The marble hall had begun to empty as squires received their dormitory assignments and filtered toward the exits. Adrian and Edric moved through the thinning crowd, their registration complete, when voices rose sharply near one of the ornate columns.
A farm boy—armor ill-fitting, sword pommel worn smooth—stood backed against the pillar. Three nobles circled him like wolves, their crests gleaming: the silver hawk of Veynar, the coiled serpent of Dargath, and a third Adrian didn't recognize.
"Lost, are we?" Ryn Veynar's voice dripped with mockery. "Perhaps you mistook this for a cattle market."
The serpent heir—tall, angular, with a cruel twist to his mouth—laughed. "Or maybe he's here to shoe our horses. That's more his level, wouldn't you say?"
The farm boy's jaw clenched, knuckles white on his sword hilt, but he said nothing. Couldn't, perhaps. The weight of their names, their armor, their casual cruelty pressed down on him like stones.
Edric's hand tightened on Adrian's arm. "Leave it," he said quietly. "Not our fight."
Adrian didn't move. His gray eyes fixed on the scene, cold and measuring.
"Please," the farm boy finally managed, voice cracking. "I just want to pass."
"Pass?" Ryn stepped closer, deliberately blocking his path. "You think you deserve to walk these halls? To stand where knights have bled and died?" His pale eyes swept the boy from head to toe. "Look at you. Your sword's older than you are. Your armor doesn't even fit. What makes you think—"
"That's enough."
The words cut through the hall like a blade drawn from its sheath. Adrian stepped forward, his presence shifting the dynamic instantly. The nobles turned, expressions ranging from surprise to irritation.
Ryn's eyes narrowed as recognition dawned. "Ah. The Blackthorn." He made the name sound like an insult. "Come to defend the peasantry? How noble."
Adrian's expression didn't change. "Come to stop you from embarrassing yourself further."
A flush crept up Ryn's neck. "Embarrassing myself?"
"Yes." Adrian's tone was flat, matter-of-fact. "You outnumber him three to one. You mock his equipment while wearing armor worth more than his village. And you do it loudly, so everyone can see." His lips curved faintly. "It doesn't make you look strong. It makes you look afraid."
The serpent heir bristled. "Afraid? Of this dirt-grubber?"
"Of competition." Adrian's gaze swept all three of them. "Why else waste time trying to break him before the Trials even begin? If you were confident in your own skill, you wouldn't need to crush his spirit first."
Ryn's hand moved to his sword hilt. "Careful, Blackthorn. Border steel might be respected, but even you can't insult House Veynar without consequence."
"I'm not insulting your house." Adrian stepped closer, close enough that the height difference between them disappeared in the weight of his presence. "I'm insulting you. Personally. For being too weak to face a farm boy as an equal."
The tension snapped taut as a bowstring. Guards near the entrance shifted, hands moving toward weapons. The remaining squires in the hall had stopped to watch, forming a loose circle.
Then Edric's voice cut in, smooth and diplomatic. "Gentlemen. Perhaps we should save the measuring of swords for the actual Trials? I'm sure the headmasters would be disappointed if their best prospects killed each other in the Registration Hall."
Before anyone could respond, a figure glided between them. Lady Mira Elbrecht, her silver braid catching the light, positioned herself with the calm authority of someone used to being obeyed.
"Lord Halborne is correct." Her voice carried despite its quietness. "The Hall is sanctified ground. Blood spilled here dishonors not just yourselves, but every knight whose name is carved in these walls." Her gaze swept across them, lingering on each in turn. "I suggest you all remember why you came here—to prove yourselves worthy, not to prove you can bully those weaker than you."
Her eyes settled last on Adrian. "Even you, Blackthorn. Defend the weak if you must, but don't let pride make you as foolish as those you challenge."
Adrian held her gaze for a long moment before giving a slight nod. "Understood."
Ryn's jaw worked, anger and humiliation warring in his expression. Finally, he stepped back. "This isn't finished, Blackthorn."
"I didn't think it was," Adrian replied calmly.
The nobles withdrew, their departure stiff with wounded pride. The farm boy sagged against the pillar, relief and shame mingling in his face.
"Thank you," he managed.
Adrian turned to him. "Don't thank me. Use this. Remember how it felt to be cornered, and make sure you're never in that position again." His voice wasn't unkind, but neither was it gentle. "The Trials won't care about fairness. If you're not strong enough to stand on your own, you'll fail."
The boy swallowed hard, then nodded.
As Adrian walked away, Edric fell into step beside him. "You have a gift for making enemies."
"Better than making friends I can't trust."
"Fair point." Edric glanced back at Lady Mira, who was still watching them. "Though I think she's decided you're interesting. Not sure if that's good or bad."
"Neither. It just is." Adrian's hand brushed his sword hilt. "But I'll remember her face when the time comes."
They stepped through the bronze doors into the afternoon sun. Behind them, the Registration Hall settled back into its rhythm of names and quills and dreams being recorded for posterity.
But the lines had been drawn. Ryn Veynar had an enemy. Lady Mira Elbrecht had someone worth watching. And Adrian had made clear to everyone present exactly what kind of squire he would be.
The Trials hadn't officially begun, but the first battles had already been fought.