The arena had been raked again, but the ground still looked bruised. Dark patches lingered where blood had soaked into the dirt and refused to leave, and the morning mist from the river made every smell travel farther than it should. Alaric tasted wet earth, sweat, and iron at the back of his throat. Even the crowd seemed damp, their voices thick and breath visible in the chill, impatience rising like steam from a kettle.
He stood on his observation step with his cloak clasped neatly, hands folded beneath the heavy fabric to keep them still. The platinum ring on his left hand pressed cold against his skin, and he kept his thumb away from the runes by sheer effort. People watched him in the pauses between bouts, searching for fear or certainty in a child's face. Alaric gave them neither.
Dawn stood close at his side, her quarterstaff upright. Her midnight-black hair was tied back but never fully tamed, a few strands dancing against her cheek. Her eyes were fixed on the gate, bright and unblinking. Behind them, Asimi sat composed, her metallic gaze measuring the crowd as if it might turn sharp at any moment.
The herald stepped into the ring and drew a breath that carried across the flats. "Next bout!" he called. "A clash of stone and steel!"
The western gate opened first. "Entering from the boglands and north roads," the herald shouted, "the wall that does not fall—Roderic Stonevein!"
Roderic emerged to a roar of recognition. He looked like a fortress forced into human shape: broad shoulders, thick arms, and steady, unwavering eyes. His kite shield bore fresh scars from previous matches, and his mace looked built for crushing more than killing, a blunt promise meant to break bones beneath armor. He did not smile. He simply lifted his shield slightly, an acknowledgment without vanity.
Then the opposite gate opened, and the crowd's sound shifted into a heavier, curious murmur. A dwarf stepped out wearing rusted dwarven plate that looked like it had survived three different wars and been forgotten between each one. His beard was mid-length and greying, bound by a single iron ring, and his eyes were pale with a tired hardness that made Alaric's stomach tighten.
"Entering second," the herald boomed, "a dwarven war veteran—hammer in hand, rust on his shoulders, thunder in his name—Thodin Thunderforge!"
Thodin carried a war hammer with a head like a block of ruin and a small round shield that looked hammered into existence by stubbornness alone. He did not bow. He did not look at the crowd. He stared at Roderic and rolled his shoulders, his plate grinding softly as if making room for old aches.
The bell rang.
Roderic advanced first, shield high and feet planted wide. He took space slowly, the way disciplined men took space, and tried to force the dwarf to retreat. Thodin stepped forward as well, hammer held low, letting its weight swing with each step. They met with a sound like a heavy door slamming in a storm: shield to shield, wood to metal, breath to breath.
Roderic's mace snapped out in a tight arc, testing. Thodin caught it on his round shield, and the impact jolted his arm. Thodin answered immediately. The hammer fell, heavy and indifferent, striking Roderic's kite shield with a brutal thunk that Alaric felt in his own teeth. The shield face buckled inward a fraction, not enough to fail, but enough to announce what would happen if that weight landed on ribs.
Roderic circled left, trying to keep the hammer from lining up cleanly. He jabbed with the mace at joints and wrists, searching for a gap in plate and habit. Thodin watched, letting blows glance off armor or shield, then stepped in close and crowded him. The dwarf's shoulder slammed into the kite shield edge, and Roderic's boots skidded in the damp dirt.
Roderic recovered fast, pivoting and cracking the mace against Thodin's helm. The strike rang sharp. For a heartbeat, Alaric expected Thodin to stagger.
Thodin only blinked once.
Then the hammer came up again, angled for the kite shield's rim, and slammed down. A thin crack split the wood. It wasn't catastrophic, but it was a line that promised a widening wound. Roderic's jaw clenched, and he adjusted his stance instantly, bracing harder against the weight.
He surged forward with his usual answer: pressure. A shield bash to force space, then a low mace swing for the knee, meant to steal mobility and turn the fight into a grind. The mace struck the plate over the joint and rang. Thodin grunted, more acknowledgment than pain, and responded with a tactic Alaric hadn't seen from him yet.
Thodin hooked the hammer head behind the upper rim of the kite shield and yanked.
Roderic's shield arm jerked forward, his balance breaking for a heartbeat. Thodin stepped into that broken beat and drove the hammer straight into the shield again, a compact punch of weight rather than a wide swing. The shield face caved inward more sharply. The force traveled through strapped wood and into Roderic's forearm, and Alaric saw Roderic's teeth show as his mouth tightened against the pain.
Roderic swung for retaliation. Thodin's round shield snapped up and deflected it. Thodin crowded again, his armor grinding, then the hammer rose and came down at a new angle—aimed directly at Roderic's mace arm.
Roderic tried to pull back. Too late.
The hammer struck his forearm below the elbow with a sick solidity. Roderic's grip spasmed. The mace dipped, nearly slipping free. He didn't cry out. He inhaled sharply through his nose, forced his fingers to close, and dragged the weapon back into control with sheer will.
The crowd's roar dulled into a tense murmur. Everyone understood what that blow did to bone.
Thodin advanced with certainty now. Not fast, not flashy, but inevitable. Roderic retreated a step to re-center his wall, then held his ground, shield raised high despite the crack. He swung the mace with tighter, cleaner angles, aiming at Thodin's wrist, throat line, and any seam he could find beneath the rusted plate.
Thodin absorbed it like war had taught him to. He did not flinch at shoulder hits. He did not blink at shield rim strikes. He walked through them and brought the hammer down again onto the same cracked place.
Wood groaned. The crack split wider, and a strap snapped. The kite shield sagged, suddenly heavier and wrong.
Roderic tried to shift it into usefulness, but the shift exposed his side. Thodin saw the opening instantly. The hammer came around in a short, brutal swing and smashed into Roderic's ribs through the armor. The sound was dull: meat, breath, and impact. Roderic's mouth opened involuntarily as air burst out of him. He staggered, his boots slipping, and for the first time the fortress looked like a man.
Alaric's stomach tightened hard at the sight. He watched Roderic's eyes for panic and saw none. Only a grim, quiet calculation.
Roderic made one last push, shield-bashing despite the damage and swinging his mace despite the agony in his arm. He landed a clean hit on Thodin's helm, hard enough to ring the dwarf's head sideways. Thodin's knees flexed, and his eyes went unfocused for a blink.
Then he stepped forward anyway.
He lifted the hammer and held it poised, not over Roderic's head, but over the strap line of the kite shield, as if silently stating that the next blow would take away the last of Roderic's defense. Roderic stared at the hammer, chest heaving, one hand beginning to press unconsciously toward his ribs.
His shoulders sagged a fraction. He nodded once.
The bell rang, sharp and final.
The crowd erupted, rough and loud. The herald shouted, "Victory! Thodin Thunderforge advances!"
Thodin lowered the hammer and stepped back. He didn't celebrate. He looked at Roderic for a long moment, then gave the smallest nod: soldier to soldier, survivor to survivor. Roderic returned it, breathing hard, his shield ruined and his mace still held in a trembling hand.
Alaric exhaled slowly, realizing he'd been holding his breath. Asimi's voice came quiet beside him. "A veteran," she murmured. "He fights like he expects a tomorrow."
Dawn watched Thodin leave the ring with wide eyes. "He's scary," she said softly, not out of fear, but as a statement of fact.
Alaric's gaze lingered on the cracked kite shield being carried away, the broken wood dangling like a warning. Starfall's order was taking shape through hammer blows and strained breath, blood in the dirt, and oaths that would have to hold when the true fear arrived.
He could feel the weight of his choices settling deeper with every bout.