In the end it had been almost laughably simple, and Alaric found himself anticipating tomorrow not with the hollow certainty of another easy victory, but the sharp edge of genuine challenge.
He turned from the pavilion to find Ser Halden’s next bout already underway.
Even across the field, Alaric’s blood quickenedat the sight of him. Halden’s mount pawed the earth, sensing its rider’s fury. The man’s easy confidence had burned away, leaving something dangerous in its place—a man, now, with everything to lose. Oh, how Alaric’s win had upset him. Halden’s shoulders coiled with the tension of a drawn bow. But the Upstart’s opponent—some northern lord—was already defeated before the signal, Alaric could see it plain.
They crashed together with a violence that silenced the crowd. Lances exploded into splinters and both riders rocked in their saddles. But only Halden commanded his seat through sheer will. The northern lord slammed into the packed earth with a sickening crack of armour and bone, and Halden thundered past without acknowledgement.
The crowd’s roar hit like a physical wave. Their Upstart had returned, their champion restored. But even as Alaric nodded at Ser Halden’s brutal display, he alone saw the truth beneath the triumph—the white-knuckled grip as Halden tore off his helm, the barely contained tremor that wasn’t exhaustion but rage. Or. . .fear.
He was reliving their encounter yesterday. Alaric would bet his life on it. Halden the Upstart had attacked this poor, unsuspecting knight with all the anger he held for Alaric, and not even a victory was enough to quell the storm in him.
So Halden was the same as him, or similar; utterly unable to back down from a challenge. Heat surged through Alaric’s veins, a hunger sharper than any desire for tournament glory.
Alaric watched Halden swing from the saddle, iron eyes fixed on the ground, while a scrawny squire darted forward as though Halden had split the very earth for him. Theboy’s devotion was exquisite torture to witness—raw, unguarded loyalty poured endlessly into a vessel too consumed by inner demons to recognise its worth. Did Halden feel those dark eyes burning into him? Did he understand the power he held over that desperate heart?
Never. Men like Halden, who clawed their way up through blood and grit, were blind to treasures freely offered at their feet.
But he sees you, a terrible voice urged in Alaric’s ear.You share the same demons; he is your brother-in-arms.
Alaric shook his head. Not quite. Halden was raw talent to Alaric’s precision. He was loud, potty-mouthed, and aggressive, which were traits Alaric had rarely encountered in his life. It was the heart of him, buried at his core, that Alaric recognised. That Alaric wanted to know.
In a way, though, the best way to know Halden the Upstart was to put him in the dirt again. Who would rise up from the ground that time, Alaric wondered? What kind of man would he become after a second humiliating defeat?
Only one way to find out.
The afternoon stretched ahead, empty and unsatisfying. He could return to his tent, could rest and prepare for tomorrow’s final match. But restlessness clawed at him, the particular frustration of energy with nowhere productive to go.
The training grounds lay at the eastern edge of the tournament complex, a broad field marked with practice posts and weapon racks and then the rest of the field was given over to quintain, a post with a shield and counterweight for practicing ducking whilst on horseback. Most knights avoided the training grounds during competition days, preferring to conserve their strength, but Alaric had always found inactivity more draining than effort. His musclescraved work, demanded the satisfaction of genuine exertion.
He retrieved his practice sword from his tent—a plain, well-balanced bit of steel—and made his way through the afternoon heat to the grounds. Footprints marked the dirt, wooden posts bore fresh gashes, and the air carried the unmistakable tang of exertion. The practice posts stood in neat rows, each carved to roughly human proportions. Alaric selected one and began his routine—thrust, parry, riposte, the eternal dance of blade against imagined opponent. His shoulder muscles, tight from the morning’s lance work, slowly loosened as he found his rhythm.
The sword sang through air, a silver arc of controlled violence. Alaric’s muscles burned with each strike, sweat already darkening his shirt as he drove the blade into imaginary flesh and bone. Somewhere about the quarter-hour mark, it stopped being practice and became exorcism—each thrust purged the convoluted feelings from his body.
His breath came harder, faster, as he imagined real opponents falling before him instead of empty air, as he imagined someone in particular, broad shouldered and?—
Gravel crunched behind him. Alaric finished his sequence with a savage overhead cut that would have cleaved a man from crown to collarbone, then pivoted, blade still raised.
Halden stood at the edge of the field, knuckles white around a practice sword of his own. A muscle jumped in his jaw, and those green eyes—the same that had locked with Alaric’s yesterday in his tent—burned with barely contained fury. The victory that should have restored his pride truly had done nothing to cool his blood.
“Nameless Knight.” Halden’s nostrils flared; he looked like a child resenting having to share his favourite toy.
Alaric bowed with a deliberate flourish, watching how Halden’s throat tightened at the gesture. “It’s Ser Alaric, Ser Halden. Your performance earlier was. . .quite adequate.”
Halden advanced, tension radiating from his shoulders. “Adequate? Fuck off. I know you’ve bought your way into facing me tomorrow.”
The accusation hung between them, but Alaric couldn’t help but smile. This only made Halden’s expression tighter.
“I’m merely a persuasive person,” Alaric murmured. “I want to see you on your back again.”
Halden spat over his shoulder, but a flush had assaulted his face. “Burn, you bastard.”
Halden stalked to a practice post nearby, close enough that Alaric could smell the leather and sweat on him. His first strike hit with such force that splinters flew from the wooden target. The second strike came harder still, his grunt of effort carrying across the field like a battle cry. It was, for all intents and purposes, another tantrum.
So why did Alaric find himself watching Halden the Upstart for far too long?
Alaric pulled himself back to his own practice and matched Halden’s rhythm stroke for stroke.
Steel bit into wood with violence and vicious precision—Halden’s blade hacking chunks from his target, while Alaric’s carved more precisely. Sweat drowned their tunics, salt stung eyes and slicked palms against sword hilts. The rhythm of their parallel training created a war-drum cadence across the field.
