The morning sun hung over the tournament grounds as 450 candidates gathered in the central arena. The scope of it was staggering, Aridel had never seen so many people in one place, all of them here for the same reason: to become squires.
A large stage had been erected at the arena's center, and on it stood three officials in formal imperial dress. One of them, a woman with sharp eyes and a sharper voice, raised her hand for silence. The crowd quieted.
"Candidates," she announced, her voice carrying across the grounds with magical amplification, "welcome to the Imperial Squire Selection Tournament. What you're about to hear will determine your fate for the next several months."
Aridel stood among the masses, trying not to look as out of place as he felt. Around him, nobles in fine clothes stood with the confidence of generations of privilege. Commoners like himself were scattered throughout, but noticeably fewer. Most of the candidates wore training garb or light armor. Aridel had only his borrowed squire's tunic and his sword.
"The tournament operates in two phases," the woman continued. "Phase One: Group Play. The 450 of you will be divided into 45 groups of 10. Each group will compete in a round-robin format. The top 5 finishers from each group advance to Phase Two."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. 225 candidates would advance. Aridel did the mathematics quickly in his head—five out of ten meant he needed to be better than at least half his group. Crazy, righ
"Phase Two: Double Elimination Bracket. All 225 successful candidates will enter a single bracket. A loss doesn't immediately eliminate you, but two losses will. Fight your way through, and you could become an imperial squire. Fail twice, and you go home."
The official produced a crystal tablet that glowed with blue light. It displayed bracket information—names, groupings, match schedules.
"Group assignments are being posted now," the woman said. "Find your name, find your group, and be ready. Group matches begin at dawn tomorrow."
The crowd surged forward. Aridel moved with it, keeping pace, watching as candidates rushed to the posting boards. There were four of them, each displaying a different section of the groups. He needed to find his name.
It took him longer than he would have liked, but eventually he found it. Group 23. He scanned the other nine names in his group.
Two nobles—one named Aldric Venn, with a house insignia Aridel didn't recognize. The other was simply listed as "Marcus Hadfield, House Hadfield." Both names carried weight.
Three commoners like himself: Garrett, a man in his late twenties with scarred hands; Soren, barely older than Aridel; and an older woman named Mira who looked like she'd spent her life in the fields.
Four others whose names gave no indication of their background: Kess, Thorne, Lydia, and Finn. Could be any mix of noble and common blood.
"Not bad," a voice said beside him.
Aridel turned to see Ethan Buchanan, studying his own board with a slight frown.
"What group are you?" Aridel asked.
"Group 19," Ethan said, not sounding particularly satisfied. "My group has a candidate from House Kessler. You know them?"
Aridel shook his head.
"Military house. Minor, but solid." Ethan glanced at Aridel's board. "Group 23. Could be worse. I don't see any major names, at least."
"Is that good or bad?" Aridel asked.
Ethan shrugged. "Depends on your opponents. No famous house backing doesn't mean they're weak. Just means you might not have heard of them before they crush you."
Before Aridel could respond, a commotion arose from the other side of the arena. Several candidates were gathering around one of the boards, speaking in excited, almost reverent tones.
"What is that?" Aridel asked.
Ethan's expression shifted. "That's Group 5. Let's go see."
They made their way through the crowd. When they reached the board, Aridel understood the interest immediately.
The first name on the list read: Kael Montrose.
"Is he famous?" Aridel asked.
A nearby candidate laughed. "Is he famous? The Montrose prodigy is only the most talked-about candidate in the tournament. Youngest of his house to reach squiredom-level talent."
"What circle is he?" someone else asked.
"Nobody knows," another candidate answered. "He's kept it quiet, but he's displayed 4th circle techniques. At his age, that's unheard of."
Aridel felt Ethan tense beside him. "4th circle? That's… that shouldn't be possible. Henry Kartier, the most powerful squire in Caldrithia, is 5th circle and he's—" Ethan stopped himself.
"Stronger," Aridel finished quietly.
"Much stronger," Ethan confirmed. "But Montrose with only 4 circles and he's still generating this much attention? The rumors must be exaggerated."
Yet the way the other candidates spoke, the weight they placed on the name Montrose, suggested otherwise. Aridel made a note of it. If Kael Montrose was in Group 5, then they wouldn't meet until the bracket phase—if they met at all.
"You should worry about your own group," Ethan said, perhaps sensing Aridel's distraction. "Not about Montrose."
He was right. Aridel turned back to his board and committed his groupmates' names to memory. Group 23. Nine matches. Nine opportunities to prove himself.
"Good luck tomorrow," Ethan said, offering his hand. "Don't die in your first match."
Aridel shook it. "Same to you."
That evening, Aridel sat in the barracks assigned to the candidates. Hundreds of cots lined the massive hall, each one occupied by a squire-hopeful preparing mentally for tomorrow. Some sharpened weapons. Others meditated. A few talked quietly in small groups.
Aridel lay on his cot, staring at the wooden ceiling, running through scenarios. He thought about his opponents—the nobles with training, the commoners with desperation, the unknowns who could be either or both.
His Genius Mind worked through matchup probabilities, weak points, recovery timings.
But underneath it all, he felt it: the weight of the quest. The penalty. The stakes that Juniel had set without explaining fully what they meant.
"Host should rest," came Juniel's message, limited to 10 words as always.
Aridel closed his eyes and tried.
Tomorrow, the real tournament began. Tomorrow, he would face the first of nine opponents. Tomorrow, he would begin to prove whether a cursed commoner with no circles could survive in a world built for the powerful.
Somewhere in the barracks, 449 other candidates were having similar thoughts.
And somewhere else in the tournament grounds, Kael Montrose was likely doing something far more productive than lying awake with doubt.
Aridel pushed the thought aside and forced himself toward sleep.