Eighteen months undefeated was about to become history.
The marshal’s flag rose again.
Alaric adjusted his grip on the lance, feeling where the wood had splintered slightly from the first impact. He watched Halden settle into position, the subtle shift of weight that indicated readiness.
Then the flag dropped, and they were charging again.
This time, Alaric leaned fractionally forward, urging Fiona to an even faster charge. The mare responded instantly, her stride lengthening. The increased momentum would translate to greater impact force—a simple equation of mass and velocity that had decided tournaments since knights first lowered lances against one another. The ground disappeared beneath Fiona’s hooves. Wind whistled through the slit in Alaric’s visor.
Halden grew in his vision once more, but the knight’s shield had shifted slightly higher. His lance tip wavered almost imperceptibly. Fatigue? Or anticipation of a different strike?
Alaric took a calculated risk and aimed just below the shield’s centre, where the rim provided less protection. They converged, dust swirling around pounding hooves.
Alaric’s lance struck the shield’s upper edge with a crack that echoed across the field.
Both lance and rim shattered.
Halden’s horse staggered, the impact driving the creature sideways. For a moment—one glorious, terrible moment—Alaric thought he’d done it. The Upstart swayed in his saddle, shield hanging useless, and the crowd gasped as one foot slipped from its stirrup.
But Halden kept his seat.
With remarkable athleticism, he hooked his leg backinto position and righted himself, finishing the pass upright if somewhat dishevelled. His lance had missed Alaric’s shield entirely during the chaos of near dismounting.
The crowd erupted in chaotic noise, part disappointment, part appreciation for the display. Alaric circled back to his starting position, noting the change in Halden’s demeanour. A thrill pulsed in him, but he had to stamp it down.Stay focused.
The Upstart’s body language had shifted from confident to furious, tension visible in every line of his posture.
They slowed. Turned. Separated to opposite ends of the lists once more.
Alaric’s breath came hard now, sawing in and out of his lungs. Sweat ran down his spine beneath the armour, pooling at the small of his back.
The borrowed squire handed him a fresh lance. This one balanced differently, heavier in the haft, and Alaric took a moment to adjust his grip. Across the field, Halden’s squire was replacing his knight’s ruined shield, the boy working with frantic efficiency. When he stepped back, Halden reached down and touched his shoulder, and the squire straightened as if that casual touch had been a benediction.
The field was churned mud where their horses had torn it apart. The crowd was placing final bets, shouting over the drums, and Alaric heard none of it. He had one more pass. One more chance.
The flag rose. In the endless space between heartbeats, Alaric thought of his father, who would skin him alive if he discovered his whereabouts. His mother, who had wanted a scholarly son over a warrior.
The courtiers who’d asked, with polite condescension,why a man of his station would bother learning skills he’d never need to use.
Because,Alaric thought.Because I wanted to know if I could.
The flag dropped.
Alaric drove Fiona forward with everything they had left, lance levelled, aim unwavering. Halden charged to meet him.
Alaric made his decision in the final heartbeat before contact. Instead of aiming for the shield again, he shifted his target slightly to the left—where breastplate met shoulder. A difficult strike. But he could do it. He had to do it.
Their lances made contact simultaneously. Halden’s struck Alaric’s shield dead centre, but Alaric’s found its mark at the junction of plate and articulated shoulder.
He felt the connection through every bone in his body; the lance shattering, Halden’s armour buckling, the movement of mass. Halden’s body twisted with the force, his centre of gravity shifting beyond recovery. He buckled, torso folding over the point of impact, and tilted to the side. A leg in the air, arms reaching for the reins?—
And Halden left his saddle.
Alaric caught only a glimpse as he galloped past, but he spun in his saddle, eager to watch as Halden’s heavy body collapsed under the strain of gravity. He plummeted, but at the last second, Halden managed to tuck his limbs. He fell in a controlled tumble, hitting the ground with a practiced roll. Dust erupted around him, briefly obscuring his landing.
Silence gripped the lists for a beat. Then two. Then the crowd exploded.
Alaric’s hands trembled on the reins. His breath came in shudders. He’d done it. He’d beaten the Upstart. It was onlyin that moment that he recognised the undercurrent emotion for what it was: relief. Had he truly doubted himself so enormously?
