The torch fires of Northaven dimmed as Soren dragged himself from the tournament grounds, each step a negotiation between exhaustion and necessity. Night had fallen, bringing no relief from the day's heat or memories.
His cuts stung, sweat-salted and throbbing beneath hastily applied bandages. The tournament physician had offered little beyond basic cleaning and wrapping, not surprising when noble sons awaited his more dedicated attention.
"There he goes! Velrane's wolf!"
The shout came from across the street where a cluster of common folk had gathered outside a tavern. Their faces lit with recognition as Soren passed, eyes bright with an enthusiasm that felt foreign, almost alarming. A man raised his tankard in salute, amber liquid sloshing over the rim.
"Two nobles in the dirt! Tomorrow makes three!" someone else called, voice slurred but earnest.
