All day, the sky threatened. Wind prowled Soren's boots with sharp teeth, and the yard radiated ruckus: swords snapped the air, wooden shields ricocheted sound off the stone, and everywhere, the bright staccato churn of bodies desperate to impress.
He tried not to shiver, but the cold out here was precise, practiced, and could find flesh even under three layers of roughspun.
The ring filled fast. Soren watched the line of trainees press toward the chalked border as if crowding would help them escape.
A few were from the city, but most wore the ill-fitting pride of outlander sons. The Velrane knights stalked the edges, bored but vigilant, their blue-and-silver tabards immaculate against the haze of kicked-up frost.
Up on the balcony, nobles hunched in jewel-dark coats, hissing commentary through cupped hands. Even the great bastard, Veyr Velrane himself, loitered at the banister, elbows propped as if to ensure gravity remembered him.
They called names. Jarek Fenn first, a slab of neck and shoulder, smirking like his jaw was carved that way. Soren heard laughter before he registered his own name next, "Thorne."
The sound of it made his teeth grit and then refuse to un-grit.
Jarek swung his practice sword overhead, arcs so wide Soren imagined he could just step back and let the wind do the work.
Someone in the crowd muttered Soren's odds, tiny, not worth the effort to round up to one. He flexed the fingers of his right hand, then shifted his stance, boots scudding to the edge of the line.
Next to Jarek, Soren looked underfed. He admitted it. But the more that Fenn grinned, the more it felt like the trick wasn't to fight him but to end this whole miserable spectacle.
Jarek flicked his blade, "Ready, gutter?" The word landed heavy, but there was no heat to it, just reflex.
Soren stared at the point between Jarek's eyes. "You could run a second lap around the ring before you wound me."
"Big talk," said Jarek, but the crowd loved it, even if they only ever loved to see a mouth get shut.
A knight up on the wall banged a staff. "Begin!"
Jarek went at him, a bellow, then the kind of start Soren remembered from city brawls: telegraphed, huge, the kind where the first punch exists mainly to terrify.
The sweep should have knocked Soren into the dirt, but he let it slip past, let the weight of Jarek's own momentum pull him forward.
Soren didn't counter. Not yet. Instead, he let the blade ride low, wrist cocked at the last minute to deflect without yielding space.
A round of oohs from the crowd. Even the blue-bloods stilled, as if maybe the outcome was not yet fixed.
Jarek reset. This time, he jabbed, fast, a blunt shot at the chest, expecting a flinch. When Soren didn't, the tip gouged his coat, but not the skin.
He took another half-step back, again let the swing over-commit. It was easier than the drills, Jarek only had one speed, and it was "prove."
By the third pass, Soren didn't hear Valenna's voice, but he knew what she would have said: "He's not fighting you. He's fighting the air between."
Jarek tried a feint, left, then a low cut meant to sweep him down.
Soren planted, locked knees, let the blow glance off his thigh, and as Fenn overreached, stepped in, brought his own sword up in a clean line.
Not a slash, just a touch, like he was ringing a bell inside Jarek's ribs. The other boy froze, then gasped, and Soren let the tip rest there, not pushing, just making it clear.
The yard upchucked noise, confusion braided with a thin seam of real awe. A few throats started to boo, but it was short-lived.
Jarek staggered back, clapped his hand to his ribs as if checking he was still there, then hunched over. Soren bowed, just enough for theatre.
On the balcony, Veyr Velrane cocked his head, one brow rising. Soren tried not to watch, but in the corner of his vision he caught the up-nod of someone who'd expected amusement and gotten something else.
The knight with the staff called it. "Point and match, Thorne."
He waited for shame, or pride, or even just the urge to shout. But there was nothing. Soren let the sword drop, hands loose, pulse settling into the even, dull rhythm of 'again, again, again.'
He watched as Jarek retreated, muttering at the ground, then turned to meet the next set of eyes waiting to see if maybe this wasn't luck, if maybe it could happen again.
Overhead, the nobles started betting triple on the remaining matches. Soren could almost taste the bitterness of the coin that would never be his.
The next pair took their spots. The girl's blade shook in her grip, the boy across from her already sneering. It would be quick.
A hand landed on Soren's shoulder, heavy as a favor owed. He turned to find Dain Telmaris, yesterday's ghost, today's bench-warmer.
"You could have stretched it out," Dain said, voice low. "Made him sweat."
Soren shrugged. "He'll sweat enough, next time."
Dain held his gaze for a long second, then grinned like it hurt to do so. "Not bad, gutter. Not bad at all."
Soren shrugged off the compliment, but didn't hate it.
As they walked off the ring, he caught a last glimpse of Veyr Velrane, mouth drawn into a straight, unreadable line. Soren wondered how many seconds it would take for his name to go up the ranks, and how many more before someone tried to cut it off.
'Doesn't matter,' he told himself. He'd already started thinking through the next fight, and the one after that, and the one after that…
"Thorne!" someone called, sharp as a thrown stone.
He turned, saw a junior knight waiting at the far end of the yard, fingers jittering as if eager to hand off whatever errand destiny required.
"Come," the knight said. "They want to look at you."
Soren followed, steps even, trying not to limp from where Jarek's blow had landed. The crowd peeled away, but the echo of his name lingered.
On the balcony, Veyr watched. Only this time, he smiled with his eyes, as if somewhere between the start and finish, the whole game had shifted a hair closer to interesting.
Soren looked up, met the stare.
He didn't smile back, but he let the moment hang, just long enough to make it a promise.