---
As the dust settled from the last clash, the crowd still thundered, feet drumming against marble floors and hands clapping raw with admiration. Merchants began shouting again from the rear stands, serving crystalfruit wine, fire-roasted spice nuts, honeymead in long wooden flasks.
But the noble circles were quieter now. A different kind of excitement simmered there.
The kind born not from spectacle but from uncertainty.
"I expected Brennick to break that boy in half," a black-bearded warlord muttered from the crimson-caped seats of the Dravenguard command. "What is Artherion feeding their men?"
"Discipline," someone replied. "And something else. Fire, perhaps. From the old flames."
At the far end of the arena, I still watched.
The world had shifted beneath my feet. It wasn't the arena that unsettled me, it was that figure. The knight in bone-white armor who had stood completely still, silent and veiled, since the hour began. I couldn't see his face beneath the hooded helm. Not even a glint of eye.
I didn't know why I noticed him more than the others.
But I did.
And I wasn't alone.
Because just then, as the Herald of Flame raised his golden scroll once more, a whisper moved like smoke across the crowd.
"An unregistered name...?"
"Not listed."
"From what house?"
The Herald hesitated, a rare, visible hesitation.
Then, clearing his throat, he lifted his voice once more:
"The next combatant, by special entry, granted under the Law of Ancient Duel steps forward as Sir Riven, claiming no banner, no bloodline, and no oath but his own."
A stillness rippled through the stands.
The gates did not open.
There was no fanfare. No trumpets. No warhorse. No banner.
Instead, the knight in bone-white armor moved.
One step forward. Then another.
The crowd watched, hushed.
The sand did not even shift beneath his feet.
My eyes narrowed.
"Why doesn't his armor make sound...?"
The whisper was lost in the wind as the knight continued forward, stopping at the very center of the arena.
He did not bow.
He simply stood.
"Unveiled knight," the Herald said carefully, "by whose right do you draw steel on these sacred grounds?"
The knight raised his head slightly. Just slightly.
And spoke.
His voice was clear. Young. Not too deep. But there was something... displaced about it. As though it echoed slightly behind itself.
"By the right of the ancient pact. Steel is my witness. Glory, my judge."
The Herald blinked.
Then slowly looked toward the King's dais.
King Zeburel raised one hand, no protest.
Princess Vaeloria tilted her head slightly, intrigued.
But one man, seated behind the guards of the royal box, just at the edge of the shaded stair, watched with smiling eyes.
Saevan.
Cloaked in royal gray and marked with the ring of a provincial advisor, he blended effortlessly among the noble entourage.
He tapped one gloved finger against the rim of his goblet, barely hiding the flicker of amusement in his eyes.
"Well played," he whispered.
No one heard him.
But beneath the arena, magic trembled.
The opposing knight was called, Sir Darros of Coldwatch, a veteran paladin from the mountain strongholds. Wide-shouldered, tall, his helmet forged in the shape of a lion's head. He carried a massive tower shield and a war hammer nearly as large as I was.
When Darros entered, the crowd relaxed slightly.
At least they'd see a contest now.
The two faced one another.
And again, the difference was immediate.
Darros radiated experience. Strength. Strategy.
But Riven...
He simply stood there.
Still. Silent. Unreadable.
The Herald raised his hand.
"LET THE BOUT BEGIN!"
Darros moved instantly, shield forward, hammer low, marching forward like a moving fortress.
He didn't waste time.
The crowd appreciated that.
He was within ten feet, then eight, then six...
Suddenly, the white knight vanished.
Not stepped. Not ducked.
Vanished.
A flicker of white light, and he appeared behind Darros, crouched like a shadow in the wrong place.
Gasps erupted.
Darros turned and barely blocked the first strike.
CLANG!
A flash of sparks. The impact drove him two steps backward. His shield bent at the center.
Riven pressed again, fast. Too fast.
He didn't strike like a knight. He moved like water. A dance of flitting steps and sudden flourishes, like the blade wasn't an extension of his hand, but a creature moving of its own will.
CLANG. WHIRL. SLASH. DEFLECT.
Darros held on but barely.
For every heavy strike, Riven answered with three cuts, circling, probing, dancing inside his guard.
On the third exchange, Darros lifted his warhammer high for a counter...
Riven threw his own body forward, stepping into the blind spot.
One swift pivot. His blade kissed the air just below Darros's neck.
The older knight froze.
Silence.
The tip of Riven's sword gleamed.
Then withdrew.
Darros dropped to one knee, shield lowered.
"I yield," he said.
The crowd sat in stunned silence.
"H-how was I tank like him defeated so fast! That's, t-that's impossible," I fidgeted while playing possible outcomes if he had a battle with Lucien.
Then erupted into applause.
But not the same as before.
It was uncertain applause.
Admiration.
Fear.
And in the shadows of the court, Saevan smiled quietly once again.
I saw it all.
But i didn't understand why my skin chilled.
---
As the crowd dispersed, the evening grew long, and the banners above the arena drooped in the cooling wind. Noble families whispered behind gloved hands. Knights returned to their chambers with praise and doubt alike.
The scribes finalized the day's record:
Sir Caldris of Iserel – DRAW (Honor)
Sir Brennick of Blackhollow – DRAW (Honor)
Sir Riven – VICTORY (Unverified Lineage)
Sir Darros of Coldwatch – YIELD
And in the shadows of the underhalls, Saevan passed through the armory corridors unseen, smiling to himself as the tournament's true game began.
---