We signed up for the tournament under false names. No titles, no ornaments. Just two guys from the lower city, trying their luck. We didn't want to inspire fear or respect just by someone recognizing our names.
In the slums we bought ragged, stinking clothes from two beggars. The men were completely stunned by the gold we left them with – they wouldn't have to work for a year. We had perfect disguises and even a good feeling about it. Our faces were hidden under simple leather masks, without pattern, without color.
The tournament was held in the main palace courtyard. Stands were full, the air heavy with dust, sweat, and the tang of steel. Fighters stood ready – swordsmen, mercenaries, wrestlers, each with their own weapon. We arrived with what we'd grabbed from the storage that morning.
Me – a blunt, broken sword, something between a knife and a short sword.
Jered – a thick wooden staff, heavy as iron.
First rounds
My first opponent was young and quick, but naive. I let him strike twice, just so he'd think he had a chance. Then I changed the pace – a quick lunge, the pommel of my sword against his wrist, and it was over.
Jered nearly killed his first opponent with laughter – the man rushed forward and Jered cracked his knee with the staff so hard he fell flat into the dust.
Gradually tougher fights
They put me against a giant with a two-handed sword. Instead of breaking him in the first three seconds, I played around. I retreated, let him push me, tested his rhythm. In the end, when he swung, I slipped under his blade and jabbed the blunt sword into his groin.
Jered faced a man with a chain. The man tried to keep his distance, but Jered caught the chain with his staff, wrapped it around, and yanked so hard the guy fell face-first into the dirt.
Semifinal
Me against a veteran with a shield. He pushed like a battering ram. I could have snapped his guard on the first clash, but I kept the game going – sidesteps, feints. Then, when he charged, I slipped under his arm and pressed the blunt sword to his throat.
Jered had two at once – he took the first down with a strike to the neck, the second with a kick to the stomach that sent him flying back a meter. The crowd went wild.
Final
And so we stood facing each other. Me with my broken blunt sword, him with the staff. The crowd expected a normal fight. Only the two of us knew this would be a show.
The first minutes we only tested each other's tempo. I used fast thrusts, he used hard blocks. I didn't go all out – I didn't want to drop him in ten seconds. I wanted it even, to keep the crowd entertained.
Sometimes I let him hit my shoulder or thigh, to make it seem like he had the upper hand. But every time he pressed me, I returned the hit – short strike, sidestep, or a spin.
The crowd suddenly went quiet when we went full speed. Hard blows, the sound of wood on steel, elbow strikes, kicks. Jered tried to break my guard with force, but I read his moves before he made them.
At one point he hit my shoulder so hard it would have taken another man out. I just laughed, deflected his staff, and changed the rhythm.
When the final strike rang out – the hollow sound of steel against wood – the arena fell silent. I let go of my bent, blunt blade and relaxed my shoulders. Jered leaned on his staff, sweat dripping down his forehead, but his eyes burned with the same fire as at the start. It was clear we both still had the strength to keep going, but the tournament rules decided – a draw.
The spectators, who had thought of us as mere vagabonds from the slums, now stood speechless. Some whispered among themselves, others tried to memorize every move, every gesture.
"Who the hell were those two?" came from the crowd.
"I've never seen anyone play with a fight… and still fight at full power," another answered, clearly baffled.
When Jered and I left the arena, we could feel the eyes on us – not the ordinary looks, but the kind you remember for years. The kind that tell stories, spread rumors, and turn plain names into legends.
The rank-and-file soldiers had already named us after our masked faces – Shadow and Storm. And though no one knew our real names, it was clear this day would live on in the memories of those who were there.
At the gate of the arena, an older man selling food and cheap beer stopped us. He handed us two mugs and simply said:
"What I saw today, I'll remember for as long as I breathe."
Then he turned to the crowd and began telling the story of how two "ragged wanderers" defeated the entire field of fighters and then faced each other in such a way that no one dared declare a winner.
I only smiled. The truth would stay hidden – and that's exactly what I wanted.
The legend grew – and I let it grow in silence, without a name, knowing that one day, when needed, people would learn who Shadow and Storm really were.
---
The tavern was packed to the brim. Loud laughter, mugs slamming against wood, and the smell of roasted meat mixed with the sharp aroma of cheap wine. In a corner, where the candlelight met shadow, Jered and I sat. In front of us were two large jugs, both already tapped, and the table was littered with bones from the recent feast.
Jered poured himself another cup and gave me that ever-mocking look of his. "You know, Aric… I don't get you."
I raised an eyebrow, sipping my wine. "That's an old tune. What is it this time?"
"Every day you're with Thalira," Jered began slowly, "and you act like nothing's going on. Damn, she's one of the most beautiful women in the kingdom."
He set down his cup, stretched his hands and mimed heavy, full breasts, as if he had them right in front of him. "And you're trying to tell me you don't even think about what you could…"
I chuckled quietly, shook my head, and leaned back in my chair. "Thinking about it is one thing. Jumping at it is another. That's the difference."
Jered smirked and leaned toward me. "So when she leans over your shoulder, breathing on your neck and those tits nearly brush your arm, you're just thinking about runes? Runes, Aric? You expect me to believe that?"
I took a breath, set my cup down, and looked him straight in the eye. "You know how much we've been through? Battles, hunger, winter, so many times a step from death… and you're asking me if I get distracted by a pair of tits?"
Jered laughed, but there was respect in it. "Yeah, you're right. But admit it, any normal man would go for her."
"Maybe I'm not a normal man," I said calmly, with a faint smile.
"That you're not," Jered took a long drink and leaned back against the wall. "Remember the Northern Fortress? You, me, ten men against a whole unit of dark elves. If you hadn't been so stubborn, we'd all have left our bones there."
"Stubborn?" I smirked. "You were the one who decided to charge straight through the open gate."
"Oh yeah? And who covered me?" Jered raised his hand, as if to volunteer himself, then we both burst out laughing.
Our laughter was genuine, like always when we remembered those years of fighting side by side. We'd been through hell, but we were still here – two friends who knew they'd guard each other's back anywhere.
"You know," Jered said after a pause, "maybe that's why people trust you. Because you're different. But still… if I were you, I'd have been with Thalira long ago… well, you know."
I just shook my head and took another drink. "And that's why you're not me."
Jered laughed and slapped my shoulder. "Alright, alright… but I bet one day it'll change."
"We'll see," I said, but there was that same spark in my eyes as always, the one that told him I had the upper hand in this conversation.
The tavern roared around us, but our talk was just ours – proof of a bond that isn't built overnight, but over years of shared blood, bread, and victories. I was just about to set my cup down when a rough voice carried from the next table:
"You hear that? The 'hero' doesn't even know what to do with a woman when she walks into his arms."
Laughter followed, heavy and mocking, with the clink of mugs. Jered lifted his head and turned toward them. At the table sat a group of four men, scarred faces, calloused hands – mercenaries. They looked like they had more beer than sense in their veins.
"Boys, we're lucky today," continued the same one, bald and broad as a door. "We get to hear the story of how the great Aric turned down the bed of a beautiful sorceress. What are you, boy, a monk?"
Jered drew breath to answer, but I put a hand on his shoulder.
"Leave it," I said quietly. "They're not worth it."
"But I think they are," Jered replied, standing. "You got a problem, or were you born this stupid?"
The tavern's noise shifted into tense whispers. One of the mercenaries stood and walked over. "You know what your problem is?" he hissed, pointing at me. "Everyone talks about him, and no one about you. So you found yourself a master to lick his boots."
That was a mistake. Jered smiled – that dangerous smile – and a second later the man was flat on his back on the table, spilled beer soaking his shirt.
Two more lunged at Jered, but I was already on my feet. I caught one by the elbow and twisted until his knife fell, sent the other reeling with a hard elbow to the ribs.
The mercenaries fought rough, but messy. Jered and I moved as one – years of battle ingrained in our reflexes. Jered kicked one's knee out, I caught him from behind by the neck and slammed his head into the wall. Another Jered grabbed by the belt and hurled over a bench.
It took barely half a minute. Four men lay groaning, clutching sore spots. The tavern was full of whispers again, but now it wasn't mockery – it was respect.
I turned to Jered. "And you say I'm the one making enemies," I said dryly.
"Pfft," Jered brushed his hands. "At least we stretched a bit. And you know I don't like anyone talking trash about family."
I raised an eyebrow. "Family?"
"After everything we've been through?" Jered sat back down and poured more wine. "Yeah. Family."
I thought for a moment, then sat too. And though people still whispered and stared, I felt only that quiet, solid bond between us – the kind no battle or insult could break.