The morning mist clung to Asmora like a thin veil, beading on rope, armor, and hair. It softened the edges of the crowd and the palisade, but it did nothing to mask the smell: wet earth churned by boots, old sweat baked into leather, and that faint iron tang that never truly left the flats once men started bleeding there. Alaric tasted it anyway, the way a person tastes smoke even when the fire is long out of sight.
He stood on his observation step with his cloak clasped neatly at the throat, hands folded beneath it. The platinum ring on his left hand sat cold and constant against his skin, a quiet pressure reminding him that power was never free. Dawn stood close beside him, her quarterstaff upright. Her posture was stiff with effort, her midnight hair already slipping loose in small, dark strands.
Asimi sat behind them, composed, her metallic eyes moving over the arena. The Knights Gallant and Theurges held their lines with disciplined stillness, but even they felt the tension of the day. Men shifted their grips a fraction tighter on their spears. They watched the gates as if they expected the earth to spit something dangerous out.
Alaric stepped forward as the herald raised his arms, and the crowd's murmur settled into a hush. He could feel their attention press into him—thousands of eyes asking the same question: What is the prince building, and will it save us or swallow us? He lifted his chin and spoke with a voice young but clear.
"People of Asmora," Alaric announced, "the semi-finals have elevated into their second phase." The words held. "Only two fights remain before the finals, and only two will stand at the end with the right to contend for command."
He paused, letting his gaze sweep the rope line and the villagers who had once feared him. "All who remain have already earned knighthood beneath Starfall," he continued, his voice sharpening. "These bouts are no longer about proving you belong. They are about proving what you will endure to protect this land."
The crowd answered with a rising roar. Alaric stepped back, his hands still hidden, and felt Dawn's sleeve brush his as she leaned forward, her eyes bright with the seriousness of a child trying to understand adult violence without flinching.
The herald's voice boomed. "First fight of the second phase! Water against stone—song against iron!"
The eastern gate opened. "Entering first," the herald shouted, "warrior of the Southern Isles—dancer of steel—Kaelen of the Tidemark!"
Kaelen stepped into the arena in those clean silks that seemed to resist the mud on principle. His twin curved blades carried that low, oceanic hum that made the hair on Alaric's arms prickle. Kaelen's face was composed, but the flicker in his eyes remained—the look of a man who had slept with one ear open for years.
The opposite gate opened, and the air felt heavier.
"Entering second," the herald thundered, "survivor of broken cities—the boulder that does not flinch—Marek!"
Marek's rusted plate looked darker in the mist, the pitted steel drinking light rather than reflecting it. He carried a plain arming sword with a worn grip and no ornamentation. He didn't bow or acknowledge the crowd; he simply walked to the center like a man walking into a familiar storm.
Kaelen bowed lightly. Marek did not.
The bell rang.
Kaelen moved first, drifting into motion like a tide beginning to pull. His hands slid to his blades, and the steel whispered free. A pale blue shimmer gathered along the edges—mana like moonlit water—and the crowd made that eager sound of people witnessing something rare.
Marek advanced as if Kaelen's beauty meant nothing. His boots sank and pulled free with each steady step. His sword came up in a simple guard, and he swung once—not to kill, but to make Kaelen answer. The blade cut through the mist and met Kaelen's crossed swords with a ringing clash.
Kaelen gave ground with a half-step. He let Marek's weight pass where his body had been, then slid sideways, his blades humming in short arcs. He tried to cut at the straps, but Marek's rusted plate was stubborn and lacked soft leather ties.
Marek stepped in close and shouldered forward, crowding the space. Kaelen slipped away, but Marek followed like a wall that learned. The sword swung again, short and efficient, and Kaelen's right blade caught it. The impact jolted Kaelen's wrists. Marek's strength wasn't flashy; it was simply there.
Do not watch the blades, Alanor's voice whispered in Alaric's mind. Watch what the man in rust refuses to do. He refuses to chase. He refuses to blink.
Alaric's attention sharpened. Marek didn't lunge. He advanced, cut, advanced—each step reducing Kaelen's options until the dancer had nowhere left to dance.
Kaelen tried to break the rhythm by turning speed into cruelty. He darted in and struck at Marek's forearm gap near the gauntlet. The blue shimmer kissed the steel. Marek's arm jerked slightly, and Kaelen's eyes lit with predator focus.
Marek answered by stepping forward anyway and swinging through the opening. His blade clipped Kaelen's shoulder. Blood beaded instantly, running down Kaelen's upper arm, dark against the pale silk. The crowd roared in surprise.
Kaelen's expression tightened. He retreated, trying to regain his spacing, but Marek did not let him. Marek advanced, his sword aimed at Kaelen's legs and hips—the base of his movement.
Kaelen's foot slipped in the mud.
It was a small mistake, but Marek's sword came in immediately, cutting across Kaelen's thigh. The edge bit shallow, but it stole Kaelen's speed. He hissed through his teeth, and Alaric felt something cold settle in his stomach. Water could be slowed. Stone could be patient.
Kaelen changed tactics. He stopped trying to dismantle the armor and began aiming for control. His blades flashed with blue mana—left, right, left—forcing Marek to parry. The clang of steel became a relentless drumbeat. Kaelen tried to pull Marek into a rhythm that belonged to the song, not the march.
Marek did not give him that luxury. He took the hits on his blade and closed the distance. When Kaelen tried a spinning flourish to reposition, Marek stepped into the spin and slammed his shoulder into Kaelen's chest.
The impact drove Kaelen back hard. His breath burst out in a harsh grunt, and his boots skidded. He recovered fast, but Marek's sword was already swinging. Kaelen raised both blades to catch it, the clash ringing so hard Alaric felt it in his teeth.
Kaelen's arms trembled from the strain. Marek's rusted plate creaked as he leaned into the pressure. The crowd sensed the end.
He must stop the advance, Alanor whispered. Or the stone will crush the tide.
Kaelen's eyes flicked to Alaric for a heartbeat—the same recognition as before—then his gaze snapped back to Marek. He inhaled slowly.
The blue shimmer along his blades brightened. He stepped forward—not away—and met Marek's next cut head-on. He twisted his wrist at the moment of contact, sliding Marek's sword off-line, then drove his left blade into the gap under Marek's arm.
It didn't pierce deep, but it bit enough to make Marek's stance shift. Kaelen used that shift like a lever. His right blade hooked Marek's sword wrist and forced it wide, creating an opening.
Kaelen struck again, faster. A cut across a gauntlet strap. A thrust into the elbow seam. Blue mana flared, biting at the few places the rusted plate couldn't cover.
Marek's expression didn't change, but his sword arm slowed.
Kaelen's breath came in ragged gasps, his own blood running from his shoulder and thigh, yet he pressed on. He stepped inside Marek's reach and drove one blade up to Marek's throat line.
The silence that fell was as thick as the mist.
Marek's chest rose and fell slowly. He looked at Kaelen's shaking wrists and the blood darkening his silk. Marek understood: Kaelen had won the moment, but only barely, and only by paying with his own body.
Marek lowered his sword. He nodded once.
Yield.
The bell rang, and sound crashed back into the arena. The herald screamed Kaelen's name. Kaelen stepped back, sheathing his blades with visible effort, his posture held together by stubbornness. Marek turned and walked away without ceremony, his rusted plate grinding softly.
Alaric watched Kaelen sway a fraction and catch himself.
"He forced the stone to bend," Asimi murmured behind him.
"And he paid for it," Alaric said quietly.
The first finalist had been decided. Alaric felt the weight of it settle into his chest like a new piece of armor—heavy and necessary.