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Black banners with silver embroidery bearing the tournament symbol dangle from every surface. Between them, smaller flags show the colors of different kingdoms, different houses, and different competitors. Reds and golds. Blues and whites. Greens so dark that they’re almost black.

Even vendor carts sell tiny versions on sticks for the audience to wave in support of their chosen combatant.

Following the signs, we head down a street that widens into a square. Another set of gates leads to the castle grounds where the true chaos resides.

Pavilions rise like mushrooms after rain, flanked by staff wearing the black and silver sashes. Armed, fierce-looking men and women surround them, guiding them into neat little lines.

The liveliness is a big change from what we experienced for much of our journey. Gray fields. Hollow-eyed people. The silence of places where hope has packed up and moved on.

Here, life explodes in every direction, even more so than at the festival. It’s almost too much. Too bright, too loud, too alive after weeks of watching things die. The environment unsettles me even as it reminds me that life persists, that we can still stop the Withering before the rot consumes everything.

A woman with wings—actual wings, with white feathers tipped in gold—drops from the sky and lands in front of a fruit stand. She folds her wings back with practiced ease and starts haggling over prices. As if growing wings is something people just do. Agnar seems to pointedly look away from her.

Farther down, a man rides past on something that might be a horse if horses had scales and breathed smoke.

A fountain bubbles with water that flows upward instead of down. In the lowest basin, a nymph lounges. Her skin gleams the blue-green of the deep ocean, her tail swishing idly as her elbows rest on the rim. She talks to a cluster of locals as if they’re old friends.

“Stop gawking.” Agnar’s hand finds the small of my back to push me forward. “You’re supposed to be a squire, remember? Act like you’ve seen impressive things before.”

Right. The role.

I tug my cap lower, tuck stray hair underneath, drop my eyes to the ground, and fall into step behind Agnar with the posture of someone who knows their place. In reality, I just want to stare all around me like my cup will never overflow with these new sights. My work as a Warden has taken me all around Meridia but never into another country, and I want to savor my first time outside the kingdom’s borders.

The registration pavilion is larger than the others, positioned near the main castle gates. Inside, a clerk with a harassed expression sits behind a desk piled with papers.

“Name?” She doesn’t look up.

“Garrett Stone.” Agnar’s voice changes, taking on an accent I haven’t heard him use before. Rougher. More northern. “From the Free Holds.”

She finally glances up, her silver eyes flashing in the light. “Free Holds. Long way to come for a tournament.”

Agnar rubs his fingers together. “Heard the main prize was worth the travel. Some artifact that strengthens magic.”

Her mouth quirks as she loses interest. “That’s for the final bout. Prizes are awarded by tier. If you live through the day, you’ll go up a tier. If you give up or die, you get nothing. If you die on the second tier, your prizes will be sent to your next of kin. Fights last until a yield, a death, or a combatant isn’t able to continue. You get the gist.” Her eyes shift to me. “Squire?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I keep my voice low and respectful.

“Name?” Her pen hovers over the form.

We worked on this, Agnar making me repeat it over and over until it no longer sounded like a lie. “I’m Squire Ash, ma’am.”

She writes it down without interest. “Both of you will need to present yourselves for inspection tomorrow at dawn. Rules are posted on that sign, over yonder. You’ll be assigned quarters in the competitors’ barracks.” She shoves a few papers across the desk. “Your entry pass and grounds access. Don’t lose them. If you do, you’re disqualified, no exceptions, no prizes granted. As you move up tiers, you’ll be granted better housing. Winner gets a night in the queen’s castle as an honored guest.”

Agnar stuffs the papers in his pouch. “And the feast tonight?”

The woman is already looking past us at the next fighter in line. “All competitors and their attendants are invited. Go to the banquet hall in the main castle at sunset. Next!”

Once she dismisses us, we trail the people gravitating toward the looming castle. Inside, the grounds sprawl in every direction, divided into sections. The group splits into smaller groups, murmuring in awe as commonfolk are allowed on royal lawns for possibly the first time in their lives.

As much as I would love to play tourist, we have a job to do, so we continue down the middle path, flanked on both sides by depictions of different forms of elemental artistry.

Straight paths lead to symmetric squares that overlook a view of the grounds and the towering great hall. Stone and glass walls soar up into shadows the afternoon sun can’t quite reach.

I finally look at the pedestals in the centers of each section. Some have labels, marking them as the tiered prizes. Groups of fighters gather around them, but the biggest crowd gawks at the dais.

My breath hitches.

The Everhand sits on a raised dais in the center of the courtyard, spotlit by enchanted light that creates a floating effect. A crystalline case surrounds the artifact, clear save for the shimmering wards layered over the surface. The wards pulse rhythmically, blue-white light rippling outward like disturbed water.