The courtyard-turned-arena pulsed with energy that seemed to make the very stones vibrate. Banners of the six knight academies rippled proudly in the morning breeze—Dawnspire's golden sunburst blazing against white, Ironfang's black wolf snarling from crimson, Stormwatch's silver hawk soaring on blue, Ashbourne's raven burning against red, Silverkeep's jeweled crown gleaming on purple, Stonewall's iron shield standing resolute on gray. Nobles occupied the premium seating in their finest silks, merchants leaned over railings with the intensity of those who'd invested their futures in these children, and common families clutched one another with that particular mixture of pride and terror that came from watching loved ones step into danger.
The air itself seemed charged, waiting for violence to begin.
At the arena's center, the Master of Ceremonies raised his staff with practiced theatrical flair. Silence rolled across the space like an incoming tide, drowning conversations mid-word. His crimson and gold robes caught sunlight, making him look almost like a spirit flame himself, and his voice carried the kind of authority that came from decades of presiding over these trials.
"Squires of Arathor!"
The words struck like a hammer, commanding absolute attention.
"You have endured a year of trials—of blood, of discipline, of hardship that has broken lesser souls. You have trained with wooden practice blades, graduated to sharp steel, learned to manifest your sword spirits, and endured patrols where vigilance alone kept death at bay." His voice dropped, becoming more intimate despite carrying to every ear. "And some of you have faced true horror. Demon ambush. Blood anima. The deaths of comrades who should be standing here beside you today."
A ripple of solemn acknowledgment passed through the crowd.
"Now the hour has come. The tournament that shall decide your worth—your readiness to bear the title of knight—begins today."
A roar of approval thundered from the stands, washing over the assembled squires like a physical force.
The Master of Ceremonies lifted his staff again, commanding silence once more. "From this moment forward, each duel is not merely your own trial. By decree of the academies, each squire is granted the right—the privilege and the burden—to raise their family crest during their match."
At that signal, attendants unveiled rows of polished stands at the dueling ground's edge. Each was fitted with a staff and clasp mechanism, ready to hold banners. Noble crests embroidered in silk. Merchant house symbols painted on canvas. Even simple farmer family marks stitched into rough cloth. For now, they stood empty, waiting for the squires' choice.
Waiting to see who had courage—or hubris—to claim family honor in front of the kingdom.
The Master's voice took on warning weight. "Should you choose to fly your crest, your victory will be shared with your house, celebrated by all who witness. Glory multiplied becomes glory eternal." He paused, letting that promise sink in. "But take heed—defeat while your crest flies will not only be your own shame, but will reflect upon the house you represent. Your family's name will be tied to your failure. Raise your crest, and triumph brings honor that echoes through generations. Raise your crest, and defeat brings shame that lingers just as long."
A nervous murmur rippled through the gathered squires like wind through wheat.
It was tradition stretching back centuries, yet it never failed to create this exact tension. For a year, squires had been stripped of their family crests, training as theoretical equals. No house favoritism. No inherited advantages. Just sweat, blood, and individual will measured against impossible standards. Now, suddenly, they were being asked to decide whether they would carry their families on their backs into combat.
Whether they were strong enough—confident enough—worthy enough—to risk their house's reputation on their own skill.
Adrian's gray eyes narrowed slightly, analyzing the test beneath the test. Clever. A trial of courage as much as combat ability. A squire could prove bravery by raising their banner, demonstrating absolute confidence. But if they lost too soon, that defeat would weigh on their family for years, would be whispered about in halls and markets, would become the story told when their name was mentioned.
A double-edged sword, sharpened by the watching eyes of the entire kingdom.
The Master spread his arms wide, his robes billowing dramatically. "The choice is yours and yours alone. Raise your crest and fight as the heir of your house—carrying all its history, all its expectations, all its pride. Or keep it lowered and prove yourself as only a knight in training, earning glory through skill alone." He paused. "Neither path is dishonorable. But both carry weight. Choose wisely."
The staff struck the stone three times, sharp cracks that echoed like judgments.
A servant approached with a great iron urn, sealed with wax bearing the combined sigils of the six academies. With theatrical flourish, the seal was broken—wax cracking, shards falling. Inside, dozens of parchment slips rattled, each inscribed with a squire's name and fate.
"The duels shall be drawn by lot!" the Master declared. "Names matched by chance, not design! Each victory moves you forward. Each defeat ends your path to knighthood—at least for this year. Only the strongest, the most skilled, the most determined will remain standing when three days conclude!"
Gasps, whispers, nervous breaths filled the air like physical pressure. Squires shifted, hands unconsciously moving to sword hilts or clenching into fists.
Edric's face was a storm of conflicting emotions, his arms crossed so tight his knuckles showed white. "Damn it," he muttered, voice low enough that only those immediately nearby could hear. "I can't decide whether to fly our banner. My father—gods, he'd love it. He'd shout it to everyone who'd listen. But if I fall early, if I embarrass the family name..."
Finn stepped closer, his analytical mind already having worked through the probabilities. "Edric, you've survived everything we've faced. Goblins. Demons. Blood anima. You manifested green flame when it mattered most. You've earned the right to fly that crest." His voice carried unusual intensity. "Don't let fear rob you of claiming what you've already proven."
Adrian's gaze was steady, his voice carrying certainty that came from three centuries of command experience. "Finn's right. You've already demonstrated worth. The tournament is just making it official." His gray eyes held Edric's. "Trust your training. Trust what you've already survived. Raise the Halborne banner. Win or lose, no one who watched you stand against a demon noble will ever question your courage."
Edric's shoulders gradually eased, tension bleeding out as decision crystallized. His eyes moved toward the stands where his family waited—father standing tall, mother clutching her hands, siblings bouncing with excitement they didn't fully understand. A slow, shaky smile crept across his weathered features.
"Alright... alright then. I'll fly it. For them. For what they sacrificed to send me here. For what I've become." He straightened, resolve settling over him like armor. "The Halborne name stands."
Adrian gave the faintest nod, something that might have been pride flickering in his expression. "Good. That's exactly the spirit I want to see from you."
Finn glanced at Adrian. "What about you? The Blackthorn crest—are you raising it?"
Adrian stayed silent for a moment, his thoughts turning to that green shield with its golden thorn. The crest of Blackthorn, ancient and heavy with four hundred years of border defense. For nearly a year it had been stripped from him just as from every other squire, removing all distinctions of birth. To raise it now would invite every eye in the kingdom to weigh him not just as a skilled squire, but as Baron Dorian Blackthorn's son, as Lucien's younger brother, as heir to a legacy of demon-slaying that stretched back generations.
And if he flew the crest, he would have to carry that weight publicly. Not because he feared defeat—Adrian knew with absolute certainty that no squire here could best him if he chose to fight seriously. But because victory while bearing the Blackthorn name would bind him even tighter to this borrowed identity. Would make it harder to maintain the distance between what he was and what everyone believed him to be.
Would make it more painful when—if—the truth eventually emerged.
"I haven't decided yet," Adrian said finally, his voice carefully neutral. "The weight of the Blackthorn name is..." He paused, searching for words that were honest without being revealing. "Substantial. I need to consider whether I'm ready to carry it publicly."
Finn nodded slowly, his analytical mind probably cataloging a dozen interpretations of that statement. "Fair enough. It's not a decision to make lightly."
The urn rattled dramatically as the servant reached inside. The crowd leaned forward as one, hundreds of people holding their breath.
"The first match!" the Master of Ceremonies boomed. "Marcus Tellwinter!"
A collective intake of breath. Marcus—one of the survivors from Alice's patrol, one of the few who'd witnessed the demon noble and lived. He stepped forward slowly, his face still carrying traces of trauma that hadn't fully processed, but his spine was straight.
"Against Daren Stonehill!"
A larger boy, confident, stepping forward with the swagger of someone who'd never truly faced death. His family's banner was already being raised—he'd made his choice without hesitation.
Marcus hesitated for only a moment, then nodded to an attendant. His family's modest merchant crest was raised beside Daren's noble standard. The crowd noticed, murmured approval. A boy who'd survived demons, choosing to honor his family despite the risk.
The two squires moved to the dueling circle, drew their blades, and bowed.
Steel rang against steel as the first match began.
Adrian watched intently, his perception picking apart every movement, every technique, every tactical decision. Marcus was fighting defensively, carefully, still carrying fear from the ambush. Daren pressed aggressively, confident in his superior size and reach.
Around Adrian, other squires watched with varying expressions. Some calculating their own strategies. Some simply terrified of being called next. Some—like Edric—silently reviewing their choices about flying family crests.
And somewhere in the stands, Adrian could feel eyes on him. His family. Lucien especially, probably wondering what choice his younger brother would make. Whether Adrian would honor the Blackthorn name publicly or fight anonymously.
Whether the younger brother would prove himself worthy of the elder's shadow.
The weight of legacy, Adrian thought, watching Marcus finally land a solid strike that broke through Daren's overconfident guard. It's not just about what you accomplish. It's about what you accomplish while carrying everyone's expectations on your shoulders.
It's about whether you're strong enough to bear that weight without being crushed.
The first match concluded—Marcus victorious by disarmament, his family's banner flying proud. Cheers erupted from the merchant sections, vindication for choosing courage over caution.
The urn rattled again. More names would be drawn. More choices would be made. More crests would fly or remain furled.
And soon—inevitably—Adrian's name would echo across this arena.
Then he would have to decide.
Whether to fight as Adrian Blackthorn, heir to four centuries of demon-slaying legacy.
Or as simply Adrian, a squire like any other.
The choice should have been easy.
Somehow, it wasn't.