For twenty minutes they worked without words, but Alaric felt Halden’s attention burning against his skin. Those green eyes would flick toward him between strikes, lingering longer each time, the same dangerous awareness that had sparked between them yesterday.
Halden suddenly drove his blade deep into the practice post with a crack that echoed across the field. He wrenched it free and turned, chest heaving.
“Enough of this horseshit,” he spat, gesturing at the mutilated post with his blade. “I’m not getting what I need from dead wood.”
What kind of wood. . .
Alaric did not finish that thought. He planted his sword point in the dirt, leaning on the pommel with practiced nonchalance. “And what exactly do you need, Ser Halden?”
“You.” Halden levelled his practice sword at Alaric’s chest. Alaric jolted—did Halden know how he teased? Was he deaf to his own insinuations? —but Halden followed with, “Fight me. Now.”
The raw command hung between them, and Alaric’s mouth curved into a slow smile as heat spread through his chest.
“Careful what you ask for. I’ve already beaten you once, and you’re getting unhorsed again tomorrow.”
Halden’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath sweat-slicked skin. “Dammit, man. Draw your sword.”
Alaric acquiesced, pulling his blade free from the ground. They squared off across churned earth, blades raised. This close, Alaric could count the speed of the pulse hammering in Halden’s throat, could see the scar cutting through his left eyebrow, could measure the breadth of shoulders built for power rather than speed.
Brutish. Dangerous.Perfect.
Halden lunged first, a brutal thrust that slammed into Alaric’s blade with a deafening clash. His plain steel screamed under raw force, foot sliding back with Halden’s weight. Alaric barely pivoted his wrist, realigning his body so the blow skidded away harmlessly, but Halden’s follow-up came like a hammer. A brutal slash that rocked Alaric backward as he barely raised his blade in time, then another aimed for his forearm that had him conceding too much ground. The Upstart lacked the finesse Alaric was used to in duels; he was raging ferocity, and every impact sent shockwaves pulsing up Alaric’s arm, numbing bone and muscle alike.
But Alaric was a strategist. He let the next furious cut past his guard, luring Halden close, then delivered a lightning riposte aimed at his ribs. The blade whistled through the air, inches from flesh, and Halden had to jerk sideways to avoid it. The momentum carried them so close together that Alaric could taste the salt of Halden’s sweat on his tongue. The tang of fear and fire filled his nostrils.
They backed up and circled each other like predators. Halden’s brute strength thundered through every parry, every savage strike that sparked off Alaric’s guard. Yet raw power, Alaric knew, was never enough, and Halden was becoming more and more predictable. Alaric began to track the hesitation before Halden’s cuts, the minuscule lean of his weight before a thrust.
In a heartbeat, Alaric shifted from defence to assault. A feinted thrust to the shoulder, pulled at the last second to send a jolt of panic through his opponent. A wicked arc that would have maimed Halden’s sword arm if Halden hadn’t buckled in a messy dip to avoid it. Fury flickered in Halden’s green eyes, gold flecks sparkling, his breathing ragged. His attacks grew wild and reckless.
Then Alaric overreached.
He’d been baiting for the perfect opening, a decisive thrust to end the duel, when Halden shattered every expectation. Instead of dodging, Halden lunged forward, body meeting blade with calculated abandon. Their swordslocked at the cross guards, weapons clattered to silence, and suddenly they were chest to chest. Alaric panted. Halden’s own ragged breath curled hotly over his face. Every one of their muscles was trembling.
Up close, Alaric felt the tremor of Halden’s strength pressing back, and felt the dark heat pulsing from their bodies as their breaths synchronised into a single, frantic rhythm. In that suspended heartbeat, Alaric’s pulse thundered in his ears; he couldn’t tear his gaze from Halden’s mouth. Imagined, foolishly, tasting it.
Training snapped him back into focus. No. No, he wouldn’t do that. If Halden wanted brute power over finesse and grace, let him have it. He shifted one foot as if to yield, then dropped low with a savage sweep. His iron-shod boot struck sinew—an outlaw’s manoeuvre outside any honourable school of swordcraft.
Halden howled in shock as his legs collapsed beneath him. His sword flew from his grip in a metallic arc. He crashed to the ground, breath rasping, eyes wide with shock.
“Bastard move,” he grunted.
Alaric straightened, blade lowered, the dirty victory thrumming through his veins like wildfire. Gods, he would have been scolded hard for a move like that in court. But here? Well, the duel was over. “I’ll see you in the morn,” he said, turning away.
But he’d underestimated Halden’s resilience.
Something happened in Alaric’s periphery. By the time he’d turned, Halden had rolled, grabbed a shield from one of the practice dummies, and launched himself back to his feet. Before Alaric could react, Halden was charging shield-first.
The impact slammed the air from Alaric’s lungs.Halden’s weight crashed down, the shield’s iron rim biting just below his sternum and knocking all the air from his lungs. They collapsed in a writhing tangle of limbs and curses. Alaric’s sword skittered free across the churned earth as they rolled, each man desperate to seize dominance.
Halden was a mountain of muscle and fury. In seconds, he had Alaric pinned beneath him, one hand clinched around his throat like an iron vise, the other palm flat on the ground beside his temple. Sweat gleamed on his flushed face. Alaric was trapped, neck securely fixed in place, so all he could do was stare up into the green eyes burning with raw, unrestrained anger.
“Never,” Halden’s voice was a low, scorching growl, breath hot on Alaric’s skin, “underestimate me again.”
Gods. He was beautiful.
Alarichadunderestimated him, hadn’t he? Not the man's skill— he'd known Halden was the finest knight at this tournament— but the depth beneath that brash exterior. The fire in those green eyes wasn't just temper; it was purpose. And here was the core of Halden’s hurt, the thing that had made him the Upstart in the first place. Every victory was another piece of evidence that a commoner's blood could run just as noble as any lord's.
Alaric felt his breath catch as understanding dawned. This wasn't just some hot-headed peasant with talent. This was a man whose fury had direction, whose every move was calculated defiance against a world that dismissed him. He would never be as refined as Alaric, would never shake the roughness from himself, but gods, the intensity of Halden’s yearning was... intoxicating.
