The flagfell.
Again. He rode the destrier hard and tracked Alaric’s approach, eyes fixed for the slightest tell, and there it was—just as Perrin said, a fleeting hitch in the knight’s left arm as he brought his weapon to bear. Instantly, Hal adjusted his grip, angling the tip of his lance out by mere inches.
His lance struck and splintered against the rim of Alaric’s shield, levering it back to expose Alaric’s torso. The impact was savage and precise. Shield arm splayed, the knight’s balance ruptured. He tipped back. For a heartbeat, Hal dared to believe he’d unseated his rival and avenged the days-old slight.
But Alaric’s left hand shot out, seizing the saddle horn, and with brutal will, he hauled himself upright. The feat was crude but breathtakingly effective; his mare danced aside under the transmitted shock, but her rider remained.
Alright. Fine. That was still Hal’s second point.
That awareness kindled a fire in Hal’s chest: he was winning. Two passes, two solid strikes, and at last, Alaric looked vulnerable. The crowd sensed it too, their roar shifting pitch. A frenzy brewed in the stands.
Finally. Things were returning to their proper order, and Alaric’s cruelty had failed to rankle him.
He steered back to Perrin, breathing easier despite the pain in his flesh. Perrin’s hands trembled as he pressed the third lance into Hal’s grip.
“One more,” the squire murmured, hope naked in his voice. “One more good strike.”
“One more,” Hal echoed. A day earlier, and he might have heard Lady Kerran’s eagerness in the young man’s voice. Now, he heard only true encouragement.
Perrin really was a good squire. Perhaps one day he might be a friend.
Across the lists, Alaric conferred with his borrowedattendant. Even at a distance, tension coiled in the knight’s shoulders. Good. Uncertainty was the least of what he deserved. Trickery meant nothing when lances met; the best knight would win in the end.
The herald raised his flag. This constituted the pivotal moment: either Hal would strike again, unseating Alaric to prove that his first loss had been a fluke, or the other knight would rally, extending the duel until fortune turned.
Hal’s grip was unwavering. His breath fell into a measured rhythm. Time suspended. Hal felt his heartbeat slow, the world contracting to the stretch of ground between the horses. Now, or never.
The flag fell.
He surged forward.
His horse thundered forward in powerful strides. The lance seemed weightless, and Alaric was positioning himself for failure—the gap between pauldron and cuirass was ripe and exposed. It was the area Alaric had struck to unseat Hal and that irony had him shifting away from the shield to that tender spot. This would be enough to unseat him.
But at the last moment, Alaric moved.
A subtle lean, a breath’s imperceptible shift, and the window closed. Hal’s lance struck iron. The clang drove through Alaric’s breastplate, shaking him but not unseating him.
Alaric had anticipated it. No. Alaric had—baited him!
Then came Hal’s own undoing. Alaric’s lance plunged beneath Hal’s right arm, angling upward with cruel leverage. He heard something splinter with the hollow crack of green wood and realised only when agony blossomed that the sound was the shattering of his own ribs.
His vision seared white. The lance slipped from his grasp. Reins tumbled through numb fingers. He fell.
It happened in shards of awareness: sky, earth, sky again. The final impact felt detached, as if he viewed another man’s ruin. Muffled voices drifted. The armour that once protected now crushed him. Every inhale summoned fresh torment.
At the periphery of his sight, a figure resolved: Alaric, circling back. The knight loomed above, visor lifted to reveal that pale, impassive face. Their eyes met—green and silver, victor and vanquished.
Alaric’s lips parted, speaking words Hal could not hear. But no triumph shone in his gaze. What was that he said? What was. . .
Pain rolled over Hal. The grisly landscape of the lists receded as darkness crept inward. Hal’s mind drifted to Perrin’s trembling hands, to Lady Kerran’s impending disappointment.
In that final breath of consciousness, Hal realised he ought to worry about death, not reputation, but he lacked the will.
The darkness felt gentle, welcoming like cool water after a fever. He surrendered to it.
And the world went black.
10
