The storm broke an hour before sunrise, leaving behind a world that smelled of wet cedar and iron. As the first grey light bled over the horizon, it revealed a tournament ground transformed into a swamp. The mist was gone, replaced by a clarity that felt sharp and unforgiving.
Alaric stood at the base of the Wizard's Tower, his boots caked in grey mire. He had not slept. The adrenaline of the skirmish at the western wall had faded into a cold, focused resolve. He watched as Valeraine emerged from the tower's service entrance. She looked immaculate—her silver hair braided tight against her skull, her Imperial silks swapped for a suit of dark, supple leather. Only the faint, rhythmic clicking of her parrying dagger against her thigh betrayed the fact that she had just spent four hours clearing the tower's marrow of assassins.
They met in the center of the muddy path. No words were exchanged at first; none were needed. Valeraine simply gave a sharp, clinical nod. The tower was secure.
"The House of Valerius?" she asked softly.
"The head is still attached to the body," Alaric replied, "but the neck is broken. They won't move again today."
"Good. Because your knights are waking up."
The camp was coming to life. The fifty survivors of the semi-finals—men and women who had spent the last week bleeding for a dream—were emerging from their tents. They looked battered, bandaged, and weary, but as they saw Alaric standing before the tower, a hush fell over the grounds. This was no longer a competition. It was an inception.
By noon, the sun had burned through the remaining clouds, turning the wet arena into a shimmering stage. Alaric sat upon a throne of simple, carved stone brought down from the tower. To his right stood Asimi, her expression unreadable but her eyes burning with a mother's fierce pride. To his left stood Valeraine, the Silver Needle, her presence a silent warning to any who knew her lineage.
"Bring them forward," Alaric commanded.
The fifty finalists marched into the ring. In the center stood Kaelen, the man who had walked out of the sea and into a legend. He was pale, his movements stiff from the previous day's mana-burn, but his eyes were fixed on the oak stand. Behind him stood the other four who had claimed the top-six positions—the new Knight-Sergeants of Starfall.
Alaric stood and gestured to the champion.
"Kaelen," Alaric's voice boomed. "Champion of the Starfall Tournament. You have proven that a heart of gold is stronger than a blade of steel. Step forward."
Kaelen knelt, the mud soaking into his breeches. Alaric took the heavy, dwarven-forged longsword from its rest and touched the flat of the blade to Kaelen's shoulders.
"I name you Sir Kaelen Tidestride, Knight-Commander of Starfall. You are the shield of this order and the voice of those who have none. Take this name and this armor; let them remind you that the weight of leadership is heavier than any plate."
The guards brought forth the dwarven-forged suit. It gleamed with a dull, ancient power, its runes humming in the sunlight. Kaelen accepted the helm with trembling hands, his new noble surname echoing in the quiet arena.
Then, Alaric turned to the five Sergeants who would form the backbone of his leadership.
"Sergeants, step forward and be known," Alaric declared.
First was Valeraine Brionac. She stepped forward with the poise of a predator, her silver hair shimmering. "You lead the unseen," Alaric said. "Your squadron will be the eyes and ears of this order. Where there is darkness, you will be the light that burns away the rot."
Second was Thodin Thunderforge. The dwarf was a mountain of muscle and stubbornness, his beard braided with iron rings. He was a master of the warhammer and stone-craft. He was given command of the heavy infantry—the "Anvils" who would hold the line when all else crumbled.
Third was Marik. The veteran swordsman stood with a weary but unbreakable dignity. Alaric placed the blade upon his shoulder. "For your years of service and your conduct in these trials, I name you Sir Marik Ironwood. You shall maintain our discipline and train the hands that hold our steel. You are the foundation upon which this order stands."
Fourth was Elyndor Faelith, the elf bladesinger. He moved with a liquid elegance that even the mud could not dampen. His mastery of the weave and the blade made him the perfect choice for the order's arcane-vanguard. He was given command of the skirmishers and spell-blades, the "Starlight Sabres."
Fifth was Garran Holt, a man of grim efficiency and tactical brilliance who had clawed his way through the brackets with relentless pressure. He was a master of the secondary line and logistical defense. He was given command of the archers and the tower's internal guard.
One by one, the five Sergeants knelt. Behind them, the remaining forty-five contestants knelt as well, their voices rising in a single, thunderous oath that shook the very foundations of the Wizard's Tower.
"For Starfall! For the Prince! Until the sun fades and the stars go cold!"
Alaric looked out over his new army. They were a motley collection of islanders, miners, mercenaries, and high-born spies. They were covered in mud and scars. But as the sun hit the dwarven steel of Sir Kaelen's armor, Alaric knew that the "prince's playground" was dead.
The Order of Starfall had been born.