The tournament continued its relentless rhythm, names drawn and matches fought as the sun climbed higher in the morning sky. Edric's duel had set a tone—not just for spectacle, but for the understanding that every match told a story beyond simple victory or defeat.
The bronze urn rattled again. The Master of Ceremonies drew the next pairing.
"Sara Whitestone versus Henrik Ashford!"
Sara—another survivor from Alice's patrol, still carrying trauma in her eyes—stepped forward with visible trepidation. Henrik, a confident boy from merchant nobility, practically strutted to the circle. Both raised their family crests without hesitation.
The duel was brief. Sara fought defensively, technically sound but lacking aggression. Henrik pressed hard, his white flame manifesting early to capitalize on her hesitation. Within minutes, she was disarmed, her banner lowered in defeat.
But the crowd acknowledged her participation with respect. She'd survived demons. No one questioned her courage.
More matches followed in steady succession:
Thomas Rivermark versus Julia Stonefield—both manifesting white flame, trading blows with disciplined technique until Thomas's superior reach gave him the edge. Victory by yield when Julia's defense finally crumbled.
Garrett Blackwood versus Iris Thornhill—a surprisingly even match where both revealed blue flames simultaneously, drawing excited murmurs. The duel extended nearly ten minutes before Garrett's endurance outlasted Iris's speed. Both received standing ovations for the display.
The pattern emerged clearly. Most squires fought with foundation white, the baseline everyone achieved. When true colors manifested—blue and green being most common—the crowd's energy spiked. Rare colors would draw genuine excitement when they eventually appeared.
Adrian watched each bout with analytical interest, cataloging techniques and assessing potential future opponents. Around him, other squires did the same—some relieved their matches had already concluded, others still nervous about being called, all of them studying competitors they might face tomorrow if they advanced.
The urn rattled. Another drawing.
"Finn Thatcher!"
The fisherman's son stepped forward, and Adrian immediately noticed the shift in the headmasters' section. Headmaster Theron of Dawnspire leaned forward in his seat, white robes catching light, his expression intent. Beside him, several Dawnspire instructors did the same, pulling out parchment and writing implements.
They were preparing to observe closely. To document. To evaluate.
Because they already knew what Finn was. The debriefing after the ambush had made it official—Finn Thatcher had manifested yellow flame, the purifying light that was Dawnspire's signature color, during combat with a demon noble using blood anima. That information had reached every headmaster, every academy leader.
What they didn't know was how strong that manifestation was. How controlled. Whether it was a fluke born of desperation or genuine talent that could be cultivated. Whether this fisherman's son with spontaneous yellow flame was worth recruiting to their academy.
This tournament was their chance to find out.
"Versus Roland Peaks!"
A capable squire from minor nobility, known for solid defensive technique. Roland had advanced from his earlier match through patience and endurance, wearing down his opponent rather than overwhelming them with aggression.
They met at the banner stands. Roland raised his family crest without hesitation—a mountain peak on gray field, simple but proud. Finn paused longer, considering, then raised the Thatcher banner—simple fishing boat on white field, honest and unpretentious.
In the stands, Headmaster Theron gestured to his instructors, issuing quiet orders. They spread out slightly, positioning themselves for better viewing angles. One focused on Finn's footwork. Another on his blade technique. A third seemed to be watching for any sign of spirit manifestation.
Adrian noticed all of this with demonic perception that missed little. Dawnspire wasn't casually watching—they were conducting active evaluation. Every movement Finn made would be documented, analyzed, compared against their training standards.
The question was whether Finn would give them anything worth documenting.
"Begin!"
Roland opened with his characteristic defensive style, white flame manifesting along his blade as he established solid guard. He clearly planned to weather Finn's assault, waiting for openings rather than creating them.
It was a sound strategy. Against most opponents, it would work.
Finn manifested his own white flame—foundation level, nothing remarkable, the standard every squire achieved. But his approach to combat revealed the analytical mind beneath. He didn't rush. Instead, he circled, probed with minimal strikes, tested reactions without committing.
In the stands, Adrian saw one Dawnspire instructor make a note. Another leaned toward a colleague, whispering something. Theron's expression remained calm but his attention never wavered.
They were watching someone who'd manifested yellow fight with only white. Trying to determine whether he was hiding his true power or simply unable to call it forth at will.
Roland grew uncertain. This wasn't the aggressive assault he'd prepared for. The defensive specialist found himself facing someone who approached combat like a chess problem—analytical, patient, willing to trade time for information.
Then Finn attacked properly.
His white flame intensified—still foundation level, but used with precision that spoke to genuine understanding of combat theory. Each strike was placed exactly where Roland's defensive patterns showed weakness. Each feint drew out reactions that Finn immediately cataloged and exploited.
It wasn't overwhelming power. It was systematic dismantling.
More notes in the stands. More whispered consultations. Theron's expression shifted slightly—not disappointment exactly, but something like calculation. Finn was clearly skilled with foundation technique. But where was the yellow?
Roland tried to adapt, shifting from defense to desperate counterattack. But Finn had already mapped every pattern, identified every tell. His white-flamed blade moved with enhanced speed, struck with calculated force at weak points that shouldn't have been so obvious.
Within two minutes of serious engagement, Roland was disarmed, his sword clattering across stones as Finn's blade caught his guard at precisely the wrong angle.
"Victory to Finn Thatcher!"
The crowd's approval was moderate—a clean victory, technically impressive, but nothing spectacular. No yellow manifestation. No demonstration of the rare color everyone now knew he possessed.
Which told Dawnspire something important: either Finn couldn't control his yellow flame reliably, or he was choosing not to reveal it. Both possibilities warranted investigation.
As Finn helped Roland to his feet and both squires exchanged respectful bows, Adrian watched Headmaster Theron lean back in his seat, gesturing to his instructors. They gathered close, clearly debating what they'd witnessed.
A yellow flame user who fought with white. Talented, certainly—the victory had been decisive. But was the yellow a permanent manifestation or a stress-induced fluke? Could he call it at will or only under extreme duress?
Questions that would determine how aggressively Dawnspire pursued recruitment.
As Finn returned to the sidelines, Adrian caught the subtle tracking—Dawnspire instructors following his movement even after the match concluded, taking additional notes on posture, bearing, how he carried himself in victory.
"They're watching you," Adrian said quietly when Finn reached him.
"I noticed." Finn's analytical mind had obviously cataloged the attention. "Dawnspire. Evaluating whether the yellow manifestation was real talent or desperation fluke."
"By not showing it, you've made them more curious, not less." Adrian's gray eyes held certainty. "They know you have it from the debriefing. Now they want to understand it."
Finn was quiet for a moment, processing. "Let them wonder. I'm not performing on command for their recruitment pitch."
"They won't stop watching. Yellow flame users are rare enough that they consider it their duty to cultivate them. You've just made yourself a person of interest to one of the most powerful institutions in the kingdom."
"I manifested it fighting demons," Finn said quietly. "Watching blood anima consume our friends. That's not something their meditation chambers can replicate, and it's not something I'm eager to recreate for their evaluation."
Adrian nodded understanding. "Fair. But be prepared for them to approach you. Probably after the tournament, maybe sooner. They'll make offers. Possibly generous ones."
The tournament pressed onward. More matches, more stories:
Catherine Moorland versus David Ironheart—white and green flames clashing until Catherine's superior footwork gave her the edge.
Emma Swiftwater versus another opponent, her green flame endurance ultimately insufficient against superior technique.
The sun reached past its zenith, beginning its slow descent toward late afternoon. The stands remained full, spectators committed to watching every match conclude. The tournament structure was straightforward—everyone competed today, one round eliminating half the field. Tomorrow, those who advanced would fight again.
The bronze urn continued its work, drawing names, pairing opponents, creating stories. Some squires had already fought and were now watching nervously as potential future opponents were tested. Others waited tensely for their names to be called.
Finally, after dozens of matches, Adrian's name emerged.
"Adrian Blackthorn!"
The arena seemed to hold its breath. Every eye turned toward him—the son of the Iron Lord of Northwatch, brother to Lucien the Knight-Captain, survivor of the ambush who'd manifested crimson flame unprecedented in all recorded history.
Adrian stepped forward with measured calm, aware of the weight those stares carried. Expectations. Suspicions. Curiosity about what crimson truly meant.
"Versus Damian Greyson!"
A capable squire, Adrian knew from training. Not exceptional, but solid—good technique, decent instincts, the kind of competent warrior who'd probably earn knighthood through steady performance rather than spectacular moments.
They met at the banner stands. Damian raised his minor noble crest immediately, clearly deciding the risk was worth potential glory of defeating a Blackthorn.
Adrian paused at his family's banner—the green shield with golden thorn that had defended the northern border for four centuries. The weight Lucien carried so effortlessly. The legacy his borrowed identity was expected to uphold.
He raised it.
The Blackthorn crest unfurled, and his family's section erupted with approval. Dorian's stern nod. Elara's proud smile. Lucien's challenging grin that said now let's see what you've got, little brother.
The two squires faced each other in the dueling circle. Damian's confidence was visible—he'd probably been hoping for this matchup, the chance to make his name by defeating storied bloodline.
"Begin!"
Adrian didn't move. Simply stood with sword lowered, watching Damian with gray eyes that held three centuries of combat experience compressed into a fifteen-year-old's frame.
Damian attacked first, white flame manifesting along his blade as he closed distance with competent aggression. His opening combination was textbook perfect—the kind drilled into every squire through months of repetition.
Adrian's parry was almost lazy. A minimal movement that redirected Damian's strike with effortless precision. His counter came so fast Damian barely registered it—the flat of Adrian's blade tapping ribs hard enough to leave a bruise, gentle enough not to injure.
"Good technique," Adrian said conversationally. "Your instructor taught you well."
Damian's eyes widened. That casual dismissal—treating this duel like a training exercise rather than actual contest—was more insulting than any mockery could have been.
He attacked again, harder this time, pouring genuine effort into strikes meant to overwhelm through sheer aggression. White flame blazed brighter as frustration fueled determination.
Adrian moved like water around stone. Each of Damian's strikes missed by inches, redirected by minimal parries that looked effortless but carried precision no squire should possess. His counters came with perfect timing—never hard enough to truly hurt, but demonstrating absolute control.
He hadn't manifested any spirit flame yet. Didn't need to.
The crowd watched in growing awareness that they weren't witnessing a duel. They were watching a master swordsman demonstrate the gap between talent and experience while being kind enough not to humiliate his opponent.
Damian realized it too. His attacks grew desperate, technique deteriorating as he tried everything he knew. But Adrian was always one step ahead, reading each move before it fully developed, countering with precision that seemed supernatural.
Finally, inevitably, Adrian moved.
One moment Damian was attacking. The next, his sword was no longer in his hand, Adrian's blade having twisted it free with a technique so smooth most spectators missed how it happened.
"Victory to Adrian Blackthorn!"
The crowd's reaction was mixed—impressed by the display of absolute technical mastery, but somehow unsatisfied. They'd wanted to see the crimson flame everyone whispered about. Instead, they'd gotten a surgical dismantling that revealed nothing about unprecedented power.
Which was exactly Adrian's intention.
He helped Damian retrieve his sword, offered a respectful bow that the other squire returned with grudging acknowledgment. Both lowered their banners—Blackthorn green with thorn advancing to tomorrow's round, Greyson crest with honor if not glory.
Adrian returned to the sidelines where Finn waited, still occasionally drawing glances from Dawnspire representatives.
"You didn't show it," Finn observed quietly. "The crimson."
"Didn't need to," Adrian replied. "Foundation technique was sufficient."
"Same reason I kept white," Finn said, and Adrian nodded understanding. Both of them had chosen restraint over spectacle, hiding true capabilities for tomorrow's harder matches.
The tournament continued into late afternoon, the final matches of the day playing out as sun painted lengthening shadows across the arena. By the time the last pairing concluded, exactly half the original competitors had advanced to tomorrow's second round.
Finally, as sunset approached, the Master of Ceremonies raised his staff for attention.
"The first day concludes! Every squire has now been tested. Half advance to tomorrow's second round—you have proven your worth and earned the right to continue. To those eliminated today—your service to the realm remains valued, your courage acknowledged. You have honored your families and yourselves simply by stepping into the circle."
He paused, letting that settle before continuing.
"Tomorrow, those who remain will face each other in the second round. The competition grows fiercer. The opponents stronger. Rest well, all of you. Tomorrow's battles will determine who truly has what it takes to become knights of Arathor!"
The crowd began dispersing, families collecting their children, merchants discussing what they'd witnessed, nobles already placing bets on tomorrow's outcomes. The arena slowly emptied as sunset painted the sky in shades of orange and red.
But in the headmasters' section, Headmaster Theron remained seated longer than most, flanked by his instructors who were still compiling notes. Their discussion was animated, gestures toward where Finn had fought making their topic obvious.
A yellow flame user who chose not to reveal his power. That restraint itself told them something—either tactical thinking or inability to manifest at will. Either way, it warranted continued observation tomorrow.
And likely, direct recruitment attempts.
Adrian and Finn walked together toward the competitor barracks, both quiet, both processing the day's events. Around them, other advancing squires moved with mixture of pride and trepidation. They'd survived Day One. Tomorrow would be harder.
"Second round tomorrow," Finn said. "Everyone left advanced. The weakest are already gone."
"Meaning every opponent we face will be genuinely capable," Adrian agreed. "Think you'll need the yellow?"
Finn was quiet for a moment. "Depends on the draw. But probably not yet. Save it for when it matters."
Adrian nodded. Strategic restraint from both of them.
One day down. Half the field eliminated. Tomorrow would bring new challenges against opponents who'd proven they belonged here.
And for Finn, increased attention from an institution that didn't take "no" easily when it came to yellow flame users.
The tournament had only just begun.