Beside him, Ayren smiled as he whispered something to a Dravien noble that made the man's eyes widen. Even from this distance, Soren could read the words on Ayren's lips: "watching a wolf test its cub."

The first match began, knights saluting each other with formal precision before launching into combat that was more performance than true contest. Their blades caught the sunlight as they moved through sequences that demonstrated skill without risking serious injury.

The crowd responded with appropriate appreciation, though their attention frequently drifted toward where Soren stood, toward where Aric Lanther waited.

The true spectacle approached.

When the first match concluded, servants rushed to smooth the sand, erasing footprints and preparing the ring for what everyone recognized as the day's real purpose. The herald announced the victor with practiced enthusiasm, but the applause felt perfunctory, anticipatory.

"Soren Thorne, Blade of House Velrane!" the herald called. "Enter the ring!"

The shard against Soren's chest went from cold to freezing as he stepped forward. Valenna's presence sharpened until it felt like she stood beside him rather than existing as a voice in his mind.

'Remember what you carry, little knife,' she whispered. 'Remember who guides your blade.'

The sand shifted beneath his boots as he crossed the ring's boundary. Unlike the knights who had preceded him, Soren wore no elaborate armor, no house colors beyond the wolf sigil on his simple leather jerkin. His sword was functional rather than decorative, its plain hilt wrapped in well-worn leather that molded to his grip.

"Aric Lanther, Heir of House Lanther!" the herald announced. "Enter the ring!"

Aric stepped forward, his polished steel armor catching the sun with each movement. Taller than Soren by nearly a head, broader through the shoulders, his face set in a mask of cold fury beneath close-cropped brown hair.

The black mourning ribbons tied around his right arm fluttered in the morning breeze, a reminder to all of why this match carried such weight.

The contrast couldn't have been more deliberate. Noble-born heir in gleaming armor against street-raised nobody in worn leathers. Old blood against new utility. Righteous vengeance against suspicious survival.

"You should have died with my brother," Aric said, voice pitched low as they approached the center for the formal salute. "Instead you return marked by the killer."

Soren met his gaze without responding. Nothing he could say would penetrate the grief-fueled rage that drove Aric forward. The heir saw only what he needed to see, a target for his pain, a focus for his loss.

They raised their blades in the ceremonial salute, though Aric's movement carried none of the respect the gesture implied. His eyes never left Soren's face, searching for weakness, for fear, for any sign that might confirm his suspicions.

The herald raised his hand, then dropped it sharply. "Begin!"

Aric attacked without hesitation, driving forward with a overhead strike that would have split Soren's skull had it connected. No testing exchange, no careful assessment, just killing intent barely constrained by tournament rules.

Soren sidestepped, letting the blade cut air where his head had been. The crowd gasped at the naked aggression of the opening move. Even in a contest designed for blood, certain courtesies were expected. Aric had abandoned them before the first exchange.

The shard pulsed against Soren's chest as he countered with a quick thrust toward Aric's exposed flank. 'He comes heavy,' Valenna whispered, her voice sharp with approval. 'You must make him bleed his strength.'

Aric parried and launched another attack, blade whistling through the air with enough force to shatter bone. Each strike carried the full weight of his grief, his rage, his certainty that Soren somehow deserved punishment for surviving when his brother hadn't.

They circled each other, blades meeting with impacts that sent tremors up Soren's arms.

A flurry of steel caught Soren's cheek, drawing first blood. The crowd's collective intake of breath echoed across the arena as crimson droplets spattered the sand. Aric pressed forward, emboldened by the sight, his blade a silver arc of vengeance.

Soren retreated, boots sliding in the sand as he fought to maintain his balance. The wound stung, but the pain sharpened his focus. He could taste copper on his lips, feel sweat trickling down his spine beneath the simple leather jerkin.

The morning sun climbed higher, casting the tournament grounds in harsh relief. Around the central ring, the heraldic standards of each noble house snapped in the breeze,

Velrane's silver wolf, Trescan's crimson falcon, Dravien's midnight-blue serpent, each banner a silent declaration of power and intent. The sand beneath his feet had been raked into perfect smoothness before their match, now marred by footprints and the first spatters of his blood.

Knights from every house crowded the edges of the arena, their whispers following Soren like persistent shadows. He caught fragments as he circled away from Aric's next assault.

"—survived when better men fell—"

"—Lanther won't stop until he's crippled—"

"—something unnatural about him—"

The shard pulsed against his chest, colder than winter ice. Valenna's presence sharpened in his mind, alert and predatory.

'He telegraphs his strikes,' she whispered. 'Watch his shoulder, not his blade.'

Across the ring, Aric adjusted his grip, knuckles white around his sword hilt. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool morning air, his breath coming in controlled bursts that couldn't quite mask his rage.

From the corner of his eye, Soren glimpsed the Ashgard contingent watching from their designated area. They stood apart from the other houses, their gray uniforms stark against the colorful banners surrounding them.

Lord Ashgard himself observed with those steel-gray eyes that missed nothing, his expression unreadable yet somehow heavy with judgment.

Above it all, Lord Callen presided from the Velrane gallery, his tall figure commanding attention without effort. His ash-silver hair caught the sunlight, the only bright thing about him.

Those pale, merciless eyes tracked every movement in the ring with clinical detachment. Not watching a son or champion, assessing an investment.

Beside him, Ayren moved among the assembled nobles with practiced grace, leaning close to whisper observations that made some smile and others stiffen. His elegant fingers gestured subtly toward the ring as he bent near a Dravien lord whose name Soren couldn't recall.

Aric lunged again, blade aimed at Soren's knee, a strike that would end more than just the match if it connected.

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