Alester's breath rasped loudly inside his helm.
Plate armour encased him from neck to heel, its weight pressing down like judgment itself. Sweat slicked his brow despite the cool morning air, and his fingers tightened around the haft of his mace until his knuckles ached. Eight other knights stood with him before the closed iron gates of the arena, their armour scratched and dented from past battles, their banners hanging limp.
A gauntleted hand settled on Alester's shoulder.
"Ser Alester," said Ser Michael, his voice calm and steady beneath his visor. "Do not be afraid. The Nine watch over us this day. They will see us victorious, for we fight in their name."
Alester let out a short, bitter laugh. "The Nine will do nothing for me."
Before Ser Michael could reply, the gates groaned open.
Sunlight spilled across the sand of the arena, blinding for a moment. Alester raised his shield and stepped forward, mace in his right hand, heart hammering like a war drum. Together, the nine knights walked out beneath the gaze of the crowd.
Thousands filled the stands, packed shoulder to shoulder. Not a sound came from them—not yet. Silence, heavy and expectant.
Across the arena stood the opposing nine.
At their head was the man who had dragged Alester into this trial: Prince Armand Montreval.
Rage coiled tight in Alester's chest. His jaw clenched beneath his helmet.
A horn sounded from the noble box.
A herald stepped forward, parchment unfurled. His voice rang out across the stone walls.
"On this glorious day, blessed by the Nine, Prince Armand of House Montreval has invoked a Trial of the Nine against the hedge knight Ser Alester. May Justiciarius weigh truth and guilt, and may the righteous prevail."
The horn sounded again.
The trial had begun.
Alester leaned toward Ser Michael. "You're the most experienced among us. What do we do?"
Ser Michael did not hesitate. "We hold formation. Stay together. Do not seek single combat. If one of us falls before one of them does, they will overwhelm us—and then this battle is lost."
Alester nodded. The words made sense.
"Bullshit," Ser Brandon snarled.
He hefted his massive warhammer onto his shoulder, muscles straining beneath his armour. "I want William's skull. That bastard dies by my hand."
"Ser Brandon," Ser Michael snapped, "don't be a fool."
Ser Robard spoke up, his voice sharp. "Michael's right. William won't face you alone. And even with that hammer, you won't survive against nine knights."
Brandon growled, then lowered his weapon. "Fine."
The two lines advanced slowly toward one another, boots moving in the mud.
The crowd began to boo, restless for blood.
Prince Armand stepped forward, lifting his sword.
"Ser Alester," he called, voice dripping with disdain. "Even if you win today, you will die tomorrow. I am of royal blood. You are the bastard son of a lowly baron. Lay down your arms and accept your—"
"Fuck off," Alester shouted back.
A ripple of gasps swept through the stands.
"Even if I die," Alester continued, lifting his mace, "I'll still crush your skull."
Prince Armand's body twisted with fury.
"Men!" he screamed. "The people demand blood. Charge!"
Steel met steel.
The arena exploded into chaos.
Ser Brandon roared and swung his warhammer, the blow narrowly avoided as one knight leapt aside. Blades clashed, shields shattered, and men shouted prayers and curses alike.
Despite Ser Michael's orders, the melee fractured into brutal, desperate duels.
Alester found himself face-to-face with Prince Armand.
Armand lunged, slashing wildly. Alester caught the blow on his shield—and the impact sent a shock through his arm. The blade bit deep, cleaving through wood and iron alike.
By the Nine…
The shield split.
Alester staggered back, staring at the jagged edge.
Elven steel.
Cold realization set in. The elven sword of House Montreval belonged to the king.
Which meant Duke Flamount had armed him with his sword.
Alester hurled the ruined shield aside as Armand attacked again. This time, Alester dodged. Armand's strikes were heavy and slow, his form sloppy—dangerous only because of the blade he wielded.
Alester waited.
Then he struck.
The mace smashed into Armand's sword hand with a sickening crunch. The blade flew free. A second blow caught Armand's helm, sending the prince crashing to the sand.
Alester raised his mace to finish it—
Something slammed into him.
He hit the ground hard as massive hands grappled him.
Ser Rollo.
The Walking Mountain.
Rollo's strength was terrifying. He wrenched at Alester's helm, fingers like iron clamps. Alester fought back, but Rollo tore the helmet free and began raining blows down on his face.
Each punch was agony.
Teeth cracked. Blood filled his mouth. His vision swam—but the fire inside him refused to die.
Alester's hand flailed, grasping blindly.
He found a hilt.
A dagger.
Rollo's arm lifted—and his armpit opened.
Alester drove the blade in.
Rollo screamed, a raw, animal sound, and collapsed away.
Alester staggered to his feet, face shattered and bloody, breath coming in ragged gasps.
Prince Armand still lay on the ground.
The elven sword glittered in the sand.
Alester picked it up.
Slowly, he looked to the noble box.
Duke Flamount sat rigid, eyes locked on him.
So be it.
Alester walked to the prince, tore off his helm, and raised the blade.
"Ser Alester," Ser Michael called desperately. "Do not do this. He is right. You will die."
Alester did not turn.
"Then," he said quietly, "I shall die."
The sword fell.
The prince's head rolled across the sand.
The crowd erupted.
"Alester! Alester! Alester!"
Duke Flamount rose, raising his hand. Silence fell like a blade.
"Ser Alester," the duke proclaimed, "you have proven your innocence before the Nine. But you have slain a prince. No trial can absolve that crime. Seize him."
Soldiers flooded the arena.
Alester dropped the sword and raised his hands.
As they dragged him away, he met Duke Flamount's gaze—then looked past him.
He would not bow.
The dungeon swallowed him whole.
Cold stone. Iron bars.
Pain burned through every inch of him.
As darkness claimed his sight, Alester let go.