“What the fuck was that?”
The question came out rough with anger. Hal stepped forward, letting the tent flap fall closed behind him. The space was modest but well-appointed—a proper cot rather than a straw pallet, leather saddlebags.
The knight’s smile froze. It was still polite, but taut, now, with anger. Hal guessed no one ever spoke to him this way. “Excuse me?”
“Who are you? Huh?”
“I told you,” the knight said, turning back to his armour. His hands moved over the fastenings with familiar ease. “No one.”
“Bullshit.”
Hal crossed the remaining distance between them in three strides. His hand closed on the knight’s bare shoulder and spun him around. The contact sent something joltingthrough his palm—heat, solidity, the shocking intimacy of skin against skin. The knight’s eyes widened for just a moment, silver-grey and startled, before that infuriating calm reasserted itself.
“You bought your way onto the lists,” Hal said, not releasing his grip. “Paid that clerk to slot you against me specifically. I know you did.”
“And if I did?”
“Then you’re pathetic.” The word tasted good,feltgood, a small reclamation of power. “Some lord’s son slumming it for thrills. Playing at being an unsponsored knight because your real-life bores you. You have no idea what it actually means to earn something, so you had to take it fromme.”
The knight’s jaw tightened, the smile slipped, and oh, finally! Hal had broken through that hardened exterior. Yeah, there was a man in that cold shell like any other. Hal felt a surge of vicious satisfaction and pressed his advantage, stepping closer until their bodies were nearly touching, until he could smell the sweat and leather and something else beneath, something clean and expensive that had no business existing in a tournament tent.
Hal’s voice dropped low. “One victory means nothing.”
The knight relaxed. “Is that so? Then why are you having a tantrum in my tent?”
Hal’s hand tightened on his shoulder. The knight’s skin was warm beneath his palm, damp with cooling sweat. Hal was close enough to see the pulse beating at the base of that aristocratic throat, to count the individual lashes framing those maddening eyes.
Words got to him too easily. It was a flaw of his, his father had always said so, and Hal had proved that flaw over and over again. Not this time. His bodythrummed with the urge for violence, but he made himself speak the anger aloud. “You think you can throw around enough coin to buy a shortcut, and suddenly you’re a champion? You’re nothing. You’re worse than nothing—you’re a fraud.”
The knight’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure about that?” He looked Hal up and down, stare withering. “What exactly bothers you the most? That I paid for the opportunity to challenge you, or that I beat you? Quite easily, I might add.”
Hal bit down on his tongue. He was gripping the knight so firmly; he was sure his nails were digging into the man’s pale skin.
“You got lucky,” Hal snarled.
A dazzling, pitying smile. “We both know that’s not true.”
The words hit him harder than his fall from the destrier.
Hal felt them settle in his chest, heavy and unwelcome, because he knew—before pride rushed in to protest—that they were true. There had been nothing lucky about that last pass. He could see it now, replay it in the space behind his eyes, the clean line and the perfect timing, and he knew: only skill could have landed that shot.
But the recognition still twisted in him. That kind of precision didn’t come from stolen hours or hard-won bruises. It was forged the way noble skills always were: slowly, a masterwork weapon started in childhood, shaped under the guidance of proper tutors, refined with good gear and endless time, until instinct became second nature.
It wasn’t something an upstart could ever compete with. Hal knew he should leave the tent and let Perrin massage out all the anger, but he just couldn’t let it go. Turning around now felt like another, worse defeat. Halhad lost his streak today, but this lying, cowering noble’s son could lose something too. If Hal could just push him hard enough.
“Tell me who you are,” Hal demanded. His voice had gone hoarse. “Tell me what fucking house spawned you, what title you’re hiding from. I want to know whose son just ended my streak.”
“Does it matter?” The knight studied him, and Hal had the uncomfortable sensation of being read like a book. After he made some assessment, the Nameless Knight tilted his head and brought his strong arms to cross under his chest. His arms formed a kind of shelf for his firm pectorals, but Hal wasn’t looking at that. “You want to know who I am to save what’s left of your pride. If I outrank you sufficiently, you can tell yourself you never stood a chance. That the game was rigged from the start.”
Hal bristled. “It is rigged.”
“Yes.” The admittance surprised Hal. Something softened in the knight’s expression, but it was a look that skirted too close to pity for Hal to like it.
“ButI’mnot rigging it againstyou, Ser Hal. I came here to test myself, nothing more.”
“Against me specifically.”
“Against the best. By every measure, that was you.”
