The blood on the sand from the first bout had already begun to dry, turning a dark, rusty brown under the afternoon sun. The herald stepped back into the center of the arena, his voice cutting through the lingering roar of the crowd.
"Second bout of the quarter-finals! Entering first, from the high roads of Holtzen, a warrior sworn to the old oaths! Give honor to, Garran Holt!"
Garran stepped into the ring with a measured, heavy stride. He carried a longsword and a heater shield, both polished until they caught the sun like mirrors. He was a man built of squares and straight lines, his jaw set in a permanent expression of grim duty.
He didn't look at the crowd, and he didn't look at the dirt. He stopped at the center, slammed his sword hilt against his shield in a crisp, military salute to the platform, and waited.
"And entering second, from the mountain passes east of Keres, the storm-footed huntress! Cheer for, Mira Ashwind!"
Mira didn't walk into the ring, she prowled. She was lean, her muscles corded like the roots of an ancient tree, and she carried a spear with a tip that looked like it had been forged in a cold, blue flame. She wore no shield, trusting instead in the length of her reach and the speed of her feet.
Her eyes were fixed on Garran, scanning the gaps in his plate with a predatory intensity that made the front row of the crowd go quiet.
The bell rang, the sound sharp and final.
Mira moved first. She didn't dance like Silas had, she struck like a viper. Her spear thrust forward in a blur, the tip whistling as it sought the gap at Garran's throat. Garran didn't flinch. He raised his shield, the metal catching the point with a ringing crack that echoed off the palisades.
Mira pulled back and struck again, then again, her movements a continuous flow of aggression. She was testing him, trying to find a rhythm she could break. Every strike was precise, aimed at the wrists, the ankles, the shield edge. Garran remained a fortress, his boots anchored in the dirt, shifting only enough to keep his guard between him and the blue-steel tip of the spear.
Garran began to advance. It was a slow, relentless pressure. He didn't swing his sword, he used it to threaten, forcing Mira to keep her distance. He knew that a spear was a queen at range but a beggar in a clinch. Every step he took was a theft of space.
Mira saw the trap. She spun, the butt of the spear sweeping low to catch Garran's ankles, a move meant to drop him so she could finish the fight. Garran saw it coming and jumped, the wood grazing his soles, but the effort forced him to open his guard for a split second.
Mira didn't hesitate. She lunged, her spear catching Garran's shoulder. The metal groaned as the tip slid across the spaulder, drawing a thin line of blood. The crowd let out a collective gasp. For the first time, the "fortress" had been breached.
Then Garran did something that made even Asimi lean forward. He dropped his shield.
The heavy heater shield hit the dirt with a thud, leaving Garran's left side completely exposed. The crowd went silent, confused by the gesture. But Garran gripped his longsword with both hands, his posture shifting from defense to a pure, aggressive stance. He wasn't a soldier anymore, he was a butcher.
He surged forward. Mira thrust her spear, aiming for his heart, but Garran didn't parry. He stepped into the strike, letting the spearhead graze his ribs as he closed the distance. He was inside her reach.
Mira tried to retreat, her boots skidding in the loose dirt, but she hit the boundary rope. She was cornered. Garran's sword came down in a heavy, vertical arc. Mira raised her spear shaft to block, the wood meeting the steel with a bone-jarring impact.
The sword bit deep into the ash wood. Garran didn't pull back, he pushed, using his superior weight to pin her against the ropes. With a sudden, violent twist, he snapped the spear shaft. The upper half of the weapon spun away into the sand, leaving Mira holding nothing but a broken stick.
Mira's eyes widened, but she didn't give up. She dropped the broken wood and drew a short sword from her belt, a jagged blade meant for close-quarters gutting. She lunged low, trying to get beneath his reach, her blade nicking his thigh.
But Garran was done playing. He caught her wrist with a gauntleted hand, the metal crushing her skin, and slammed the hilt of his sword into her cheek. Mira staggered, her vision swimming, the world turning into a blur of grey and red.
Before she could recover, the cold edge of Garran's longsword was resting against her throat.
"Yield," Garran said. His voice was as flat and cold as the steel he held.
Mira's chest rose and fell in ragged gasps. She looked at him, her eyes still burning with a defiant fire, but she knew the fight was over. She nodded, a short, sharp motion.
The bell rang.
"Victory! Garran Holt!"
Alaric watched as Garran picked up his shield, wiped his blade, and walked out of the ring without a word of celebration. He didn't look like a man who had won a prize, he looked like a man who had finished a chore.
"He discarded his safety for the kill," Dawn said, her voice small. "Is that what you want for a Commander, Alaric?"
Alaric didn't look at her. He was watching the medics help Mira to her feet. "I want men who know when the shield is a burden," he replied. "A wall that cannot move is just a tomb. Garran knows the difference."