He shook his head clear; sentiment had no place in the lists. Besides, Alaric hadn’t come here to find devotion. He wanted a victory that could truly be called his.
The Upstart turned, and for a moment their eyes met across the length of the lists. The impact was physical; Alaric’s chest constricted in an odd way at the sight of the Upstart’s aggressive confidence. The man was a brute, Alaric reminded himself, someone so far beneath Alaric’s station that in any other context they wouldn’t exchange words, much less lances.
And yet.
There was something in that line of the jaw, the breadth of the shoulders, something that made Alaric’s pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with the approaching joust.
He looked away, annoyed at himself.
A groom appeared at Fiona’s side, offering a mounting block Alaric didn’t need. He swung into the saddle withpracticed ease. Fiona shifted beneath him, her muscles tense with anticipation.
The squire—his temporary squire, borrowed from the tournament staff since he had none of his own—fumbled with the shield. It took three attempts to secure it properly to Alaric’s arm, and by then his shoulder already ached from holding it at the correct angle. No matter. Endurance was his strong suit.
“Visor, my lord?” the squire asked, then immediately flinched. “I mean—ser.”
Alaric sighed; his bearing gave him away. But that didn’t matter, either. Only this bout. “Yes. Lower it.”
The world narrowed to a horizontal slit. The grandstand became a blur of colour and motion. The field compressed into a single line: the barrier running down its centre, and beyond it, Halden the Upstart.
Who was also lowering his visor now, his squire stepping back with visible reluctance. Alaric watched the way the young man’s hand lingered on his knight’s stirrup, the gesture both possessive and tender. Then Halden’s heel touched his mount’s flank, and the moment shattered.
A horn sounded, summoning both competitors to the centre of the field. Together they moved forward, meeting before the royal box, where a minor lord and his retinue served as the day’s judges.
Up close, the Upstart was even more obviously a man who’d risen from struggle. His face bore the evidence of battles both in and out of the tournament—a nose that had been broken and reset more than once, a scar through one eyebrow that pulled his expression into a permanent challenge. His eyes were the pale blue of winter ice, and they fixed on Alaric with immediate, instinctive hostility.
Alaric, for all his experience with catty nobility, shivered at that gaze.
“Ser Halden the Upstart,” announced the herald, “victor of thirty-seven bouts, undefeated these eighteen months past, champion of the western circuit, knight of?—”
“Get on with it,” Halden muttered, just loud enough for Alaric to hear. Impatience radiated from him like heat from a forge. The herald spluttered a little but did as the Upstart wished. He gestured over to Alaric.
“—and his challenger, the Nameless Knight.”
The silence that followed Alaric’s non-introduction hung awkwardly in the air. The crowd stirred. A knight without lineage or achievement was an oddity, and the emptiness of his name against Halden’s many wins felt nearly pathetic.
But after a lifetime of hearing his name dragged out into a litany of titles and expectation, to be underestimated was a gift.
The lord gave the signal, and both knights retired to their ends of the lists. The drums intensified. The crowd went tense; bodies pressed forward, and chatter simmered to low whispers. Everyone wanted to see if the Upstart’s streak would continue, if today would be the day someone finally put him in the dirt.
The marshal raised his flag, and Alaric’s world contracted to three things: the horse beneath him, the lance in his grip, and the distant figure of his opponent. Everything else—the crowd, the doubt, the mess of emotion—fell away like water off oiled leather.
The flag dropped.
Fiona surged forward, her powerful hindquarters driving them toward the barrier. Alaric couched his lance,feeling the weight distribute through his arm and shoulder. The distance between knights collapsed with each pounding hoofbeat. Through his visor, Halden grew from a distant figure to an onrushing threat, his own lance levelled with deadly precision.
Instinct guided Alaric. He had just enough time to mark the other knight’s position—square in the saddle, lance arm steady, shield angled to deflect rather than absorb—before?—
Impact.
Their lances struck shields simultaneously. The ringing crash was like a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil, the tolling of a bell.
The shock travelled up Alaric’s arm, through his shoulder, into his spine. His lance had struck Halden’s shield dead centre, but the Upstart’s struck true as well. For a moment, they were locked together—two forces meeting with equal violence—and then they were past, slowing at opposite ends of the lists.
Alaric slowed Fiona to a canter, then a walk. He could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, taste copper at the back of his throat. His shoulder throbbed where the impact had driven armour into flesh. Real, he thought. This was real in a way court tournaments never were. No pulling punches, no false courtesy. Halden had meant to unhorse him.
Good.
Across the field, Halden had turned his mount and was walking back to his starting position. Even through the narrow slit of his visor, Alaric could read frustration in the set of those shoulders. The Upstart had expected to win on the first pass. Cocky bastard.
