Morning horns tore through Soren's fitful sleep like knives. He jerked upright, heart hammering against his ribs, the shard cold against his chest. Today was the day he would face Ser Daven Trescan.

Every muscle in his body screamed as he dressed, the bandages on his hands stained with fresh blood where his wounds had reopened during the night. Two days of combat had carved their toll into his flesh, cuts, bruises, and a bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of rest could have erased.

The tournament grounds roared with anticipation as he approached. Northaven had divided itself along stark lines, the nobility in their elevated galleries, faces cold with expectation of proper order being restored, and the common folk pressed against the barriers, their voices rising in chaotic support for the street rat who had humbled two noble sons.

"Velrane's wolf! Velrane's wolf!" The chant surged from the lower barriers where laborers and craftspeople had abandoned their morning duties to witness the spectacle.

"Disgraceful display," a passing nobleman muttered, his elegant boots clicking against the stone path as he hurried toward the Trescan gallery. "Trescan will put the gutter trash in his place today."

Soren kept his eyes forward, ignoring both adulation and contempt. Neither served him. Neither would save him from what waited in the ring.

Kaelor met him at the preparation area, the Swordmaster's scarred face set in grim lines. "Trescan's been warming up for an hour already," he said without preamble. "Precise. Controlled. Not a wasted movement."

Soren nodded, checking his sword's edge with mechanical movements. The blade gleamed in the morning light, unmarked by its previous encounters with noble blood. "I worked on what we discussed."

"Good." Kaelor's single eye narrowed as he studied Soren's face. "Remember, he expects chaos. He's prepared for it. Don't give him what he expects."

The tournament horn sounded again, three long blasts signaling the match that everyone had come to see. The crowd's roar swelled like a breaking wave, drowning out all other sound.

Through the preparation area's narrow window, Soren caught glimpses of the arena, sand raked into perfect smoothness, banners snapping in the morning breeze, nobles leaning forward in their seats with the eager anticipation of those about to witness justice restored.

"It's time," Kaelor said, his gruff voice carrying no encouragement, no false promises—just the acknowledgment of inevitable confrontation.

Soren nodded, sheathing his sword with hands that no longer trembled. Fear had burned away during the night's practice, replaced by a cold clarity that felt almost like Valenna's presence in his mind. He knew what waited for him. Knew the odds. Knew his limitations.

The shard pulsed once against his chest as he stepped toward the arena entrance. 'One cut,' Valenna whispered, her voice winter-cold against his thoughts. 'Perfect. Unexpected. That is your path.'

The crowd's noise hit him like a physical wall as he emerged into the sunlight. Every gallery packed beyond capacity, nobles standing where they would normally demand seats, commoners climbing atop each other's shoulders for better views.

House banners rippled in the morning air, Velrane's silver wolf, Trescan's crimson falcon, Ashgard's iron fist, each a silent declaration of power and allegiance.

Across the sand stood Ser Daven Trescan.

Unlike the previous champions, who had worn their house colors as statements of identity, Trescan had chosen a different approach. His crimson surcoat bore the Vaelthorne falcon sigil, not his family's crest, but that of the prestigious academy where he had trained.

The message was unmistakable: this wasn't merely house against house, but civilization against chaos, tradition against disruption.

Trescan himself embodied that tradition. Tall and lean, with short dark hair and features that might have been carved from pale marble, he carried himself with the absolute confidence of someone who had never questioned his place in the world.

His eyes, a cold, assessing gray, tracked Soren's approach with clinical detachment, noting every detail, every potential weakness.

The herald raised his staff, silence falling over the arena as he prepared to announce the match. Even the commoners quieted, tension drawing tight as a bowstring across the gathered crowd.

"The final preliminary match," the herald called, voice carrying to every corner of the arena. "Ser Daven Trescan, Champion of House Trescan, against Soren Thorne, Blade of House Velrane!"

Trescan approached the ring's center with measured steps, each movement precisely calculated. When he reached the midpoint, he executed a formal bow of exquisite precision, blade raised, then lowered in a perfect arc that acknowledged his opponent while subtly emphasizing the gulf in their training.

Soren did not attempt to match the elaborate ritual. Instead, he settled into the first stance of the Nine Petals, The Seed Awakens. His feet found their position in the sand, weight balanced between them. His blade extended, point unwavering despite the exhaustion still running through his arms.

Trescan's eyebrow lifted a fraction, the only indication of surprise at this departure from their previous encounters. He had studied Soren's chaos, prepared counters for the street fighter's wild assault. This stillness, this formal stance, had not been part of his calculations.

The herald stepped back, raising his staff. "Begin!"

Trescan moved first, advancing with deliberate control. His blade traced a perfect arc through the morning air, testing Soren's defense with mathematical precision. Not committing, not overextending, merely gathering information with each exchange.

Soren parried, keeping his movements tight and economical. The temptation to fall back on chaos, to unleash the unpredictable assault that had served him against Aric and Marcus, pulled at him like a physical force. But he resisted, maintaining the disciplined form he had practiced before dawn.

"Look at that," someone muttered from the noble gallery. "The street rat thinks he can match proper technique."

Trescan pressed forward, each strike flowing into the next with fluid grace. There was no wasted energy in his movements, no emotional display, nothing that offered an opening Soren could exploit. He controlled the tempo completely, forcing Soren to react rather than initiate.

Their blades met with the clear ring of quality steel, each impact sending tremors up Soren's arms.

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