper here, cleaner, as though the wind itself had been scrubbed by the endless horizon.
We rolled into a massive field of wheat, the golden stalks rippling in the wind like a living thing. I hopped out, boots sinking slightly into the earth, and circled around to get a better view. There they were — the city walls of Port Fallas, rising out of the wheat like the edge of another world.
Light tan stone, impossibly tall, their sheer faces carved with colossal statues that stared out over the plain. The figures were solemn, ageless, each one a sentinel frozen mid-vigil. And above them, the sky was dotted with color — hot air balloons, drifting lazily like bright insects over the city. The sight was absurdly picturesque, the kind of thing that makes you momentarily forget you're probably walking into mortal danger.
Rodrick came up beside me, his eyes wide, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.
"Not bad," he said, which from him was practically a standing ovation.
In the wheat field ahead, rows of large white tents broke the gold, each one bustling with movement. Salem emerged from the wagon last, our gear slung effortlessly over his shoulder, his gaze sweeping the scene with the faintest hint of reverence. We started toward the city on foot, the wheat brushing against our legs, the tents growing larger as we approached.
Up close, it became clear these tents weren't for the competitors. The people spilling in and out were too varied, too unarmed, too caught up in the excitement of travel. Merchants, performers, gawkers from distant towns, I assumed — all here to witness the grand spectacle.
The sheer volume of it made something uneasy shift in my gut. I've faced down monsters, bandits, and political schemers without blinking, but a crowd this size? It's… different. There's no predicting what a thousand strangers will do when the mood shifts.
We reached the city gates at last, the towering doors flanked by guards in polished armor. To one side, two of them were tending to a line — and this one, I knew at a glance, was for the competitors. The air here was different. Heavier. The people in line radiated that subtle, dangerous energy that only comes from knowing you might have to kill the person standing next to you before week's end. We joined the line, and I took my time scanning it.
They were nothing like the people back home. Elves in gleaming leather, orcs with axes strapped across their backs, beastfolk whose eyes caught the sunlight in strange flashes. There were even a few demons, their horns polished, their skin marked with symbols I didn't recognize. Every one of them looked like they belonged in some bloody, half-forgotten saga — and then there was me, standing there with my pack and a dubious sense of confidence.
Just then a hulking orc — easily twice my height and at least three times my width — peeled himself from the line ahead and sauntered over.
His grin was wide and sharp, and his gaze slid over me in a way that made my skin itch. "Pretty thing like you," he rumbled, his voice like gravel being poured, "ought to come over here. Have a little fun before the games start."
I opened my mouth to deliver something scathing, but Salem beat me to it. He turned, laid one deceptively gentle hand on the orc's shoulder, and smiled — a smile so pleasant it could have been carved from sugar.
"If you want to keep that hand," Salem said softly, "you'll remove it now."