Night fell on Asmora like a cloak pulled tight. The river mist returned, crawling low over the flats and swallowing the tournament grounds until only the palisade torches remained—small orange eyes blinking through the fog. Beyond them, the Wizard's Tower sat pale on its hill, a quiet spine of marble against the dark.
Alaric's tent stood apart from the noise, larger than most but not ostentatious. Canvas walls, clean rope lines, and a guarded entrance where two Knights Gallant stood at attention with spears upright. From outside, it looked like a commander's shelter. From within, it smelled of warm bread, roasted meat, and spiced wine—luxury braided into practicality.
Alaric sat at the head of the table on a raised crate draped in cloth; the height helped. He wore travel finery fit for an imperial child—dark blue wool lined with silk—yet there was chain beneath it, the faint whisper of metal whenever he shifted. The platinum ring on his left hand caught the candlelight as he folded his fingers together, still and deliberate.
Across from him sat Kaelen of the Tidemark, the dancer who had made the arena sing and then bleed. He looked cleaner than a man should after such a day. Fresh bandages showed at his shoulder and thigh, and his hands rested on his knees with the quiet tension of someone refusing to show pain.
Beside Kaelen sat Vesper. She had cleaned herself too, but her cleanliness looked like discipline rather than comfort. A strip of linen wrapped her upper arm where Thodin's hammer had grazed her, and her knuckles bore small abrasions as if she'd scrubbed the blood off with too much force.
Asimi sat to Alaric's right, her metallic eyes reflecting the candle flame like polished coin. Dawn sat near her, hands folded, her posture practiced. At the table's far end sat the Gallant Captain, a man with weathered features and a rigid posture, his hands never far from where his sword would be.
The meal was laid out in courses: roasted hen glazed with herbs, root vegetables cooked soft in butter, and bread still warm enough to tear with steam rising from the center. Alaric began the meal the way he had seen his father begin court dinners—without wasting words.
"You've both earned the right to sit here," he said, his voice calm. "Not as contestants. As knights of Starfall."
Kaelen inclined his head politely. Vesper did too, but her eyes remained on Alaric a fraction longer than courtesy required.
Asimi's gaze cut between them like a blade through silk. "Tonight is about understanding what we are bringing into our house," she said softly.
The first minutes were filled with the sounds of eating—the soft scrape of cutlery and the crackle of the fire. Alaric ate slowly, watching more than tasting. Kaelen ate like a man used to fine food but not used to being assessed. Vesper ate like someone who had learned to take calories quickly without allowing the act to become a vulnerability.
Dawn broke the quiet first. "You fight like you're running," she said to Kaelen, her voice small but direct.
Kaelen froze for a heartbeat, fork held above his plate. Then he exhaled slowly, as if the question had struck closer than a sword point. "Is it that obvious?" he asked, offering a smile that was gentle but strained.
"You win like you need to," Dawn replied.
Kaelen's gaze slid to Alaric. The prince didn't speak. He waited.
Kaelen's fingers tightened on the edge of the table. "I joined the tournament," he began quietly, "because there are men on the southern coasts who take what they want. They call themselves nobles. They tax islands until children eat seaweed and salt and call it dinner."
He continued, the words coming more easily now. "My sister was taken. Not by pirates, but by a ship flying a banner that would be respected in the wrong courts. I chased rumors until they led me here. To a rising order. An imperial prince spending coin like he means to build something that lasts."
He lifted his gaze, and for the first time, Alaric saw the hollow exhaustion beneath the dancer's polish.
"I don't need a commander's cloak," Kaelen said. "I need leverage. A name that makes doors open. Authority that cannot be laughed away in port towns. If I stand in your finals... I can go south with a banner and make men answer questions they've never had to answer."
Silence settled in the tent. Alaric felt the weight of the confession like a stone set in his palm.
"You are asking to use my house," Alaric said.
Kaelen didn't flinch. "Yes."
Alaric considered him for a long moment. "If your cause is just, then Starfall's banner will not be wasted on it." His voice turned slightly colder. "If it is not... then you will learn what it means to have an empire's attention."
Kaelen bowed his head. "Understood."
Vesper had been quiet, but when Kaelen spoke of leverage, her mask cracked by a degree. Asimi noticed, her eyes turning toward the mercenary with calm focus.
"You," Asimi said softly, "did not come here for a sister."
Vesper's hand paused over her cup. "No," she admitted.
"Who sent you?" Alaric asked, his voice even.
Vesper's eyes flicked to Asimi, then back to him. "If I answer that, I die. If I refuse, I still might."
Asimi's lips pressed together, thoughtful. "That is an answer," she murmured.
Vesper inhaled slowly. "I'll say this," she added, her mask slipping just enough to let something human show through. "I didn't expect to respect you."
The words landed oddly—too honest to be strategy. Alaric didn't smile.
"Then respect me properly," he said. "Hold your oath."
Vesper's eyes held his for a moment longer, then she nodded once.
Outside, the mist thickened around the tent. Alaric looked at the two finalists—one running toward justice, one wrapped in secrets—and understood a truth he hadn't named before. Tomorrow's final wasn't only about who wanted the title. It was about which kind of danger Starfall would invite into its heart.