A/N: I don't drop chapters Sunday. I be busy with church plus Liverpool played a game last night sooooo I was held up for the day.
…
The sun burned high over Whitevale Plains, turning the tilt-yard into a sea of shifting spears and glittering steel. Banners snapped in the breeze—blue, sapphire, and gold—while the stands thronged with commoners and nobles alike, all straining to catch sight of the combat below. Horns blared at the opening of every bout, the crowd's roar rising in waves that rattled the castle walls.
Two unexpected figures strode through the clamour to join the lists: Sir Hardwin the Hulking and Sir Nightshade, their helmets off and cloaks discarded. At the sight of Lex's massive frame and Zeno's lean grace, whispers rippled outward.
"By the gods… it's them!"
"Those are the Ashen Blades!"
Even the knight captains paused mid-salute to nod in recognition. Roland Darrow, standing near the royal gallery, frowned so deeply the skin around his jaw creased. He knew that Lex and Zeno never acted alone. If two of them were here, then their leader—Leo Nerona—must be close by, watching. Roland's gloved hand drifted to the hilt at his hip.
⸻
Across the field, Lex hefted his spiked club and surveyed the throng of challengers. One by one, gauntleted knights advanced, only to retreat when they saw his size, or fall under a single, effortless swing that crushed shield and arm both. The crowd cheered at every crushing blow, but Lex soon felt a hollow pride.
"This is dull," he muttered, flexing his knuckles. "Is there no one brave enough for Sir Hardwin?"
Zeno, seated on the edge of the lists with his daggers sheathed at his belt, watched his companion with one eyebrow raised. Around him, eager squires and green recruits trembled at the sight of the half-elf's cool stare. None would step forward.
Lex stomped the ground. "I'm bored!"
Zeno smirked and leaned back. "Patience, hulking one."
⸻
Minutes dragged by. Lex's scowl deepened; Zeno's white-knuckled grin faded to a bored twitch. Finally, Zeno sheathed his daggers in mock disgust.
"Well! That's it for me. No one wants a piece of the half-elf I guess."
As Zeno turned to leave, a silhouette flashed from the upper platform. Prince Mason, the kings eldest son stood up. His younger brother, Prince Eren looked over with a mocking smirk.
From the royal box, King John's hand stilled on the railing. Queen Cynthia's lips pressed into a narrow line. Roland's eyebrow flickered upward—approval glinting in his dark eyes.
"Wait for me you half-elf idiot," Lex snapped at Zeno, storming to the edge of the lists, turning his head to the frightened knights. "I'd rather not fight cattle when I can't soak my club in true blood."
He stalked off, club slung across his back, leaving a stunned audience in his wake.
⸻
Then came a single, clear voice: "Sir Nightshade!"
The chant rose, hesitant at first, then gaining strength. Front and center of the crowd stood Prince Mason Bethel, face flushed, sword still sheathed. His voice rang out across the field.
"Sir Nightshade of the Ashen Blades, I challenge you!"
A murmur swept the stands. Roland's lips twitched into a thin smile. This, he thought, was courage worth rewarding.
Lex halted, club half-raised, and turned slowly. The sunlight fell across the boy's resolute face. Lex's own scowl melted into a grin. He looked over at Zeno, "I'll take this one"
Zeno ignored him and stared at Mason, "Very well, lad," he rumbled. "Let us see what you've got."
Roland stood up as well, not to be shown up by his nephew. He looked over at Lex.
⸻
"Sir Hardwin" Zeno called, voice low and amused, "I believe you have a match as well."
Lex's gaze flicked toward the stands, seeking Leo's approval. Leo stood on the grassy knoll just outside the lists, cloak draped over one shoulder, twin swords glinting at his belt. His eyes met Lex's, and he offered a single, lazy nod.
At that moment, Madison Bethel, seated beside her brother and under her mother's watchful eye, followed Lex's gaze—and saw her: the woman in red. Dorothy stood apart from the crowd, crimson cloak bright against stone, watching the field with narrowed eyes. A curtained tent of silk fluttered behind her, edge embroidered with arcane runes. Madison's breath caught; she pressed a hand to her heart as the veil of propriety seemed to waver.
Her brother's challenge forgotten, Mason's gaze lingered on Leo's standing figure. He wore the sun like armor, silhouette noble and lethal. The prince's chest swelled with pride and something else—something bolder than rivalry.
⸻
Across the field, Sir Nightshade drew his daggers and advanced upon Prince Mason, who drew his sword with a knight's precision despite shaking hands. The knight-captain Roland watched intently as Lex lowered into a fighting stance.
Behind them, Leo gripped his white sword, stepping back into the shadows. Liv stood close by, bow in hand, leaning forward as if to catch every glint of steel.
Dorothy watched too, lips pressed in a straight line. Somewhere in the clashing lances and flashing blades, fate was weaving its next design—and the Ashen Blades, unbidden, had taken their place.
⸻
Roland's smirk deepened as he addressed Lex with a bow. "Well met, Sir Hardwin."
Lex responded with a nod, eyes alight. "Captain Roland, your reputation proceeds you. Care for a dance?"
Roland simply turned and strode toward him, sword already drawn.
The crowd roared again, for the real spectacle had begun: four blades against three, prince versus mercenary, knight against A giant of a man, a killer who laughs during chaos. And in the stands, Dorothy's red cloak fluttered—a banner of the unknown, heralding a storm yet to break.