“Then he’s a fool.” Hal’s voice hardened. He stopped in front of the tent and turned to his wide-eyed squire. They still had an hour to prepare.
“One of the pauldrons needs adjusting after yesterday,”he said. “Check my saddle for the balance. And check the lances. His, too, if you can manage; I don’t want to be dealing with a nobleman’s tricks.”
Perrin nodded and ducked inside to complete the first of his tasks. Alone for a moment, Hal looked back across the camp in the direction of the Nameless Knight’s tent.
The Upstart against the Nameless.
There would be no competition. Hal had earned his place here with blood and broken bones. No one—named or nameless—would take that from him.
3
ALARIC
Alaric fumbled with the last strap of his breastplate, fingers methodical—he knew what he was doing, of course—but stiff from a night on a plain pallet rather than silken sheets. He winced as leather chafed against sensitive skin unused to such rough quarters. Yet a small part of him savoured that discomfort. How quaint, to suffer like a common soldier.
Beyond the flap of his tent, dawn lay over the world in cold pewter light. Sleep had eluded him through most of the night—the thin mattress pricked at his noble-bred skin, yes, but more than that, his mind had refused to quiet. He’d been entranced with his bout against the Upstart, imagining every tilt of lance and angle of shield needed to bring the commoner-knight's winning streak to its inevitable end.
As if the outcome were ever in question.
But this commoner-knight forged by sheer ferocity and raw talent had drawn Alaric's curiosity sharper than any blade. He refused to wholly admit it, but he was intriguedby the Upstart's boldness, by the promise of meeting strength unfettered by titles or privilege.
Sliding on his plain helm, he smiled to himself: today, he was only the Nameless Knight, and that anonymity gleamed richly in his chest. The Upstart wanted to keep his win streak, no doubt. That would mean he wouldn't hold back. Perfect—Alaric did so hate an easy victory. But a victory it would be. The commoner's streak would end today, by his hand.
Fiona’s soft nicker answered him as he stepped out, her breath steaming in the chill.
“Ready for this?” he murmured, running a gloved hand along her crest. The mare tossed her head with casual pride—of course she was ready. Bred and broken in since foal-hood, she was like him, in a way. That life of discipline would show him through today.
The tournament grounds had awoken overnight. Where yesterday the earth had seemed beaten down and weary, now tension crackled in the air. Trampled blades shimmered in silver, and the wooden barriers glistened under fresh gusts of wind that snapped pennons to attention. Every taut rope and polished stake spoke of promise—of violence and glory.
Of Alaric’s assured win that morn.
Escorting Fiona toward the marshalling area, Alaric observed the rabble in their threadbare cloaks and mud-caked boots. These early-rising peasants pressed against each other like cattle, jostling for positions along the rails that his kind would never deign to touch. No velvet cushions here, no canopied boxes—just the stink of unwashed bodies and cheap ale. They came hungry for spectacle, and he felt a thrill meeting their eager eyes. If they knew a man of his station was masquerading in plain steel, the magicwould vanish like morning mist. If he won, he would never know if it was his talent or his title that had granted him victory.
Let them all believe in the Nameless Knight.
“Ser,” barked an attendant, beckoning him to the marshalling area. “First bout. Prepare yourself.”
He checked his armour a final time; unmistakably fine in its fit and quality, yet deliberately unadorned. The man thrust Alaric's lance at him, noting with distaste how poorly balanced it was compared to the practice weapons Alaric had trained with at court. Compensating for its inferior craftsmanship, he tested it, feeling the flex of seasoned ash, the way it wanted to move in his grip. Alaric shifted until it felt like an extension of himself, the way all good fighters learn to use their weapons.
He ran a gloved hand down the lance’s polished shaft, imagining the Upstart astride his own steed: muscular thighs, broad shoulders, the taut line of his jaw set with determined concentration. Then, those broad shoulders hitting dirt, that stubborn jaw slack with shock.
A flicker of something unspoken warmed Alaric’s veins—anticipation, he decided. Excitement.
Everything was as it should be.
Then, across the list field, a ripple of movement caught his attention. A cry went out in the crowd, first bubbling up from the commoners who had gathered on his opponent’s side, and then spilling forth into the grandstands. Here was the people’s champion, the proof that any commoner could become great.
The Upstart had arrived.
Alaric watched him approach and, without meaning to, began to measure him.
The Upstart sat upon a broad-shouldered destrier, thehorse draped in his patron’s yellow and blue. His armour was noticeably old, slightly out of fashion, but every dent and scratch had been coaxed into a muted gleam that did much to offset the agedness of the cuirass. Someone had cared enough to make it so.
That someone walked at Halden’s stirrup.
The Upstart’s squire, that skinny shadow Alaric had observed yesterday. Even now, the boy’s attention never wavered from his knight, hands adjusting straps that needed no adjustment, checking fastenings already secure.
Alaric knew the look of duty well enough. But devotion, freely given? He had yet to experience that for himself. What Alaric and his title inspired was service. What stood before him now was something else entirely.
