Dawn broke like a fever, painting Northaven's spires in sickly gold. Soren stared at his reflection in the polished bronze mirror, hollow-eyed, tense, a wolf sigil newly sewn onto simple leathers that wouldn't stop a determined blade.

Not armor befitting a noble house's champion, but he wasn't truly that. Just a street rat with a borrowed name and borrowed purpose.

'Today I die or become useful,' he thought, fingers brushing the shard beneath his tunic. Its familiar chill offered no comfort.

Three days of preparation had passed in a blur of bruises and sweat. Now tournament day arrived, carrying judgment on black-feathered wings.

The shard remained silent as he made his way through Velrane Manor's corridors. Servants scurried past without meeting his eyes, their whispers following like persistent shadows. The marked one. The survivor. The one Sylas spared.

"Ready for slaughter?" Harrick's voice cut through Soren's thoughts as he reached the manor's entrance hall. The Trescan knight leaned against a marble column, malice disguised as casual interest. "Lanther's second son has been practicing killing strikes since his brother's funeral."

Soren walked past without acknowledgment. Engaging Harrick would only sharpen the knife already pressed against his throat.

Outside, morning sunlight bathed the tournament grounds in deceptive warmth. The great houses of Northaven had transformed the central plaza into an arena of politics thinly disguised as sport. Banners snapped in the breeze, Velrane's black wolf on silver, Trescan's crimson falcon, Dravien's midnight-blue serpent, Karvath's emerald stag.

Each house had constructed viewing galleries draped in their colors, where nobles would observe the bloodsport below while conducting the real battles through whispers and calculated glances.

Common folk pressed against the outer barriers, their excitement a tangible thing. For them, this was entertainment. For Soren, it was survival.

"Keep your guard tight today," Kaelor's gruff voice came from behind. The Swordmaster approached slowly, still favoring his left side where Sylas's blade had opened him. "Lanther's boy will aim for blood, not points."

"I know," Soren replied, watching servants spread fresh sand across the fighting ring. Its pale gold surface would show blood clearly, which was precisely the point. Victory wasn't enough; the spectacle mattered more.

Kaelor's single eye narrowed as he studied the gathering crowd. "Remember what I taught you. He'll come heavy, try to overwhelm you with strength. Don't match it. Redirect."

The shard against Soren's chest suddenly pulsed cold, startling him with its intensity. Valenna's presence sharpened like a blade being drawn.

'They come,' she whispered, her voice winter-cold against his thoughts.

A hush fell over the crowd as trumpets announced a new arrival. The northern gate swung open, revealing a column of gray-clad knights moving with military precision. House Ashgard had arrived, their banners bearing the iron fist that had ruled Northaven for generations.

Lord Ashgard himself led them, those steel-gray eyes missing nothing as he surveyed the tournament grounds. Unlike the other lords who dressed in finery for such occasions, Ashgard wore the same practical armor he'd worn during the expedition, a silent reminder of what they had faced, what they had lost.

"Bold statement," Kaelor muttered, watching Ashgard's measured approach. "Coming in armor rather than ceremonial robes."

The Ashgard contingent moved with the synchronized step of those who trained for war rather than tournaments. Their faces remained impassive, yet Soren felt the weight of their collective assessment as they passed. They had seen him in the forest. Had witnessed his survival while better men fell.

From the Velrane gallery above, Lord Callen observed the proceedings with cold calculation. His ash-silver hair caught the morning light, the only bright thing about him. Beside him, Ayren moved among the assembled nobles with practiced grace, leaning close to whisper comments that made some smile and others stiffen.

The shard pulsed again, colder now. 'The wolves circle,' Valenna murmured. 'Each seeking advantage from another's weakness.'

Heralds appeared at the ring's four corners, unrolling scrolls bearing the tournament brackets. The crowd pressed closer, eager to learn which champions would face each other in the opening rounds.

"Lords and ladies of Northaven!" the chief herald called, his voice carrying across the suddenly hushed gathering. "By decree of the Council of Houses, we commence the Tournament of Autumn Ascendance!"

Polite applause rippled through the noble galleries. Among the common folk, more enthusiastic cheers erupted. They hadn't witnessed the expedition's failure, to them, this remained simple entertainment.

"The first match," the herald continued, "Ser Torbren of House Karvath against Ser Dallen of House Dravien!"

Murmurs swept through the crowd. Both were seasoned knights with multiple tournament victories. A strong opening match, designed to distract from what would follow.

The herald moved to the next pairings, each announcement drawing reactions from different sections of the crowd. Soren barely heard them, his attention fixed on the Lanther gallery where a tall figure in polished armor stood apart from the others, staring directly at him with undisguised hatred.

Aric Lanther. The second son, now the heir after Sylas's blade had opened his brother's throat.

"Soren Thorne, Blade of House Velrane," the herald's voice cut through Soren's focus, "against Aric Lanther, Heir of House Lanther!"

The announcement sent a ripple of tension through the entire gathering. Not just another match, a public reckoning. The survivor against the bereaved. The marked one against the vengeful.

From the Lanther gallery, Lord Lanther leaned forward, his grief-hollowed face tight with anticipation. He had lobbied for this match, Soren realized. Had demanded this opportunity for what he would call justice.

"Third match," the herald continued, though few were listening now. The narrative had been established. The true spectacle identified.

Kaelor gripped Soren's shoulder, fingers digging into muscle. "Listen carefully," he growled, voice pitched for Soren's ears alone. "He'll try to cripple you in the first exchange. He doesn't care about winning, he wants to make you suffer for his brother's death."

The shard pulsed cold agreement. 'He comes for blood-price,' Valenna whispered. 'He will not fight with honor.'

"I know," Soren replied, watching Aric Lanther descend from his family's gallery. The heir moved with the rigid control of someone containing explosive rage. His armor gleamed in the morning sun, freshly polished yet marked with black ribbons of mourning across the right shoulder and arm.

"Your guard drops after the third exchange," Kaelor continued, his grip tightening. "Corrected in practice, but under pressure—" He shook his head. "Don't give him that opening."

From the Velrane gallery, Veyr watched with unreadable expression. The heir hadn't spoken to Soren since their meeting in the archive, but his pale eyes had followed every practice session, assessing, calculating. Now he leaned forward slightly, the only indication that this match carried particular significance.

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