The sun stood zenith high as the tilt-yard hushed in anticipation. Two figures faced off on the sandy ground before the stands: Prince Mason Bethel, sword held in a trembling hand, and Sir Nightshade—Zeno—daggers gleaming like twin slivers of moonlight. Around them, the crowd surged forward on benches, eager for the duel. The air trembled with excitement, and even Queen Cynthia leaned forward in her seat of honor, lips parted in disbelief. King John's stern gaze never wavered, but the quick rise of his dark eyebrows betrayed his surprise at the challenge.
Mason set his feet, heel to toe, as a knight's drills demanded. His sword was the finest blade in the kingdom, tempered steel etched with the Bethel crest. He lunged first—fast, precise, trained since boyhood. His blade arced in a deadly diagonal strike aimed at Zeno's shoulder. Zeno sidestepped, light as a leaf on wind, and Mason's sword grazed empty air, sending a shower of dust and sparks to the sky.
The crowd "ooh"-ed and "ahh"-ed. One hand clapped, then another, until the stands reverberated with gasps and cheers. Mason's jaw set; he pressed forward, thrust upon thrust, his footwork a furious dance. His father and stepmother exchanged startled glances. Queen Cynthia's white-gloved hands tightened on the balustrade; King John's jaw clenched. Even Eren, the youngest prince, cold as ice in his admiration for his brother, watched with hard curiosity.
Zeno's movements were poetry in shadow. He weaved and turned, his daggers flicking out to parry the prince's strikes with deadly precision. Each time Mason thought he had an opening—an unguarded flank, a momentary falter—Zeno dissolved into motion, leaving Mason's blade to sip dust. The prince's breaths came faster now, and his eyes burned with frustration.
Summoning all his courage, Mason feinted left, then unleashed a rapid three-strike combo: overhead chop, low sweep aimed at Zeno's knee, spinning slash to the ribs. The crowd roared in approval. In that blinding moment, Zeno's dagger-hand flashed out, capturing Mason's sword arm in a vice grip. Zeno twisted Mason's wrist, nearly snapping it; Mason grunted, countered with an elbow that launched Zeno backward half a pace.
They backed away in unison, swords and daggers lowered for a heartbeat's stalemate. Around them, torches burned bright under the midday sun, and horses stirred at the rattle of guards' pikes. Eren leaned forward, mouth curled in a challenging smirk. Madison clutched her brother's cloak in worry, her heart pounding at the violence before her.
Zeno's pale eyes narrowed. He sheathed one dagger, flicking it aside, then lunged. In a breath, he moved as though he did not walk but flew. His second dagger blazed toward Mason's temple in a strike so swift it was almost unseen—until a soft "thwack" echoed across the field. Mason's sword clattered to the ground, and he crumpled where he stood, black hair splayed in the dirt, consciousness fading like dusk.
A collective gasp tore from the stands. The herald's trumpet shattered the tension, and guards stepped forward to lift Mason from the ground. Zeno did not watch. He turned sharply and strode to the edge of the lists, slipping past forms and banners, as though he had never been there at all. No flicker of triumph crossed his face—only the ghost of a smirk as he climbed the steps to the spectators' benches and sat, daggers sheathed, eyes coolly surveying the next spectacle.
⸻
At the opposite end of the field, the second duel was already beginning. Sir Hardwin the Hulking—Lex—strode into the lists, club hefted on one massive shoulder. Captain Roland Darrow, armored and immaculately poised, stepped forward to meet him. The clash was set: brute force against measured skill, the mercenary's raw power pitted against the knight's disciplined precision.
Lex swung his club like a ram's horn, each arc capable of shattering shield and skull. Roland raised his sword, the blade singing as it met iron. He met the first blow head-on, pivoting his hips to roll with the impact and avert the worst of the force. Sand sprayed around his feet. From the stands, Dorothy and Liv watched with rapt attention, sensing that this bout would echo far beyond mere sport.
Roland pressed forward after absorbing Lex's opening strike, aiming his sword at the mercenary's exposed side. His blade sliced a shallow groove in Lex's armor, an insult of blood that dripped in crimson beads. Lex grunted, grimacing but also grinning, he then seized the opportunity to counter. He spun his club underhand and swept upward, threatening to lift Roland off his feet. But Roland ducked low, his sword's pommel smashing into Lex's rib, a well-placed strike that buzzed up the mercenary's bones.
Lex staggered back but snarled, the shock fueling his fury. He pivoted on one boot, club sweeping a wide arc that drove Roland onto the defensive. The knight's shield splintered under the force, and Roland heard the crack like thunder. He stumbled but recovered with a graceful leap, twisting free of Lex's heavy follow-through. The crowd howled at every exchange, their ovations shaking the very ground.
Roland pressed his advantage, slashing with surgical precision at Lex's unshielded wrists. Yet Lex, trained by both Leo and Kenan, deflected blade with club-handle blocks and parries so fluid they seemed preternatural. He absorbed each glancing blow and replied with thudding strikes, hammering Roland's shield-arm, driving the knight back to the center of the lists.
"Encore!" the crowd roared, enraptured by this battle of titans. King John's lips twitched into a rare smile. Queen Cynthia leaned in to whisper a bet to her ladies-in-waiting. Even Eren clapped in reluctant admiration, while Madison bit her lip, torn between dread and awe.
On Lex's next drive, Roland leapt into a spinning riposte and danced inside the club's arc, bringing his sword across Lex's shoulder in a precise rending slash. Blood spurted, and the hulking mercenary roared, staggering back. Roland advanced, muscles coiled, sword leveled for the final blow. Yet Lex, refusing to yield, summoned every ounce of strength, swinging his club upward in one last desperate heave.
Roland saw it coming—just barely. With a furious cry, he ducked, slid close, and drove his sword forward, the tip piercing Lex's thigh. Lex howled as the blade bit, but Lex—or rather, Sir Hardwin—gripped his club with both hands and smashed the haft across Roland's helm, dazing the knight with the concussive impact.
The two men stood locked in the moment: Lex bleeding but unbowed, Roland swaying from the blow. The stands exploded with cheers. Both combatants raised their weapons—Lex his mighty club, Roland his bathed-in-light sword—and delivered one final, shattering clang, metal on metal, that rang like the forging of a new world.
But time slid away. Guards moved in to separate them. Roland, chest heaving, nodded respect to his opponent; Lex, chest rising and falling like bellows, returned the gesture. The herald's voice thundered across the field: "Draw!"
The crowd leapt to its feet, applauding. Dorothy's red cloak rippled with each clap; Liv whistled through her teeth. Leo watched from the fringes, the white sword at his side gleaming like a question yet to be answered.
⸻
The tournament came to an end sometime later. As the valley below the castle buzzed with the aftermath of the tournament—traders hawking trinkets, food stalls redolent with roasted meats, children reenacting the day's battles—another drama unfolded in the shadows of Neros's streets.
In a narrow, lantern-lit alley far from the cheerful clamour of the tournament, five figures huddled beneath a stone archway. Their cloaks were black as midnight; their faces hidden beneath deep hoods. One spat to the cobblestones; another tapped a gloved finger against the hilt of a dagger. They whispered in urgent, clipped tones about "the debt," "the debt collectors," and "the debt's due." No torchlight revealed more than dark shapes and sharper intonations, but the weight of their conspiracy hung in the still air like a noose.
Unseen above them, perched on a tiled roof like a raven awaiting dawn, was Kenan—his green-and-black tunic blending with shadow. He watched, silent and unreadable, every lean-shouldered figure below. His saber lay sheathed at his hip, hand resting on the hilt, ready. He recognized the leader by gait alone—a traitor in the king's court, a man who trafficked in secrets. Kenan's jaw clenched: the conspirators' plotting threatened more than a debt; it threatened the fragile peace of the realm.
He weighed his options: descend and reveal himself, cut them down with a single flash of steel, risk exposing the Ashen Blades' presence in Neros—or continue listening, gathering their names and schemes. The wind drifted across the rooftops, carrying the faint clang of sword-on-shield from the distant lists. Kenan's eyes narrowed. Tonight, he decided, this dark council would learn the true cost of conspiring against the crown.
With a silent spring, Kenan melted back into the shadows, vanishing from sight. Below, the cloaked figures resumed their dark deliberations, unaware that at that very moment they had gained an unexpected—and dangerous—eavesdropper. And in the capital's heart, the gears of destiny turned once more, as alliances fired in the daylight gave way to plots that would stain the night with treachery and blood.