The drawing continued, match after match emerging from the bronze urn as fate made its selections. The Master of Ceremonies maintained his theatrical rhythm—dramatic pauses before revealing names, flourishes as banners were raised or remained furled, pronouncements that sent new pairs of squires into the dueling circle.
Adrian watched each match with analytical interest, his three centuries of combat experience automatically cataloging techniques, identifying weaknesses, noting which squires had grown since the ambush and which still carried fear like armor that weighed them down.
Around him, the remaining squires shifted with increasing tension. Each name called meant one less possibility, one step closer to their own moment. Some watched the fights intently, studying opponents they might face. Others seemed barely able to look, too consumed by anticipation of hearing their own name.
Finn observed with characteristic focus, his analytical mind probably calculating odds and tactical matchups. Edric stood with arms still crossed, though his earlier decision to fly his family banner had settled something in him—replaced indecision with resolve, however nervous that resolve might be.
The urn rattled again. The Master's hand dipped inside, withdrew a slip, paused for effect.
"Edric Halborne!"
The words crashed over the arena like a bell. The cheer that rose from his family's section was immediate and thunderous—his father's voice cutting through the din, his mother already crying, his siblings jumping and shouting with unrestrained pride.
Edric went rigid. Every eye seemed to turn toward him simultaneously. His heart hammered, breath catching despite months of training. The reality of it hit like a physical blow—this was real, this was happening, this was his moment.
The Master drew the second slip with practiced theatrical pause, letting anticipation build across the arena.
"Versus... Ryn Veynar!"
The ripple that coursed through the crowd was audible—gasps followed by excited murmuring that built like an incoming storm. The Veynar name carried weight in the kingdom. Northern marcher nobility whose warriors had held the line beside families like Blackthorn for generations.
But for Edric, the name carried different weight entirely.
Adrian saw recognition flash across his friend's face—not just awareness of reputation, but personal memory. The registration hall. The deliberate shove. The sneer. The casual cruelty: "A farmer's son playing at knight."
Ryn Veynar stepped forward with aristocratic precision, every movement a study in inherited confidence and martial discipline. Dark hair cut severe, features sharp, that same practiced smirk—dismissive, arrogant, utterly certain of superiority.
The crowd cheered, half respecting the Veynar reputation, half anticipating watching nobility crush common blood.
"Edric." Finn's hand found his friend's shoulder before spiral could begin. "You know what to do. Trust your training."
Adrian moved to his other side, voice carrying absolute certainty. "This is your moment. Make him regret ever looking down on you."
Edric drew a shaking breath, then another that came steadier. His hands unclenched. Decision crystallized into determination.
"Right," he said quietly. "I've got this."
He stepped forward into the arena floor, and the crowd's roar seemed to fade to background noise. The Master of Ceremonies gestured toward the banner stands—the choice that had been explained earlier, the weight every squire understood.
Edric's hand moved without hesitation. He gripped the staff bearing Halborne colors and raised it high with deliberate strength. The banner unfurled—a silver stag on blue field, proud and honest, the symbol of House Halborne standing tall.
His family's cheer probably carried to the palace itself.
Across from him, Ryn Veynar's smirk widened as he raised his own crest with casual confidence—a golden hawk on crimson field, wings spread wide in perpetual strike. The symbol of predators taking what they wanted from positions of strength.
Two banners swayed in morning breeze. Common farmer nobility facing marcher nobility. Both willing to risk their family names on personal skill.
The crowd roared its approval. This was the story they craved.
Adrian watched from the sidelines, demonic perception reading beneath surfaces. Edric was nervous but resolute. Ryn was confident but complacent—expecting easy victory, another peasant put in his place.
That complacency would be his weakness.
The Master of Ceremonies raised his staff. "Competitors, take your positions!"
Edric and Ryn moved to opposite sides of the dueling circle. The crowd pressed forward, thousands holding their breath.
"Draw your blades!"
Steel sang as both weapons cleared sheaths. Sunlight ran along edges like liquid fire.
The Master's staff struck stone three times—sharp cracks like heartbeats.
"Begin!"