The sun hung high over Asmora, baking the packed dirt of the arena into a hard, unforgiving crust. The first two bouts had established a standard of brutal discipline, but the crowd sensed that the remaining quarter-finals held something different. These were not just soldiers. They were the outliers, the masters of strange paths and dark histories who had drifted to the edge of the world to see if a four year old boy truly held the keys to a kingdom.
Alaric sat forward, his small hands gripping the edge of the wooden railing. Beside him, Asimi's eyes were narrowed, tracking the movement of three particular spectators in the crowd. They were men in travel-worn cloaks who stood too still and watched the tower more than the sand.
"The board is set, Alaric," she murmured, her voice barely a breath against the heat. "Watch how they kill. It tells you how they will serve."
The herald's voice broke the tension. "Third bout! Kaelen of the Southern Isles versus Hrothgar the Breaker!"
Hrothgar entered first, a mountain of a man from the frozen tundras. He wielded a double-headed axe that looked heavy enough to crush a stone wall, and he roared, a sound of raw, unbridled power that shook the wooden stands. Then came Kaelen. The Islander moved with an infuriating lack of urgency, his silks shimmering like oil on water. He carried his twin curved blades sheathed at his lower back, his hands hanging loose at his sides.
The bell rang.
Hrothgar didn't wait. He surged forward, the axe whistling through the air in a horizontal cleave that would have bisected a horse. Kaelen didn't parry. He didn't even draw his steel. He simply dropped, the blade passing an inch above his head, and spun on his heel. As Hrothgar's momentum carried the axe past, Kaelen rose like a ghost and tapped the big man's elbow.
It was a mockery. Hrothgar snarled, spinning for a vertical strike. Kaelen drifted backward, his feet barely seeming to touch the dirt. He was using a subtle flow of mana, a technique the Theurges recognized as the Tidal Step.
"Draw your toothpicks, coward!" Hrothgar bellowed, swinging again.
Kaelen smiled, and in a blur of blue light, the curved blades were out. He didn't meet the axe head-on. Instead, he slid his blades along the shaft, the friction throwing off a spray of sparks. He used the axe's own weight to pivot himself behind Hrothgar's guard. With two lightning-fast slashes, he cut the straps of Hrothgar's backplate.
Hrothgar turned, but the heavy armor was already sliding, tripping his feet. Kaelen stepped in, his blade resting gently against the giant's jugular.
"The sea does not fight the rock," Kaelen whispered, loud enough for the platform to hear. "It simply flows around it until the rock forgets why it was standing."
Hrothgar dropped his axe. The crowd was silent for a heartbeat before erupting. Kaelen sheathed his blades in a single motion and bowed to Alaric, his eyes lingering on the tower.
"Fourth bout! Vesper of the Western Marches versus Thorne the Merciless!"
Thorne was a man of needles and hidden blades, a notorious pit fighter who used every dirty trick in the book. Vesper, however, looked like she was stepping into a ballroom. Her rapier was a thin sliver of perfection, her buckler polished to a mirror finish.
As the bell rang, Thorne threw a handful of sand toward Vesper's eyes. She didn't flinch. She snapped her buckler up, the curve of the metal catching the grit and harmlessly redirecting it. Thorne lunged with a serrated short sword, but Vesper's rapier moved with the precision of a clockwork needle.
Cling. Cling. Cling.
She wasn't just parrying, she was dictating the rhythm. Every time Thorne tried to close the gap, a red dot appeared on his tunic. A prick to the shoulder. A scratch on the wrist. She was disassembling him.
Alaric watched her eyes. She wasn't looking at Thorne. She was scanning the crowd, her gaze snapping toward the cloaked men Asimi had identified. She made a specific pattern with her rapier, a flourish that looked like vanity to the crowd, but to Alaric's perception, it was a signal.
"She's talking to them," Dawn whispered, clutching her staff. "The sword movements. It's a code."
"Let her speak," Alaric replied, his voice cold. "The tower is listening to the reply."
Vesper ended the fight with a thrust that stopped exactly a hair's breadth from Thorne's eye. Thorne froze, the cold steel of the rapier reflecting the terror in his pupils. He dropped his weapons without a word. Vesper retracted the blade, wiped it on her sleeve, and walked out of the ring without looking back.
"Fifth quarter-final! Marek the Iron versus Valerius the Bold!"
Valerius was a knight in the truest sense, wearing gleaming castle-forged steel. He represented the best of what the Empire's standard training could produce. Marek, by contrast, looked like a relic of a forgotten age. His armor was a patchwork of dented plates, scarred by fires and blades that had long since rusted away. He carried a broadsword that was chipped and heavy, lacking any ornament.
"You should have taken the new steel, old man," Valerius said, his voice ringing with youthful arrogance. "That rust won't hold against imperial craft."
Marek didn't answer. He didn't even take a stance. He just stood there, his visor down, breathing slow and steady.
The bell rang.
Valerius attacked with a series of perfect spear thrusts. Marek moved only as much as was necessary, catching the spearhead on the thickest parts of his spaulders. He took the hits. He let the wood rattle against his iron. He was measuring the weight of the boy's soul.
Valerius grew frustrated, putting his weight into a powerful lunge meant to pierce Marek's chest piece. Marek didn't block. He stepped into the strike, catching the spear shaft under his arm and pinning it against his ribs. The force of the impact would have broken a lesser man's bones, but Marek didn't even grunt.
He reached out with a gauntleted hand, grabbed Valerius by the throat, and lifted. The younger knight's feet left the ground, his armor clattering as he struggled. Marek didn't use his sword. He simply stared into Valerius's eyes through the slits of their visors.
"Steel is just a tool," Marek's voice rumbled, deep and hollow. "The man is the weapon. You are just a boy in a shiny box."
Marek slammed him into the dirt. Valerius gasped for air, his spear snapped, his pride shattered. Marek turned toward the platform and knelt, his ancient armor groaning under the weight of the gesture.
Alaric looked down at the men and the woman who had survived. They were the foundation. They were the jagged edges of the sword he was forging.
"The board is set," Alaric whispered to his mother. "Now we see who is willing to be the hand."