[Sword Mastery successfully integrated.]
I sucked in a sharp breath and spit out the blood-soaked cloth I'd been biting. My whole body still trembled from the pain of the infusion. It felt as if every muscle had been hammered and reforged from the inside.
I pushed myself to my feet and caught sight of my reflection in a cracked mirror on the wall. The difference was small, but real. My shoulders sat more even. My stance was firmer. The armor didn't feel awkward anymore—it rested on me like it belonged there.
I took a long drink from my flask, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and fastened my helmet.
Time to finish what I started.
---
When I stepped back into the yard, the crowd had grown thicker. Squires, knights, a few smallfolk—everyone knew word had spread. Ser Maynard waited in the center with his sword already drawn.
Aerion Brightflame stood behind him, arms folded, wearing the same smirk as before.
"Thought you had run off, hedge knight," he called, voice light and mocking.
"Just needed a drink," I said.
Some in the crowd laughed. Not at Aerion—at me. Egg was grinning from ear to ear.
Ser Maynard gave me a respectful nod and lifted his sword. "We begin when you are ready."
I drew my blade.
The weight felt… right. Balanced. Familiar in a way it had never been before. My grip tightened, and my breathing steadied.
We began to circle each other.
Maynard struck first—fast. Faster than a man his size should move. His sword flashed in a clean thrust.
My body reacted before my mind caught up.
Parry. Twist. Step. Counter.
Steel clashed. Sparks danced between us. The ring of the blades echoed across the yard.
Maynard pressed the attack, his strength undeniable. But each time his edge came close, mine was already there to meet it. My feet knew exactly where to plant, how far to shift, how to angle my shoulder. Movements I'd never practiced now came to me like breathing.
He swung high. I ducked beneath and shoved him back with my shoulder. Maynard slid half a step in the dirt, surprised.
Aerion's smile flickered.
The Kingsguard came again—hard and heavy. His sword rose for a strong overhand cut meant to end it.
I stepped into the blow, not away from it.
My blade caught his, redirected, and in the same motion my pommel slammed against his gauntlet.
His sword flew from his hand.
It hit the dirt with a hard clang that rang louder than the cheering that followed.
The yard went dead still.
My sword point rested lightly against the center of his chestplate.
Maynard breathed hard for a few seconds. Then he bowed his head.
"I yield."
The yard erupted.
Egg shouted loud enough to wake the Seven. A few knights clapped. Someone whistled. Even the skeptical ones nodded with respect.
Maynard retrieved his blade, gave me a nod that meant well-fought, and stepped aside.
I let out a slow breath, lowering my sword. Sweat ran down my face under the helm, but my heartbeat was steady. Controlled.
Aerion, however, looked as if someone had slapped him. His jaw clenched tight, his eyes sharp and cold.
I turned toward him. "Does that settle the matter, prince?"
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he forced a thin, brittle smile.
"A lucky strike," he said. "Nothing more."
Egg ran to my side.
"I knew you'd win!" he said. "I told him! I did!"
"Easy, lad. Best not shout too loudly. Princes have long memories." He nodded, but he couldn't stop smiling.
"Still—you beat a Kingsguard. A real Kingsguard."
I sheathed my sword.
"Aye," I said quietly. "I did."
---
The next day dawn.
I sat with Egg in the stands, the boy leaning forward so far I feared he will drop on the tilting field. He was nearly vibrating with excitement.
"Keep your hood low," I murmured to him.
He tugged it down further, his here with me without telling anyone.
Below us, squires hurried back and forth, leading horses.
"The first match," Egg whispered, unable to hold his tongue, "is Ser Humfrey Hardyng against that shit."
I felt my jaw tighten.
Aerion Brightflame.
I had met him only yesterday, and already his presence brought a sour taste to the tongue. A prince, aye—but like a blade heated too long in the forge: warped. The kind of man who thought cruelty was a birthright.
Across the lists, Aerion rode out.
His armor was silver chased with pale gold, helm crowned with dragon wings. His horse—a white courser—pawed the earth, eager or terrified, I could not say. The prince raised his lance, acknowledging the cheers of the crowd, though many sounded more forced than joyful.
Ser Humfrey Hardyng followed, plain steel on a brown destrier. A solid man, well-spoken of. A knight who had earned his place rather than been born into it.
I found myself rooting for him at once.
A drum sounded.
The herald called names.
The lances lowered.
And they charged.
Both broke lance on shield of other.
They wheeled back for another pass. Humfrey rode true—centered, steady—but Aerion leaned forward in his saddle like a hawk diving upon prey.
On the third pass, Aerion did not aim for shield nor helm.
He thrust his lance straight into Humfrey's horse.
The wooden shaft punched through living flesh. The poor beast screamed in agony, legs folding. It collapsed mid-stride, crashing to the ground with such force that dust burst up like a cloud. Ser Humfrey was thrown, his right leg crushed beneath his horse's weight.
Gasps turned to cries.
The stands erupted in outrage.
"That was no fair blow!" shouted someone behind me.
"Aerion! Aerion!" shouted someone else, voice half-fear, half-adoration.
Egg stood in shock,
"He… he meant to do that."
"Aye," I said, voice hard.
I watched Aerion slow his horse, calm as a cat after breaking a mouse. He raised his helm just enough to show a smile. A cruel one.
Ser Humfrey lay on the ground, crying out in pain, men rushing to pull him free.
The prince turned his horse toward the royal box, bowing with mock grace.
He enjoyed it.
He enjoyed every drop of it.
My hands clenched around the railing.
Egg looked at me, small, furious, helpless.
"That was wrong."
"Aye, lad. It was."
And then Aerion's eyes found us.
As if drawn by scent.
He rode closer to the stands.
"Well met again," he said.
I said nothing.
Egg glared.
Aerion's smile widened.
"A fine view of my victory, was it not?"
"You call that victory?" I asked. "You crippled the man's horse."
"Aye," he said, lightly. "If the smallfolk cannot afford fine steeds, they should stay out of lists."
Egg bristled. "It was dishonorable!"
Aerion did not even look at him, as he rode away.
...