The qualifiers transformed the muddy flats outside the palisade into a kaleidoscope of violence and skill. While the common conscripts watched in awe, Alaric sat perched on his observation crate, his small fingers steepled. To the crowd, it was a show; to him, it was a talent acquisition meeting.
Three figures, in particular, moved through the brackets with a lethality that made the surrounding Gallant knights tighten their grips on their spears.
The warrior from the Southern Isles didn't fight; he flowed. Dressed in silks that seemed immune to the mud, he wielded twin curved blades that hummed with a low, oceanic resonance.
During his first bout, he didn't even draw his steel until his opponent—a massive sellsword with a greataxe—had already exhausted himself. When Kaelen finally struck, it was a blur of blue mana. He didn't just disarm his opponent; he sliced the laces on the man's leather armor, letting it fall to the dirt in a humilitating heap.
Alaric noted the way the Theurges leaned forward. Kaelen wasn't just using magic; he was singing to the blades. He was technically superior to almost everyone on the field, but there was a flicker of desperation in his eyes, the look of a man running from a shadow longer than his own.
Marek was the antithesis of the Islander. He wore battered, rusted plate that had clearly seen the fall of at least three different city-states. He didn't use flashy mana or complex footwork. He simply stood like a boulder. In his qualifier, he took a heavy mace blow to the shoulder, didn't flinch, and countered with a pommel strike to the throat that ended the fight instantly.
Marek didn't celebrate. He immediately went to a nearby water trough, cleaned his blade, and sat staring at the Wizard's Tower. He wasn't looking at the gold; he was looking at the marble walls with the hunger of a man who hadn't slept in a bed without a sword in his hand for twenty years.
She called herself a mercenary from the western reaches, but her posture gave her away. She fought with a rapier and a buckler, a style far too refined for the frontier. Her movements were textbook Imperial Academy, precise to a fault.
During her match against a pair of brigands, she moved with a predatory grace, her eyes constantly darting up toward the observation platform, not at the Empress-Consort, but directly at Alaric.
Alaric felt a prickle at the back of his neck. This wasn't a warrior seeking coin. Her equipment was high-quality steel hidden under layers of road dust. She was here to measure the "Red-Gold Prince" and the power of the Tower.
As the sun began to set, casting long, bloody shadows across the tournament grounds, Asimi leaned down toward Alaric's ear.
"A predator, a survivor, and a spy," she whispered, her metallic eyes tracking the three as they moved toward the temporary barracks. "Which one do you want for your Commander?"
Alaric didn't answer immediately. He looked at the ledger, then at the tower, then at Dawn, who was staring at the Southern Islander with an intensity that suggested she was already imagining him as a tutor.
"I want the one who can hold the oath," Alaric said finally. "The tower will tell us who that is."