The air changed when the next bout was announced. It sharpened, as if the tournament grounds had grown teeth. The crowd had cheered hammers and shields, loving the simple honesty of impact, but elven magic carried a different weight. Even the villagers who couldn't name a single spell knew the old stories: blades that danced, songs that cut, and steel guided by something other than muscle.
Alaric stood on his observation step, his hands folded beneath his cloak to keep them still. The platinum ring on his left hand felt cool, a steady pressure against his skin. Dawn stood close beside him, her quarterstaff upright, her midnight hair refusing to stay perfect. Her eyes were fixed on the gates as if she expected danger to step through on soft feet.
Asimi sat behind them, composed as ever, her metallic gaze drifting across the rope line. Knights Gallant held steady while the Theurges watched with the stillness of trained casters. Beyond the palisade, the Wizard's Tower caught the light—a silent, marble judge looking down from the heights.
The herald stepped into the ring. "Next bout!" he declared. "A duel of refinement and resolve—steel guided by song, and steel guided by intent!"
The eastern gate opened. An elf stepped out with a grace that made the mud seem unworthy to cling to his boots. his armor was light—layered leather and leaflike mail—and his hair was a pale green-blond, tied back neatly. He carried a single elegant longsword, its guard shaped like a branching vine.
"From the Elven Kingdom of Illyndor," the herald boomed, "a singer of the blade—Elyndor Faelith!"
Elyndor saluted the horizon smoothly, ignoring the scowls of the crowd. His eyes slid to the platform, measuring, then settled on the ring as if the outcome was already decided.
The western gate opened. Vesper stepped out with no ceremony. Dust clung to her cloak, her hair was tied back plainly, and her rapier and buckler sat in her hands like extensions of her body. Her gaze flicked to Alaric for a heartbeat—past Asimi—then back to the elf.
"Entering opposite," the herald called, "the western mercenary—Vesper!"
The bell rang.
Elyndor moved first. His sword didn't chop or jab; it drew lines in the air, each motion flowing into the next as though guided by music no one else could hear. Vesper stepped back, angled sideways, her buckler high and rapier point steady. She fought like someone who cared about distance more than pride, letting the elf show his rhythm while she learned it.
Elyndor's first true strike came like sudden water. A lunge turned into a spinning cut that would have opened Vesper from collar to rib. Her buckler snapped up, the steel ringing loud enough to make Alaric's teeth clench. The force drove her arm back, and Elyndor flowed into a second cut aimed for her thigh.
Vesper hopped back, mud spraying from her boots.
Observe his hips, Alanor's voice slid into Alaric's mind. His sword is consequence. His feet are intent.
Alaric's face stayed still, but his gaze sharpened. He watched Elyndor's hips instead of the blade's flash. The elf wasn't improvising; he was reciting.
Pattern, Alanor continued. Three movements at a time. The fourth is the kill.
Elyndor pressed harder. The bladesong rose, forcing Vesper to block high, then low, then high again. Her buckler took the brunt of it, the metal shuddering, but each block was a fraction slower now. The elf's edge nicked her upper arm. Blood ran in a thin line down her sleeve.
Vesper's expression didn't change, but her breathing sharpened. She answered with a thrust that pricked Elyndor's shoulder. It wasn't deep, but it drew blood, and the elf's calm confidence tightened into irritation. Vesper reset her stance, adjusting her buckler like she was turning a lockpick.
She's learning the chain, Alanor whispered. She'll bait the third movement to steal the fourth.
Elyndor launched again. First cut—high, diagonal. Second—low, sweeping for the shin. Third—a spinning flourish meant to draw her guard upward. Vesper lifted her buckler exactly when he expected, and for a heartbeat her posture looked wrong, too open.
Elyndor took the invitation, driving into the fourth movement: an elegant thrust aimed straight for her heart.
Vesper slipped sideways into the space his body couldn't turn fast enough to follow. Her buckler smashed into his sword arm at the elbow, ruining the thrust. The point grazed her shoulder instead of sinking deep, and pain flashed across her collarbone. Blood spilled darker now, and the crowd screamed at the near-kill.
Elyndor's arm dropped, jarred. Vesper's rapier struck like a needle finding a seam. She thrust under his rib where leather met mail, and his song stuttered. Vesper followed with a second thrust to his forearm, then a quick cut that severed a shoulder guard strap.
Elyndor backed up, his eyes bright with sudden alarm. His elegance turned desperate. He swung wider and faster, trying to overwhelm her before the pattern collapsed. Vesper's buckler took a blow so hard Alaric felt it in his teeth. She stumbled, her boots sliding in the churned dirt.
Elyndor lunged for the finish. His blade slipped past the buckler rim and sliced Vesper's side. She hissed through her teeth, her composure cracking into something raw. She didn't retreat.
She stepped in.
Her buckler punched up under Elyndor's sword wrist, spoiling the angle, and her rapier drove forward into his shoulder. Elyndor's sword clattered into the mud. His knees flexed, his mouth opening soundlessly as the fight tipped.
Vesper held her rapier at his throat, chest heaving, blood running from her shoulder and side. Elyndor stared at the point, pride warring with survival. The roar of the arena faded into a tense hush.
Elyndor's shoulders sagged. He nodded once.
Yield.
The bell rang, and sound crashed back into the arena. The herald screamed Vesper's name. She stepped back, lowering her blade with stiff control. She didn't bow; she simply stood there, breathing hard, confirming she was still alive.
Her gaze lifted toward the platform. It found Alaric for only a heartbeat, and he felt that familiar prickle. It wasn't admiration. It was a message: I can bleed and still win.
"Barely," Asimi murmured behind him—an assessment, not a criticism.
Alaric watched Vesper stagger, catch herself, and walk away before weakness could be named. The finals were taking shape, but it wasn't a storybook tale. It was something harder: warriors with shadows, oaths that would be tested, and a prince learning the cost of building a shield.