The tournament grounds smelled of trampled dirt and the copper tang of old blood that no rake could truly hide. Even after the quarter-finals, after the medics had dragged the broken away and the workers had smoothed the arena flat, the scent lingered. The crowd had swelled overnight, spilling in from Hearth, Julian, and hamlets without names, drawn by a rumor that felt more like a warning. They spoke of the tower, of the prince, and of how Asmora was changing too fast for it to be entirely natural.
Alaric stood on his observation step, his cloak clasped neatly and his boots dusted a dull brown. The platinum ring on his left hand felt cold against his skin, a steady chill that seemed to remember every moment time had stopped for him. He kept his hands tucked beneath the heavy folds of his cloak; a prince did not fidget, and a prince did not look small, even when the world was trying its best to make him feel that way.
Dawn stood close enough that her sleeve brushed his whenever she shifted. Her midnight-back hair was tied back, though a few stubborn strands had escaped to frame a face that looked far too severe for her years. She held her quarterstaff upright with both hands, her posture a mimicry of the adults she feared disappointing. Her blue eyes rarely blinked, especially when the steel was out.
Asimi sat behind them, a portrait of imperial composure. Her silver hair caught the sun like a blade's edge, and her metallic eyes moved constantly—tracking the fighters, the ropes, the crowd, and the exits. Alaric had learned that her calm was not a sign of safety; it was the stillness of a predator that had already calculated every possible threat.
The herald stepped into the ring, raising his arms to quiet the restless murmur. "By the will of Empress-Consort Asimi Ecthellion, and by the authority of Imperial Prince Alaric Voss Ecthellion—let the semi-finals be declared!"
The sound that followed was not applause. It was a hungry roar, the noise of a pack that had tasted blood and wanted the marrow.
Alaric stepped forward. For a heartbeat, the weight of every stare pressed into him like physical heat. He had a sudden, childish urge to vanish into the shadow of his mother's presence, but he smothered it. He lifted his chin and looked out over the churned ring that had already swallowed the lifeblood of men.
"Today marks the start of the semi-finals," Alaric announced, his voice clear and steady. "All who stand here have earned knighthood beneath the Starfall banner." He waited for the rising cheers to subside, holding the crowd with his gaze. "These bouts are not to prove worth. They are to find the finalists who want this more than anyone else."
Something in the air shifted. Some fighters straightened their backs; others looked suddenly grim, as if they had been handed a shovel and told to dig.
"First semi-final!" the herald bellowed. "Entering first—sworn to old oaths, breaker of spears, and master of Holtzen's iron discipline—Garran Holt!"
Garran entered like a man walking into a chapel. There was no flourish, no theatrical bow to the commoners. His armor was battered but meticulously maintained, his longsword clean, and his posture was a testament to years of obedience. He carried a shield again—new straps replacing the ones Mira's spear had ruined—and his eyes were steady, almost prayerful.
Then the herald turned, his voice sharpening with intrigue. "Entering second—warrior of the Southern Isles, dancer of steel, and singer to the blade—Kaelen of the Tidemark!"
Kaelen stepped into the ring, and the murmurs turned uncertain. He wore silks that should have been ruined by the arena mud, yet they clung to him cleanly, as if the water itself refused to stain them. Two curved blades rested at his hips, and even sheathed, they seemed to hum with a low, oceanic vibration. His expression was composed, but Alaric caught a flicker in his eyes—the look of a man running from a shadow only he could see.
They bowed. Garran's was stiff and formal; Kaelen's was light, almost regretful.
The bell rang.
Garran advanced first, his shield up and sword ready. He took space the way disciplined men did—slowly and relentlessly. Kaelen drifted sideways like water avoiding a stone, his hands still empty. Garran tested him with short, sharp cuts meant to force a draw, but Kaelen merely leaned and slipped, his silk hems fluttering, never caught.
The crowd grew irritated. Someone shouted for the Islander to draw his steel. Garran's jaw tightened, and he lunged with a shield slam, trying to catch ribs and end the dance. Kaelen wasn't there. Garran turned fast to avoid exposing his back, and in that half-beat, Kaelen's eyes sharpened.
Kaelen drew.
The sound was soft, a gentle hiss of steel that made Alaric's skin prickle. The twin curved swords came free in one smooth motion, their edges catching the light as a pale blue shimmer gathered along them—mana so clean it looked like moonlit water poured onto metal. The Theurge line leaned forward as one, scenting something rare.
Kaelen moved. He slipped in close and struck, his blades crossing like colliding waves. But the cut wasn't meant for flesh. The blue edges kissed leather, and the bindings parted like thread. Garran's shield shifted, its weight becoming awkward.
Garran answered with a hard, crushing swing that rang up through the platform rails. Kaelen spun away and returned, striking again—another strap, another fastening, dismantling the man rather than killing him. Garran pressed forward, trying to pin him against the ropes, but Kaelen slid past the angles the way a tide slides past rocks.
Kaelen nicked Garran's sword hand next. Blood sprang, bright and sudden. Garran hissed, his grip tightening as his discipline began to fray under the weight of humiliation. He charged more aggressively, his cuts widening, the clean lines of his style beginning to shatter.
Kaelen let him. Garran raised his blade for an overhead strike meant to end it, and Kaelen simply stepped aside. The sword smashed into the dirt, jolting Garran's arms. Kaelen's blades flashed—one severing the last strap holding the shield. It dropped into the mud with a wet slap.
The second blade kissed at Garran's gear again, cutting ties and loosening fittings, turning a soldier into a man whose own equipment betrayed him. Garran's face flushed with a dark, primal anger. He roared and swung wide, chasing Kaelen like he could force the sea to stand still.
Kaelen stepped in close. He cut the laces at Garran's shoulder guard, exposing skin. Then one blade rose and hovered near Garran's throat—close enough that the man could feel the cold of the mana without being touched.
The arena exhaled into a heavy silence.
"Yield," Kaelen said quietly.
Garran's chest heaved. Sweat ran down his brow, and blood slicked his knuckles. For a heartbeat, Alaric thought the man would refuse out of sheer pride and die for it in front of thousands. Then Garran's sword lowered, slowly, like a man forcing his own ego to kneel. He nodded once.
The bell rang.
The crowd erupted, a mixture of cheers and curses. The herald screamed, "Victory! Kaelen of the Tidemark advances to the finals!"
Garran was helped away, his shield left behind in the mud like a symbol of stripped certainty. Kaelen sheathed his blades, the blue shimmer fading like receding water. He bowed toward the platform—respectful, small—and his eyes lifted for a brief moment to meet Alaric's.
The prickling at the back of Alaric's neck intensified. Kaelen's gaze wasn't one of admiration. It was recognition.
Asimi leaned close, her voice soft as silk. "He is not here for coin, Alaric."
"No," Alaric answered quietly, his eyes still locked on the Islander. "He's here because he needs something."
Dawn stared after Kaelen with the intensity of someone imagining a new kind of power. Her fingers tightened on her staff. The first semi-final was over, but the day felt heavier, not lighter. Alaric could already feel the next bout waiting like thunder behind the hills.