While the arena's stands filled for the final duel of the first round, Shrodmir Krumorgin sat off to the side, in one of the shaded preparation tents set up for the participants, checking the same grip on his hammer for the third time, though there was nothing left to check. Outside, the distant murmur of the crowd could be heard, the clatter of stalls where spectators stocked up on mead and toasted bread, but inside the tent itself it was quiet, almost reverent, the way dwarves liked to keep it before a fight.
A small dwarf boy, barely older than seven river-cycles and armed with a tiny toy hammer, had joined him unnoticed and watched him with wide eyes. "Are you going to win?" the boy finally asked, with that direct honesty only children manage. Shrodmir looked down at him, a calm smile at the corners of his mouth. "I'll give my best," he answered, "and after that, we'll see if it was enough. You can never promise more than that." He took a moment to inspect the broken grip of the toy hammer, which the boy wordlessly held out to him, and bound it back together with a few practiced motions before handing it back. No grand words, no speech about honor or glory—only the quiet matter-of-factness of someone who preferred acting to talking.
"My father says you're the best fighter in the whole tournament," the boy said, proudly pressing his repaired toy hammer to his chest. Shrodmir slowly shook his head. "Your father's exaggerating. There are plenty here who hit harder than I do." He stood, brushed the dust from his knees, and briefly laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "But maybe you survive longer if you don't just strike, but listen too. That would be a start, at least." The boy nodded seriously, as if he'd just learned something very important, before his mother called him from outside and he ran out of the tent, hair streaming, the freshly repaired toy hammer clutched tight in his fist, as if he himself were now a little champion.
On the other side of the arena, there was no trace of such restraint.
"Krumorgin!" a voice bellowed, leaving no doubt whom it belonged to even before its owner became visible. Adamir stomped through the passage to the arena, his war hammer slung over his shoulder as if it were a walking stick, his beard braided into two defiant plaits that swung up and down with every step. "Today I'm cleaning house with you, just like I do with every dwarf who thinks that just because he's got blue blood, he fights better!" A few spectators in the front row laughed, more at the volume than the content, while Adamir pounded both fists against his chest, as if he needed to remind himself once more how big he was. Rumor had it his clan had stood in the shadow of the royal house of Krumorgin for generations, always close enough to the throne to see its shine, but never close enough to stand in it themselves—an old grudge that Adamir seemed to try to drown out a little louder with every loud word, as if noise alone could outweigh the slight of an entire lineage. Whether there was any truth to the rumor, no one in the arena could say for certain, but it was more than enough to lend his entrance the sharpness the audience seemed to enjoy so thoroughly that afternoon.
The ancestors called up both fighters and, as was tradition for dwarven duels, announced the rule of this fight at the same time: the Anvil Oath. Not every hit would count—only a clean hammer strike to the breastplate, directly over the heart, would decide the duel. "Silencing the heart of the anvil," as the old dwarven sayings called it. No sooner had the names faded than the stands roared—a dwarven duel always drew the loudest crowd at this tournament, and no one expected anything that afternoon but noise, sparks, and shattered armor. Even the vendors at the stalls paused their business for a moment to glance at the Aether screen, which had already focused on the two fighters, as if it sensed something worth watching was about to unfold.
When Shrodmir finally left his tent, he paused briefly in the entrance and looked over at the arena, where the sun bathed the stands in a warm, dusty gold. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked on without looking back again—the calm of a fighter who knew that everything that mattered now would be decided in the arena itself. Shrodmir entered with steady steps, hammer loose in one hand, while Adamir was already swinging his weapon over his head with a roar, as if trying to whip the audience into a frenzy single-handedly. "Well, little prince," he called, "ready to embarrass yourself in front of your father?" Shrodmir only raised an eyebrow, without letting himself be drawn into a reply. Up in the stands, Nouel's mouth twisted into a thin grin. "I think this'll be short," he murmured to Alvios, who had already slid forward beside him, transfixed. "Why do you think that?" Alvios asked. "Because one of them fights and the other talks," Nouel replied curtly, and Raiiko, sitting quietly beside them, nodded once without taking his eyes off the arena.
The ancestors let the fight begin, and Adamir wasted no time. A light wind drew dust into small spirals across the arena floor, as if even the air had already braced itself for the racket about to break loose. With a war cry that sounded more like a raging bear than a challenge, he charged forward, swinging his hammer in a wide arc with enough force to shatter an entire wagon. Shrodmir didn't dodge, but took a single, precise step to the side, so the hammer struck the ground with a dull crack, deep enough to leave a fist-sized gouge in the stone. Before Adamir could free his weapon again, Shrodmir had already given him a light but unmistakable smack on the shoulder with his own hammer's shaft, more warning than attack. "You shouldn't put everything into the first swing," he said calmly.
"I don't want advice!" Adamir bellowed, wrenching his hammer free of the stone with a jerk and spinning around, this time with a sideways swing aimed at Shrodmir's ribs. The prince raised his own hammer just in time to catch the blow with a loud, metallic crash that echoed across the entire arena and drew a satisfied murmur even from the highest rows. For a moment the two hammers stood locked against each other, muscles straining, teeth gritted, faces only a hand's width apart, sweat gleaming on Adamir's brow in the sunlight while Shrodmir's breathing stayed calm and even, as if the exertion cost him little more than a deep exhale. Then Shrodmir redirected the pressure with a sharp twist and sent Adamir stumbling forward two steps.
In his stumble, one of Adamir's two beard braids had come loose and now hung crosswise over his nose, so he had to blow it aside with an irritated snort before he could see clearly again. A few spectators in the front rows burst out laughing, which noticeably did nothing for Adamir's mood. "That wasn't funny!" he roared at the crowd, struggling to pull himself back up.
"You fight like someone who wants to prove himself to everyone else," Shrodmir said, while his opponent laboriously regained his footing. There was no trace of mockery in his voice, more something like honest regret. "That makes you predictable."
"And you fight like someone who's afraid to actually hit!" Adamir snorted, attacking again, this time lower, aiming for the legs. Shrodmir leapt over the low swing with an agility one wouldn't have credited a dwarf of his build, landing with a firm stomp that kicked up a small cloud of dust. The spectators roared louder with every clash, while bets in the stands changed hands almost as fast as a new exchange of blows began.
Adamir growled, refusing to let up, and tried a new tactic—he began wielding his hammer in quick, short strikes instead of wide swings, evidently hoping to overwhelm Shrodmir with sheer number of attacks. For a moment it almost seemed to work: Shrodmir had to give ground, catching blow after blow with his own hammer's shaft, the metallic clanging coming so fast that the spectators in the front rows instinctively ducked their heads, as if splinters might reach them. But with every blocked strike, Adamir's breathing grew more audible, his movements a shade more hurried, while Shrodmir stayed calm, almost bored, as if counting the seconds in his head until his opponent ran out of breath.
When the quick strikes got him nowhere, Adamir switched tactics again, tossing his hammer aside—a murmur ran through the crowd as the weapon landed clattering in the sand—and charged at Shrodmir with bare hands instead, apparently determined to simply wrestle the smaller, calmer prince to the ground. Shrodmir, caught off guard for a blink too long to dodge in time, was struck by the full force of the charge, and both fighters went down, a whirl of arms, armor, and churned-up sand. Sand swirled up, clung to Adamir's beard, while somewhere in the crowd someone enthusiastically chanted the prince's name, without him even being able to register it in that moment. For a moment it was impossible to tell who was on top, while the spectators leapt up and roared, before Shrodmir twisted skillfully out of the grip, braced himself on one knee, and delivered a short, controlled shove to Adamir's shoulder with his free arm, enough to send his opponent back onto his back. Both fighters pulled themselves up, panting, Adamir with a face full of sand that made him look more comical than fearsome, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand and only spreading more dust in the process, which made the laughter in the front rows swell further.
"Any time now?" Shrodmir finally asked, not mockingly, but almost sympathetically, as he parried another blow.
"Shut up and fight!" Adamir forced out through gritted teeth, his face by now as red as his beard from the strain, before, visibly frustrated that none of his heavy swings had landed, he threw himself with full force into one last, exaggerated roundhouse swing—a motion that made him completely lose his balance for the space of a blink. It was exactly this moment Shrodmir used. He ducked beneath the swing, turned with the momentum of the motion itself, and set his hammer cleanly against Adamir's breastplate, directly over the heart—the Anvil Oath was fulfilled. No lethal force, but enough to send the larger dwarf toppling backward to the ground, where he lay with a loud clatter of his armor, the breath knocked from his lungs.
Silence settled over the stands for one heartbeat, before the cheering broke loose.
Shrodmir lowered his hammer, stepped up to the fallen Adamir, and held out his free hand. "Well fought," he said, and it sounded as if he truly meant it. Adamir stared at him for a moment, torn between wounded pride and reluctant respect, before he took the hand and let himself be pulled up. "Damn it, Krumorgin," he grumbled, brushing the dust off his armor, "you could've shown off a little too, you know. Would've been fairer." A hint of a smile flickered across Shrodmir's face. "Maybe next time," he replied, and this time it was Adamir who laughed, a rough, honest laugh that washed every last trace of grudge from his voice.
Together they gathered the scattered weapons, Adamir's hammer from the sand, Shrodmir's from the ground beside the crater his final blow had left, and on the way to the stands one could hear Adamir, now visibly reconciled, muttering something about a shared jug of mead he apparently now believed he owed the prince. Shrodmir answered with nothing more than an agreeable grunt, but the nod he gave his former opponent said enough on its own.
"The winner is Shrodmir Krumorgin!" the voice of the ancestors announced across the entire arena, and the stands went wild, louder even than for the previous duels—perhaps because a dwarven fight always guaranteed entertainment, perhaps also because there was something in Shrodmir's calm manner that could silence even the loudest crowd and then send it into cheers.
Up in the stands, Alvios clapped enthusiastically, both arms raised over his head. "That was amazing!" he called. "Did you see how he just... stayed calm, the whole time?"
"He let his opponent do all the work," Nouel remarked dryly, though a hint of admiration crept into his voice that he couldn't quite hide. "That's smarter than it looks."
Raiiko, who had barely said a word the whole time, only said: "Sometimes the one who waits wins." He added nothing more, but no one argued with him.
"I liked the beard-braid moment best," Alvios admitted freely, and had to laugh again himself, remembering how Adamir had blown it out of his face. "That was the best part of the whole fight."
"You're sometimes terribly easy to entertain," Nouel remarked, though even he couldn't quite suppress a faint smirk.
Viktoria, who had leaned back with her arms crossed, watched the scene with a thoughtful expression. "Two calm ones, one loud one," she murmured, half to herself. "I'm starting to wonder if I'm the only one here who likes to show off a bit."
"Definitely," Nouel said, without looking at her, and Viktoria jabbed him playfully in the side with her elbow, followed by a short, bright laugh that for a moment let the tension of the day be forgotten. Even Alvios, still chuckling over the loose beard braid, looked completely carefree for a moment, as if the two dwarves' fight had wiped away the whole weight of the morning with one honest laugh.
Down in the arena, King Shragrim Krumorgin had risen from his seat by now, his gaze proudly fixed on his son, even as he tried to hide it behind a stern nod that was more father than ruler. He waited until Shrodmir and Adamir had returned to the stands together, side by side and with no grudge left between them, before he rose and stepped up to the railing of the royal box. He raised a hand, and the roar of the crowd ebbed away within a few ticks, until only the rustle of wind through the stands and the distant clatter of the vendor stalls could be heard.
"With this, the first round of this tournament is concluded," he announced, his voice strong enough to reach even the farthest rows. "All of you have shown what you're capable of, in victory as in defeat, and the ancestors have watched closely." A brief murmur of agreement ran through the crowd before the king continued, his voice almost paternal, hardly surprising from a ruler who had just watched his own son fight. "Today I saw fighters give everything, even where victory was already decided. That is what makes this place more than just an arena of stone and sand."
He let his gaze wander over the stands before continuing. "But even the strongest among you need rest, to be ready for what still lies ahead. For that reason, we grant all participants a pause of three river-cycles before the second round begins. Use the time to recover, to sharpen your weapons, and to find your way back to those close to you." A groan of disappointment mixed with relieved cheering among the spectators, most of them long since weary from a full day of fighting, but Shragrim's expression grew more serious as he added one last sentence, aimed more at the heroes' box than at the crowd itself.
"Use this time well," he said slowly, every word carrying noticeable weight, "for not every pause means everything continues on its usual course." His gaze drifted briefly upward, to the heavy curtains of the hidden box, where the figures of the heroes still sat motionless, before he turned away and declared the ceremony over with a curt gesture. Within a few crowns, the arena dissolved into a sea of conversation, laughter, and rising restlessness, as merchants hawked their last wares of the day and the first families set off back toward the city. Three river-cycles, which for some would mean nothing but rest—and for others, as everyone in the heroes' box knew all too well, anything but that.