As the young king and his escort knights left the temple, the air—which had been charged with ceremony and solemnity—now crackled with speculation and barely concealed anticipation.
The gathered nobles, merchants, and famed knights all rose from their seats and reformed their cliques, erupting in hushed discussions that filled the chapel with a low, urgent hum.
Voices overlapped, hands gestured emphatically, and eyes darted from group to group as alliances were assessed and strategies were formed.
Bragi and Torin kept to themselves, merely observing in silence. They stood near the back of the chapel, their arms crossed, their expressions carefully neutral.
Torin watched the nobles as they moved and spoke, reading the subtle shifts in their postures, the way their eyes flickered toward Queen Melisande and Duke Armand, who stood at opposite ends of the altar like two opposing forces.
Then, after a while, the priestess cleared her throat. The sound was sharp, commanding, and it cut through the noise like a blade. Silence fell immediately, all eyes turning toward her.
She declared, her voice carrying the weight of authority, "As per tradition, the coronation ends with His Majesty, the newly crowned King of Daggerfall, departing toward the palace."
She paused, her gaze sweeping the room. "However, due to His Majesty's young age, we must choose a suitable regent to rule in his stead until our young king grows into his crown."
One hand rose in the direction of Queen Melisande, and another rose toward Duke Armand.
"It has been agreed upon that none were more qualified for such a duty than the King Lucien's own mother, the former queen of our kingdom, and Duke Armand, His Majesty's uncle."
She joined her hands together. "However, who of the two is more qualified has been a matter of fierce debate, as you all know. As each and every one of you fine ladies and lords of the realm strive to better our land in your own ways, we find ourselves too severely divided."
Her hands lowered to her side, and her expression turned severe.
"To prevent the bloodshed, suffering of our people, and the ruin of our homeland, both parties have agreed to solve this dilemma not through words and diplomacy—as such means have failed—but through trial by combat. Right before the eyes of our kingdom's patron deity, Lady Kynareth herself."
Another eruption of voices filled the chapel, speaking over each other in shock at the revelation. Some of the guests merely nodded knowingly, their expressions grim but unsurprised.
Torin's eyes narrowed.
Well, he mused. Now that's unexpected.
The head priestess cleared her throat once more, the sound cutting through the murmurs like a blade. Silence fell again, heavy and expectant. She waited a moment, letting the tension build, then spoke.
"Since both Lady Melisande and Lord Armand are people of integral importance to the stability of Daggerfall—with many responsibilities and duties—it has been agreed upon that they will name champions to fight in their stead."
Before the priestess could continue, Duke Armand let out a snort, loud and derisive. He gestured dismissively at Melisande, a smirk spreading across his weathered face.
"It's not as if I had any other choice, but to agree..." he said, his voice carrying across the chapel. "I'm more than willing to fight myself." He spread his hands, the picture of false humility. "However, my nephew's mother didn't seem so keen on the idea..."
A wave of chuckles rippled through the guests, some genuine, others forced. The duke had always been a favorite among certain circles—the ones who appreciated his bluntness and warlike nature.
Queen Melisande, however, maintained her posture, her expression blank and unreadable. Her hands remained clasped before her, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond the duke's shoulder.
"How chivalrous," she said, her voice smooth as silk, laced with just the faintest edge of mockery. "A nobleman and a knight, indeed, Armand. So eager to lay your hands on a helpless window." She shook her head slowly, a gesture of calculated disappointment. "A true role model for the ages."
The duke's smirk faltered, just for a moment. Then he let out a chuckle—low, almost admiring.
"You are many things, my lady," he said, his eyes glinting. "Helpless is not one of them. If that were the case, we wouldn't be standing here, still debating what should have been a matter of course."
The queen did not reply. She simply turned away from the duke, a dismissal as clear as any spoken word, and fixed her gaze on the altar as if he had ceased to exist.
The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a knife.
The priestess, who had been patiently waiting for them to finish their exchange, finally spoke after a brief pause. Her voice was calm but carried an edge of authority that brooked no further interruption.
"Now that is settled, and everyone present understands the situation..." She gestured toward the duke and the former queen. "May the disputing parties name their champions."
Duke Armand opened his mouth to speak, but the queen promptly cut him off, her voice sharp as a blade.
"Did you not say you were willing to fight yourself?" She tilted her head, a faint, icy smile playing on her lips. "Now is your chance to prove it."
The duke rubbed the tip of his mustache with his thumb and index finger, his grin unfaltering. He seemed almost amused by her challenge.
"Indeed I am," he said slowly, letting the words hang in the air. "Unfortunately, this matter is bigger than my pride as a nobleman and a knight. The very future of the kingdom rests on it."
He spread his hands. "As such, I can only entrust this matter to one man—and none else."
He gestured toward a door at the side of the chapel that led deeper into the temple. "Sir Garran Holt," he called, his voice ringing with authority. "Show yourself."
At those words, the door swung open, and through it came a large man wearing an old suit of mail armor that seemed to have been polished and maintained recently.
The steel gleamed in the candlelight, its surface free of rust or tarnish. He moved with the deliberate, unhurried confidence of a man who had seen battle and had walked away from it every time.
Torin's eyes widened slightly. This was the same man he had seen passing through the street on an old-looking horse not long ago—the one whose gaze had felt like a physical weight, whose hostility had been palpable even from a distance.
He was even more imposing up close, his broad shoulders filling the doorway, his weathered face betraying no emotion.
Bragi also seemed shocked by what he saw and heard. His usual composure cracked, his brow furrowing, his lips pressing into a thin line. Torin quickly noticed the skald's reaction.
"You know this man?" Torin asked, his voice low.
As murmurs erupted once more, rippling through the gathered nobles like wind through wheat, Bragi leaned closer to Torin, his voice low enough that only the Nord could hear.
"Aye," he said, his eyes fixed on the figure in the doorway. "They call him the Bannerless Knight."
Torin studied the man—the weathered face, the old but meticulously maintained mail, the way he stood with a stillness that spoke of a man who had learned to wait.
"I know not if he was highborn or a knighted commoner," Bragi continued, "but this man is the best swordsman in Daggerfall. Perhaps all of High Rock. Rivaled only by one other."
Torin's eyebrow rose slightly. "One other?"
Bragi shook his head. "A story for another time. But know this—Garran Holt has killed giants. Slain minotaur bandit chiefs. Put down things that would make most men weep with fear." He let out a low sigh. "And he did it only with his sword and tattered armor."
Torin nodded along, his gaze still fixed on the Bannerless Knight. The man had not moved since stepping through the door. He simply stood there, waiting, as if he had all the time in the world.
"He sounds exactly like the kind of man to be named on this occasion," Torin said slowly. "Which makes me wonder..."
He took a look around, noting how the majority of the guests seemed very shocked by Garran Holt's presence. Their faces were pale, their whispers urgent, their gazes flickering between the duke and the knight as if trying to make sense of something that shouldn't be.
"Why does it seem like his presence is so unexpected by these people?"
Bragi shrugged, but there was a hint of admiration in his voice as he spoke.
"It's in the name, lad. Bannerless Knight. Though a knight, he serves no lord. The people of High Rock know him as a wandering swordman who slays monsters that haunt the rural villages—those in the furthest reaches of these lands, where no lord would bother to send his knights and soldiers...."
He smiled, a wry expression. "But even then, he's not much of a mercenary. Most times, he leaves without recieving any payment. His clients are poor peasants who can't pay much anyway." He paused. "No one knows why he fights, but it's not for something as trivial as coin... that much is certain."
Torin let out a hum, giving the knight another once-over. Garran Holt stood with the same stillness as before, his hands resting on the pommel of his greatsword, his gaze still fixed on the altar.
He looked like a man who had seen everything and was impressed by nothing.
If Garran Holt was half the knight Bragi described, Torin mused, then he wasn't here for profit or personal gain. He either needed something desperately from Armand, or he truly believed in him.
There was also the possibility that the duke coerced him somehow—but there was no point speculating about it now.
Torin's eyes narrowed.
Either way, he thought, this just got a lot more interesting.
Just as Torin was about to ask Bragi something else, the head priestess raised her hands and spoke, her voice cutting through the murmurs like a blade.
"Everyone, please be silent for a moment so that we may proceed."
This time, it took a couple of moments for the noise to die down. Whispers faded, heads turned, and the weight of a hundred expectant gazes settled on the altar. Silence returned, heavy and anticipatory.
The head priestess turned to the queen, her expression formal and composed.
"Lord Armand has named his champion, my lady. Please name yours."
Queen Melisande remained calm, her posture unyielding, her expression unreadable. She seemed entirely unfazed by Armand's choice, as if she had expected the Bannerless Knight to be named—or perhaps she simply did not view him as a source of concern. She took a slow, deliberate step forward, her gown rustling against the polished stone floor.
Her gaze swept the assembled guests, lingering for a moment on Duke Armand's smug expression, then on the impassive face of Garran Holt. Then, surprisingly, her eyes landed on Torin.
And much to his amazement, she declared, her voice carrying across the silent chapel, "My champion shall be Torin Kodlaksson. The Storm Caller."
There were no murmurs this time. Only silence—a silence so complete that Torin could hear the faint crackle of the candles and the distant chirping of birds in the garden. It was a silence that felt heavier than a mountain, pressing down on him from all sides as every eye in the room suddenly turned to him.
Torin did not reply instantly. The gears in his head shifted at maximum speed, turning over the implications, the strategies, the countless possible reasons behind this unexpected move.
He had imagined many scenarios as to how this would play out—what kind of schemes the queen had in motion, what her true intentions were. But he had never expected to have such a hot potato thrown into his lap.
The more I think about it, he mused, the less sense it makes.
If the queen and her people wanted him to fight in a duel, then why didn't they just say so? Why the secrecy, the games, the roundabout maneuvering?
Even if they wanted to strong-arm him into accepting—which they should have known better than to think they could—they were doing themselves a disservice by ambushing him with the duel like this.
In his former life, professional fights had been agreed upon long before they ever happened. There was a reason for that. Even if this was a different world with hardier people, even if the rules of engagement were different here, he would still need some time to prepare—to be in the best condition possible, to study his opponent, to strategize.
All of that made it very easy for him to refuse without suffering any slights to his or Torryg's honor. It gave him the excuse he was looking for to pack up and return to Skyrim...
And if he refused, he would leave the queen without a champion on the spot. That would be a disaster for her, a humiliation she couldn't afford, or so Torin's Nordic upbringing obliged him to assume, but these people were no Nords, and he was still ignorant of their customs.
It's very much possible, Torin realized, that she named me, fully expecting me to refuse... not that it matters.
With that thought in mind, Torin put on a small, polite smile and prepared to decline "the honor."
...
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