Dawn broke like a fever, painting Northaven's spires in sickly gold. Soren stared at his reflection in the polished bronze mirror, hollow-eyed, tense, a wolf sigil newly sewn onto simple leathers that wouldn't stop a determined blade.
Not armor befitting a noble house's champion, but he wasn't truly that. Just a street rat with a borrowed name and borrowed purpose.
'Today I die or become useful,' he thought, fingers brushing the shard beneath his tunic. Its familiar chill offered no comfort.
Three days of preparation had passed in a blur of bruises and sweat. Now tournament day arrived, carrying judgment on black-feathered wings.
The shard remained silent as he made his way through Velrane Manor's corridors. Servants scurried past without meeting his eyes, their whispers following like persistent shadows. The marked one. The survivor. The one Sylas spared.
