Morning horns tore through Soren's fitful sleep like knives. He jerked upright, heart hammering against his ribs, the shard cold against his chest. Today was the day he would face Ser Daven Trescan.
Every muscle in his body screamed as he dressed, the bandages on his hands stained with fresh blood where his wounds had reopened during the night. Two days of combat had carved their toll into his flesh, cuts, bruises, and a bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of rest could have erased.
The tournament grounds roared with anticipation as he approached. Northaven had divided itself along stark lines, the nobility in their elevated galleries, faces cold with expectation of proper order being restored, and the common folk pressed against the barriers, their voices rising in chaotic support for the street rat who had humbled two noble sons.
