The final two months of preparation vanished like sand slipping through clenched fists, each day bleeding into the next in an endless cycle of drills and lectures and private training that somehow still felt insufficient. But ready or not, willing or not, the day had arrived.
The grand tournament. The proving ground. The moment when months of blood and sweat would be tested before the entire kingdom.
The academy courtyard was unrecognizable. Where utilitarian stone and training dust had once dominated, banners of all six knight academies now rippled in the morning wind like captured rainbows. Dawnspire's golden sunburst blazed against white silk. Ironfang's black wolf snarled from crimson fabric. Stormwatch's silver hawk soared on blue. Ashbourne's raven burned against red. Silverkeep's jeweled crown gleamed on purple. Stonewall's iron shield stood resolute on gray.
Nobles in their finest attire occupied the premium seating, their silks and jewels catching sunlight. Merchants and craftsmen filled the middle sections, their hard-earned silver buying them proximity to potential glory. Commoners packed the upper stands, their voices the loudest despite being the farthest, their hopes for their children burning brightest because they had the least margin for failure.
The tournament was tradition stretching back centuries. Each year, families gathered to watch their sons and daughters—their hope for legacy, honor, or simple survival in a world where demons pressed at borders—test themselves before the assembled might of Arathor's military establishment. It was no surprise that families came. Yet for the squires, seeing their loved ones here, so near and so expectant, carried weight that no amount of training could prepare them for.
Finn spotted his family first. His father—weathered and strong from decades hauling nets—stood with his mother and younger siblings in the commoner section. They'd traveled from the coast, probably spent their entire fishing season's profit just to afford the journey and lodging. His mother saw him looking and waved frantically, tears already streaming down her face. His father just nodded once, the kind of nod that said everything words couldn't about pride and fear and hope all tangled together.
Finn's throat tightened. He'd manifested yellow flame—rare, legendary, powerful. But to them, he was still just their boy who'd left home to chase something impossible.
Edric's reunion was louder, warmer, utterly lacking the restraint nobility might have shown. The farming family had brought the fields with them in spirit—their hands rough and strong, their laughter unrestrained, their pride wearing no mask of composure. His father crushed him in a bear hug that probably cracked ribs, while his mother whispered blessings and smoothed his hair like he was still the boy who'd run barefoot chasing chickens.
His younger siblings clung to his arms and legs, eyes shining with awe at his polished armor and real sword.
"Go show them what a farmer's son can do!" his father roared, loud enough to draw chuckles and murmurs from nearby noble families who probably thought themselves too refined for such displays.
Edric flushed, embarrassed by the attention, but the grin splitting his face betrayed pride that no amount of noble disdain could diminish.
And then—
"Adrian!"
The voice froze him mid-step.
He turned slowly, something cold and sharp settling in his chest, to see them.
Baron Dorian Blackthorn stood tall, every inch the stoic lord of the North who'd held Northwatch against demon hordes for thirty years. His armor gleamed—polished but unpretentious, marked by use rather than ceremony. His hand rested on his sword pommel as though battlefields were always only a heartbeat away. At his side, Lady Elara Blackthorn moved with the poise of high nobility but the warmth of genuine maternal love. Her eyes found Adrian and softened immediately, though concern flickered in their depths.
And behind them—Lucien.
Adrian's older brother towered over the gathered squires, his figure unmistakable in the battle-scarred armor of an Ironfang Knight-Captain. His pauldrons bore the sigil of command—crossed swords over a wolf's head—that marked him as one who led others into death and somehow brought most of them back. His crimson cloak matched Ironfang's colors, and his sword hung at his hip with the casual confidence of a man who'd wielded it in actual war rather than training exercises.
Lucien Blackthorn. Not a squire. Not even a fresh knight. Ironfang's youngest Knight-Captain in three generations, promoted to command at twenty-two after actions that had earned him commendations from the king himself.
The murmurs that followed his presence were immediate and impossible to ignore.
"That's Lucien Blackthorn..." "Ironfang's rising star..." "No wonder they say the Blackthorns breed warriors..." "The younger brother better be half as good or he'll disappoint his entire bloodline..."
Adrian felt the weight of eyes on him—comparisons already being drawn, expectations already being measured, whispers of legacy and whether he could possibly measure up. He'd always known Lucien's shadow was long. Standing here before family and kingdom, it seemed to stretch endlessly.
And underneath that external pressure pressed quieter, more personal guilt. For nearly a year he hadn't written—not one letter to Northwatch, not one word to the mother who probably prayed for him nightly, the father who led men while carrying worry for an absent son, or the brother who'd blazed a path Adrian had claimed to follow.
It hadn't been neglect. Not exactly. He'd told himself they were safer not knowing how he truly fought, what power still burned in his veins, what he really was beneath borrowed flesh. But now, as they stood before him with pride and concern warring in their expressions, that justification felt hollow as a demon's promises.
Lucien broke the building tension with a grin, stepping forward to clap Adrian on the shoulder—half affection, half challenge, all brotherhood. "Don't think you get to slack now just because I've carved my path already. The Blackthorn name needs to roar in this tournament, little brother. You've got the blood for it." His eyes glinted knowingly. "And maybe more besides."
Did he suspect? Could he sense something off about Adrian that others missed?
Adrian met his brother's gaze steadily, his gray eyes giving nothing away. "I will. The name won't be disappointed."
The words were simple, but the promise beneath them carried weight of everything he couldn't yet reveal.
Lady Elara stepped forward, cupping Adrian's face with hands that trembled slightly despite her composure. "Fight well, my son. Show them what you're capable of." Her voice dropped to a whisper meant only for him. "But come back whole. No victory is worth losing you. I've already spent too many nights wondering if you were safe."
The gentle rebuke in that last sentence cut deeper than any blade.
Baron Dorian's stern expression softened fractionally—the only outward show of emotion the Iron Lord of the North would allow in public. "Stand tall. Not just as a Blackthorn, though that name carries weight you should honor. But as yourself—as the warrior you've chosen to become." His voice carried quiet intensity. "That is all the kingdom will ever need from you. That is all I need from you."
Adrian bowed his head slightly, his chest tightening with emotions he'd thought three centuries of existence had burned out of him. He'd faced demon armies. Commanded legions. Made decisions that cost thousands of lives. But nothing pierced quite like his father's rare, unguarded words.
Nothing except his mother's quiet pain at months of silence.
The horns blared then—deep and resonant, silencing the crowd's chatter instantly. The Master of Ceremonies strode forward, his robes of crimson and gold flowing behind him like captured fire, his staff topped with the kingdom's crest catching sunlight.
"Squires of the capital! Families of Arathor! Nobles and knights and citizens all!" His voice carried across the courtyard with practiced projection. "Today begins the proving of our squires—the grand tournament that decides the destiny of Arathor's next generation of defenders! For three days, these grounds shall echo with the clash of steel and the blaze of spirit flame!"
Cheers thundered across the arena, washing over the assembled squires like a wave.
"The rules are simple!" the Master of Ceremonies continued. "Single combat! Victory by yield, disarmament, or incapacitation! Spirit flames are permitted—encouraged, even—for this tournament celebrates not just skill but power! The top performers will earn their academy's recognition, advancement in training, and the attention of every knight order in the kingdom!"
More cheers. More pressure.
"And this year," the Master's voice took on added weight, "we honor those who fell defending the realm. Nine squires lost in recent demon attack. Two knights who gave their lives protecting the next generation. Their names are carved in our memory. Their sacrifice weighs on all who survived."
The crowd fell silent, respectful.
"So fight well! Fight with honor! And prove that their deaths were not in vain—that those who remain will become worthy of their sacrifice!"
The cheers that followed were somehow more solemn, more determined.
Adrian glanced once more at his family as squires were called to formation. Lucien's eyes burned with pride and challenge. Elara's with hope and barely-concealed worry. Dorian's with expectation that came not from doubt but from absolute certainty his son would meet any standard.
For the first time in a long while—perhaps in three centuries—Adrian wondered not about his strength, nor about his secrets being discovered. He wondered whether he could meet all their gazes when this was done. Whether the warrior they thought they were watching was anything close to what he truly was.
Whether the son they'd raised—or rather, the soul that had displaced him—deserved their pride.
The horns blared again, sharper this time. Squires moved to their designated areas. The crowd pressed forward in anticipation.
The tournament had begun.
And Adrian Blackthorn, demon prince wearing borrowed flesh and carrying borrowed name, would have to decide how much of himself to reveal.
How much power to show before questions became too dangerous to deflect.
How much longer he could balance between honoring this family and hiding what he was.
The first matches were being called. Names echoed across the courtyard.
Soon, his would be among them.