Part - 1
The royal balcony overlooked the great arena, sunlight spilling across the tiered stone stands. King Valethar IX reclined in his high-backed seat, his crown catching the light like a shard of gold. Beside him, Prince Veylen of Astelvyr leaned forward, eyes fixed on the lists below where Arcadian squires raked the sand smooth for the first bout.
Veylen's lips curved faintly. "Your Majesty… I have an interesting proposition. Why not let today's tournament decide the question between our kingdoms? Let our knights take to the field yours against mine. And whichever side takes the greater share of victories… shall claim their wish.
Independence for Astelvyr… or its place beneath Arcadia's banner."
The murmur that passed among the balcony guards was immediate half shock, half intrigue.
Valethar chuckled, the sound low but warm. "You tempt me, Prince. I have little patience for the endless squabbling of my court, and less still for men who cling to politics as if it were armour. As for the gods we each kneel to I have no mind to condemn a man for the altar he chooses." He spread his hands. "Very well. Let it be done. My court may gnash their teeth, but their fretting is of no consequence to me."
The herald, clad in Arcadian blue, stepped to the edge of the balcony and unfurled a scroll. His voice rang across the arena.
"By decree of His Majesty King Valethar IX, today's contest shall be fought between the Knight Order of Arcadia, the Tribune, and the Knight Order of Astelvyr, the Order. The side with the greater number of victories shall claim their lord's chosen reward!"
The crowd erupted in cheers, a roar that echoed off the high stone walls. Most voices rang with Arcadian pride, confident the Tribune would sweep the field. Coins changed hands in the stands as wagers were made, the odds heavily against the strangers from the pale city.
Both princes also came to the ground as they heard this news and joined the contest as spectators
First Prince Elandor flanked by the Warden of the Throne Sir Althar Drenwyn, grim in burnished steel, and Second Prince Maeryn surrounded by his circle of nobles and merchant allies.
The king leaned toward Halric. "Counsellor, choose your first champion."
Halric's eyes scanned the Astelvyr ranks before settling on a towering figure in moon-white plate, the silver sigil of Nirash gleaming on his breast. "Ser Deyric Varn," Halric said. "You'll open for us."
Valethar gestured to his own captains. "Ser Jorvan Rhest," he commanded, naming a veteran Triune knight known for his brutal charges.
The two champions strode to the centre of the arena, each marked by the colours of their order pale silver for Astelvyr, deep blue and gold for Arcadia. The announcer's voice rang again, carrying over the roar of the crowd.
"First bout Ser Deyric Varn of the Order… versus Ser Jorvan Rhest of the Triune!"
The Arcadian knight sneered, lowering his visor. "Best polish your shield, foreigner," he muttered as they passed. "It won't save you."
Ser Deyric only inclined his head, the calm of a man unmoved by provocation.
The bell rang.
Both knights surged forward, steel flashing in the midday sun.
Part - 2
A few hours earlier, before the tournament had begun, the royal palace lay in the quiet hush of morning. King Valethar IX sat with Queen Lyrissa in his private chamber, the first light spilling across polished marble floors.
"I must choose an heir soon," Valethar said, his voice low. "The matter cannot be delayed any longer."
The queen turned toward him, searching his face. "And who do you deem most suited, my king?"
Valethar sighed. "I think Maeryn is better suited to rule. He understands the affairs of state, possesses both strength and capability. Elandor…" He shook his head slightly. "I do not think he is suited for the throne. What say you, my love?"
What the king did not know was that First Prince Elandor was just outside, preparing to escort his father to the hall. The words struck him like a blade. His hands clenched, fury rising hot and fast in his chest. Without waiting to hear more, he turned and strode away in silence.
He never heard his father's next words.
"Regardless," Valethar continued softly, "I love him all the same. I cannot leave him without a realm of his own. I should grant him a part of Arcadia to rule."
Queen Lyrissa nodded gently. "That would be wise, my king."
In his chambers, Elandor stormed past his attendants and into the company of his closest allies men of silver tongues and darker ambitions. The air in the room was thick with the scent of wine and the faint smoke of the brazier.
Among them was Lord Malgor, a powerful military noble whose loyalty was measured in opportunities, not in blood. He leaned forward in his chair as Elandor entered.
"My prince," Malgor said, his tone both curious and concerned, "why the fury in your eyes? Has some insult been offered to you?"
Elandor's jaw tightened. "The king has chosen Maeryn as his heir. He says I am unfit to rule."
A sharp intake of breath came from the high priest, Callien, who stood near the window, robes heavy with the sigils of Thariel. "He dares name a successor without counsel from the court? Without the blessing of the shrine? This is unacceptable."
Lord Thalan, another noble of long ambition, stepped closer. "This cannot stand, my prince."
Lord Malgor's lips curved into a slow, calculating smile. "My prince, I do have a plan and I think we can solve this matter… easily. If you wish it."
Elandor studied him for a long moment. "Will your plan make me king? Will my father agree to it?"
Malgor's smile widened. "Of course, my prince. Otherwise, I would not have said anything."
Elandor's fury cooled into a dangerous resolve. "Very well. See it done. Make me the king."
The nobles exchanged glances a silent communion of greed and ambition before Malgor's low chuckle grew into a quiet, sinister laugh.
Part - 3
The sun slanted low across the tournament grounds, its golden light flashing along the edge of steel. Trumpets blared, and the herald's voice rang out over the gathered crowd.
"The First match of today: Ser Deyric Varn of the Order, champion of Astelvyr, versus Ser Jorvan Rhest of the Triune, stalwart of Arcadia"
A roar of cheers swelled mostly for Jorvan. The Triune were the pride of Arcadia, and Jorvan, in his full-faced helm and heavy plate, was a mountain of steel. A large shield rested on his left arm; his longsword looked built to split shields in two.
Deyric, by contrast, was tall and rangy, his movements fluid as a reed in the wind. He wore light mail and no helmet, his pale hair tied back. A moonlit gleam seemed to dance in his silvered rapier as he stepped forward.
The bell rang.
Jorvan surged forward with the sheer force of a siege ram, shield raised, sword crashing down in a wide arc. It was Verdict of the Just a technique designed to overwhelm through weight and honorless power. Deyric slipped aside like mist, the strike splitting the earth where he'd stood.
The slimmer knight retaliated with a Silver Fang Riposte, his rapier darting for a weak point beneath the armpit. But Jorvan twisted with surprising speed, using the edge of his shield to redirect the thrust and slam it forward in a concussive bash. Deyric flew back, landing hard on one knee.
The crowd howled.
"Break him, Jorvan!"
Rhest advanced, hammering down with Pillar's Judgment, a descending strike meant to cleave man from marrow. Deyric rolled aside at the last moment, the blade sending sparks off the stone.
He came up into Moon's Veil Lunge, stabbing low for the knee joints. The point scored a piercing crack of metal and Jorvan faltered.
But then, Jorvan countered with Oathkeeper's Ring, a brutal spin using the momentum of his own pain. His shield swept in a wide circle, slamming Deyric in the ribs. Bones cracked. Deyric staggered, blood spitting from his mouth.
Jorvan followed up, relentless, unleashing The Triune's Verdict three rapid, crushing strikes meant to bludgeon the foe into submission. The first was caught on Deyric's blade, but the second landed on his shoulder, denting the mail, and the third glanced his thigh, drawing blood.
Now the crowd was silent, unsure.
Deyric rose, blood trickling down his cheek, one hand shaking. But then he stepped forward with eerie calm, his form becoming fluid again.
He baited a high swing, stepped inside it, and unleashed Silent Eclipse a rapid four-point strike meant to disorient. One at the knee, one at the gauntlet, one at the exposed neck seam, and as
Jorvan reeled he reversed the hilt and slammed it into the visor.
The blow dented the helm at the hinge, causing the visor to jerk loose on one side.
Blood spilled from the exposed gap. Deyric had cracked the skin above the brow with the pommel.
Jorvan roared and brought down his blade in fury, but Deyric caught it with Starlit Crossguard, parrying high and stabbing low. His rapier slid between the thigh plates again. This time, deeper. Jorvan dropped to one knee. The knight of the Order, breathing heavily, placed his rapier gently against the gap in the twisted visor, just above the mouth.
The arena fell to stillness.
Ser Jorvan Rhest, bleeding from leg and head, knelt with a shattered shield at his side.
Ser Deyric Varn stood, bloodied but upright, his blade unwavering.
The herald raised his hand.
"Victory to Ser Deyric Varn of the Order!"
A beat of silence… then cheers erupted first uncertain, then rising, even from Arcadian throats.
End of Chapter.