The explosion of blue and green light faded, leaving two warriors locked blade-to-blade in the center of the dueling circle. Both were breathing hard, sweat streaming down faces, arms trembling with exhaustion. For a moment, they were perfectly matched—two common spirit colors meeting with equal force.
Then reality reasserted itself.
Ryn was the better swordsman. Always had been. Years of private instruction, superior resources, inherited technique—all of it meant something. Green flame gave Edric endurance, let him survive punishment that should have ended the fight. But endurance without technique could only carry him so far.
They separated, circling again. Edric's green flame burned steady but his movements were slowing. Too many hits absorbed. Too much energy spent just staying upright. His parries came a fraction slower than before, his footwork less certain.
Ryn saw it. His blue flame surged brighter as he pressed the advantage with renewed confidence. His strikes came faster, each one testing Edric's deteriorating defense, probing for the opening that would end this.
"You've fought well," Ryn admitted, and there was something like genuine respect in his tone now. "Better than I expected. Better than you had any right to, honestly. But this ends now."
He launched a combination that was pure technical perfection—high feint, low strike, redirect to center mass. Edric read the first two moves through hard-earned pattern recognition, blocked them with green-flamed desperation. But the third caught him completely.
Ryn's blue-flamed blade slipped through Edric's guard and struck his chest with force that lifted him off his feet.
Edric flew backward, hit the ground hard, his sword clattering from numbed fingers. His green flame guttered, flickered, died as he lost concentration. He tried to rise, got halfway to his knees, and his body simply refused. Legs wouldn't support him. Arms wouldn't lift his blade.
He'd given everything. It wasn't enough.
The Master of Ceremonies raised his staff. "The match is concluded! Victory to Ryn Veynar!"
The expected cheer from Ryn's supporters came—family celebrating, nobles approving, those who'd bet on the obvious outcome claiming their winnings. But it was muted, somehow. Uncertain.
Because something else was happening.
It started in the squire section. One person stood—then another, then another. Within seconds, dozens of squires were on their feet. Not cheering for Ryn's victory, but for something else entirely.
For Edric.
The applause started slowly, then built like incoming tide. Squires who'd trained beside him, who'd watched him get knocked down in drills only to rise again. Who'd seen him survive patrols that should have broken him. Who knew what it meant to manifest your true color through sheer refusal to quit.
The standing ovation spread. Merchants and craftsmen rose, recognizing one of their own—someone without inherited advantages, fighting on grit alone. Common folk in the upper stands erupted with genuine enthusiasm, seeing their hopes reflected in a farmer's son who'd made a noble warrior work for victory.
Even some nobles stood, unable to deny what they'd witnessed. This wasn't about winning—Edric had lost, clearly and definitively. But he'd lost in a way that somehow felt like victory of a different kind.
Adrian watched from the sidelines, standing with the rest. Not surprised by the reaction—he'd seen this pattern before, across centuries and battlefields. Sometimes defeat earned more respect than easy victory ever could.
Finn stood beside him, applauding with genuine enthusiasm. "He did it. Not the win, but the thing that matters more. He proved he belongs here."
"He did," Adrian agreed.
In the stands, Edric's family was crying—not from shame, but from pride so overwhelming it couldn't be contained. Their son had raised their banner and fought with everything he had. The loss didn't diminish that. If anything, it made it more meaningful.
Ryn stood in the center of the dueling circle, his victory complete but somehow hollow. He'd won—his blue flame had proven superior, his technique had overcome stubborn endurance. But the crowd wasn't celebrating him. They were honoring his opponent.
He looked down at Edric, still on his knees, chest heaving with exhaustion, and something complicated crossed his features. Not quite regret, but... recognition, perhaps. That the boy he'd dismissed as unworthy had forced him to fight harder than most nobles ever would.
Ryn extended his hand.
The gesture shocked everyone. Extended hands were traditional after close matches between equals, not expected after a noble defeated common blood.
Edric stared at the offered hand for a long moment. Pride warred with pragmatism. Then, slowly, he reached up and grasped it.
Ryn pulled him to his feet, and the crowd's roar doubled. That simple gesture—acknowledgment of worthy opponent—somehow transformed everything. Ryn hadn't just won. He'd recognized Edric's worth in doing so.
"You made me work for it," Ryn said quietly, just loud enough for Edric to hear. "I won't forget that."
It wasn't an apology for the registration hall. Wasn't friendship. But it was something—respect earned through blood and sweat and refusal to break.
Edric managed a tired smile. "Next time, I won't lose."
"Next time," Ryn agreed, "I'll be ready for that."
They separated, both bowing to the crowd, both lowering their family banners with honor intact despite the outcome. The Halborne silver stag on blue and the Veynar golden hawk on crimson were carried from the arena together, no longer symbols of class conflict but of warriors who'd tested each other.
Edric stumbled from the dueling circle on shaking legs. Adrian and Finn were there immediately, supporting him before he could fall.
"I lost," Edric said, voice hoarse. "Early round. My knighthood—"
"Is not decided by one tournament," Adrian interrupted firmly. "You manifested green flame through determination alone. You forced a noble warrior to acknowledge your worth. The instructors saw that. Everyone saw that."
Finn nodded. "Knighthood isn't about winning every fight. It's about proving you have the will to stand when it matters. You did that. No one who watched that duel will ever question whether you belong here."
Around them, other squires approached—some offering congratulations, others simply nodding respect. Even squires from noble houses, who should have dismissed him, acknowledged what they'd witnessed.
"That was incredible," someone said.
"Made him work for every inch," another added.
"Green flame manifestation under pressure—the instructors will remember that."
The attention was overwhelming. Edric sagged between his friends, exhaustion finally claiming him now that adrenaline was fading.
"Come on," Adrian said. "Let's get you to the medical tent. You've earned some rest."
As they guided Edric away from the arena, the applause continued behind them. The next match was being announced, new names drawn from the urn, but the energy remained focused on what they'd just witnessed.
Not victory. Not defeat. Something in between that mattered more than either.
Edric looked back once at the dueling circle where his blood and sweat still stained stones, where his green flame had burned against impossible odds. He'd lost. His tournament was over before it truly began. His path to knighthood was now uncertain—he'd have to prove himself through other means, impress the instructors in ways beyond tournament victory.
But the standing ovation still echoed in his ears. The respect in Ryn's eyes when he'd extended that hand. The pride in his family's tears. The knowledge that he'd pushed himself further than he'd ever thought possible.
"I lost," Edric said again, quieter this time. Testing the words, seeing how they felt.
"You fought," Adrian corrected. "That's what matters. You fought with everything you had, and everyone saw it."
Edric nodded slowly, letting that truth settle. He'd lost the match but won something more valuable—proof to himself and everyone watching that he belonged among warriors. That farmer's blood didn't mean weak spirit. That determination could bridge gaps that breeding couldn't.
The tournament would continue without him. Other matches would be fought, other names would advance. But his moment—brief as it was—had left its mark.
Not bad, he thought as exhaustion pulled him toward unconsciousness, for a farmer's son.
Not bad at all.