The arena dirt smelled wrong up close. It was a thick, cloying scent of sweat ground into sun-baked soil and old blood turned dark, with a faint copper bite that clung to the back of Alaric's throat. The crowd's noise rolled like shifting weather, swelling into a roar before falling into a predatory hum, and it made his small stomach tighten in ways he didn't like.
He kept his hands tucked deep under his cloak so no one would see if they shook. The platinum ring on his left hand felt colder than the mountain air, a heavy anchor of responsibility that seemed to pulse in time with his own heart.
Dawn stood beside him, close enough that her sleeve brushed his whenever she shifted her weight. Her quarterstaff rested upright, both hands clamped tight around the wood as if gripping it could keep the entire world steady. She didn't blink much during the bouts, her glowing eyes reflecting the violence below. Neither did Alaric. He couldn't afford to.
The herald's voice boomed across the ring, and the crowd answered with a jagged, eager sound. "Quarter-finals continue!" he shouted, turning with a flourish toward the iron gates. "Sixth bout!"
Haskel Mireborn stepped out first, and the crowd did not cheer so much as murmur, a low vibration of uncertainty. He looked like he had been stitched together out of hard living and desperate choices—patchwork leather, crude, blackened plates, and hair that hung in damp, greasy strands.
His weapons were ugly: a short-handled axe and a hooked cleaver that looked more like the tools of a butcher than the gear of a knight. He walked into the ring with a slow, flat-footed gait, like a man who had done this before in places much darker and more forgotten than a tournament ground.
Edrin Falk followed, and the atmosphere warmed immediately. He carried a halberd that caught the high noon sunlight along its polished blade, and he held it with the ease of a man who held a promise. Clean gear, steady eyes, and a posture drilled into him by years of imperial habit. Alaric felt the difference in how the people looked at them—how quickly a crowd decided who was "right" and who was "wrong."
The bell rang, a sharp, metallic strike that signaled the end of diplomacy.
Edrin took the space first. He advanced in careful, measured steps, the halberd's point held like a silver warning aimed at Haskel's heart. He jabbed once, sharp and fast, and the spike tore through Haskel's leather shoulder with a rasping sound that made Alaric's skin prickle.
Blood beaded through the leather immediately, bright and wet against the dull brown hide. Haskel didn't flinch. He didn't even gasp. He only shifted his stance, his eyes fixed on Edrin's hands like he was reading a book he had already memorized.
Haskel tried to slip inside the reach, and Edrin punished him for the attempt. A sweep of the halberd cut the air where Haskel's ribs had been a second before, close enough that the crowd gasped like a single, lunging creature. A jab nicked Haskel's thigh, leaving a thin red line that filled with blood. The halberd kept him at the edge of death, a silver barrier that never let him close enough to make his ugly tools matter.
Haskel's breathing thickened, turning into a wet growl, but his expression stayed oddly calm. Alaric saw it then—Haskel wasn't just enduring the pain. He was learning. He was storing the pattern of every jab, every retreat, and every reset the way a wolf stores the weakness of a fence.
Edrin, sensing the end, hooked low for the ankle.
The halberd's fluke caught the leather of Haskel's boot and yanked. Haskel stumbled, his balance shattering, and the crowd surged forward against the ropes, hungry for the kill. Edrin stepped in, thrusting the spike for the center of Haskel's chest.
Haskel dropped.
It wasn't a fall—it was a collapse he had chosen. He hit the dirt like a stone, the halberd spike passing over his shoulder and missing clean. Before Edrin could recover his momentum, Haskel rolled under the long ash shaft, hooked it with the curve of his cleaver, and jerked with a strength that didn't match his lean frame.
The halberd was yanked violently off-line, and Edrin's perfect stance broke.
Haskel surged up from the dirt, closing the distance in a blur of movement. He swung the short axe into Edrin's knee with a sickening crack that sounded like green wood splitting in a storm. Edrin shouted, a raw and involuntary sound of agony, and his leg buckled beneath him. The halberd dipped, and in that instant of weakness, Haskel ripped the weapon free with the cleaver's hook.
The polearm skidded across the dirt, out of reach.
Edrin reached for a belt knife, his face pale with shock, but the fight was already over. Haskel's axe stopped inches from Edrin's face, the notched blade trembling slightly with the force of the restraint.
The hush that fell over Asmora was heavy enough to crush. Alaric watched Edrin's eyes lock on the axe head and saw something there beyond simple fear. It was a sudden, devastating understanding that discipline and clean gear didn't stop a man from dying.
Edrin nodded once, his jaw tight.
Yield.
The bell rang again, and the crowd exploded into a frenzied roar. The herald screamed Haskel's name as if it were a spell of protection. Medics rushed into the ring, supporting Edrin as he limped away, his teeth clenched hard enough to show the white of his bone.
Haskel backed away slowly, blood streaking his shoulder and staining the dirt beneath his feet. He didn't salute the crowd or bask in the noise. He looked up at the platform and bowed once, a controlled and deliberate motion, as if he knew exactly where the true power sat.
Alaric stared back, his expression a mask of marble.
Asimi leaned close to him, her voice a soft, dangerous silk near his ear. "He is not a soldier, Alaric. He is a survivor. That makes him dangerous."
Alaric nodded once, his eyes never leaving the butcher in the ring. "Yes."
Dawn whispered, her voice barely audible over the chanting of the villagers, "But he won. He stayed standing when the 'right' man didn't."
Asimi's gaze stayed on Haskel as he vanished into the shadows of the gate. "Winning is a capability, Dawn," she said, her tone clinical and cold. "Never confuse it for a virtue."
Alaric watched the trail of blood darkening the dirt behind Edrin's dragging step. He remembered the sound of the knee cracking. He remembered how close the axe had been to the eye. Above them, the Wizard's Tower remained silent, pale and clean against the sky. It did not care who bled in the mud below. It simply watched to see what kind of defenders Alaric was buying with his coin and his promises.