The final morning did not bring sunlight. Instead, the sky was a heavy, bruised grey that threatened rain, pressing down on the arena until the torches felt more like a necessity than decoration.
Three days had passed since the semi-finals. It was enough time for the healers' poultices to knit flesh and for the deep, bone-weary exhaustion of the fighters to ebb. The limp in Kaelen's stride had vanished, and Vesper's shoulder moved with its old, fluid grace, though the skin beneath their tunics remained a map of yellowing bruises and fresh, pink scars.
Alaric stood at the edge of the royal platform, looking down at the Knight-Commander's armor.
It was a masterpiece of dwarven craft, several grades above the castle-forged steel of the Knights Gallant. The metal had a deep, matte luster that seemed to drink the morning light. Subtle runes flowed along the gorget and pauldrons—marks of reinforcement that only a master smith could scribe.
"All fifty semi-finalists will be knighted today," Alaric said, his voice carrying to the top-six finishers standing nearby. "But only the champion will be awarded the title of Knight-Commander. The other five of you shall be granted a squadron of ten as a Knight-Sergeant. This armor belongs to the leader."
He signaled to the guards. They carried the armor stand down to the edge of the ring. Alaric followed, stepping to the very edge of the sands as Kaelen and Vesper entered from opposite gates.
Kaelen looked steady, his silk replaced by a practical gambeson. His twin curved blades hummed with that low, oceanic mana that made the air feel thick. Vesper stood opposite him, her rapier held loosely. She looked like a shadow given form, her bandages hidden but her focus absolute.
"You look better," Kaelen said, his voice carrying across the quiet ring. He tested the air with a shallow flourish of his left blade. "I was worried I would be fighting a ghost today."
Vesper's mouth curved into a thin, dangerous line. "Don't worry about my health, Islander. Worry about your footing. The mud does not care how pretty your songs are."
"The mud is just water that has lost its way," Kaelen countered, his blue mana flaring a shade brighter. "I will manage."
"Spoken like a man who has never had to scrub his own laundry," Vesper shot back. She shifted her weight, testing the healed lines of her shoulder. "That armor looks heavy, Kaelen. Are you sure you are big enough to fill it?"
Kaelen's eyes sharpened. "I have carried the weight of my people's hope for years. A bit of dwarven plate will not break me."
"Hope is light," Vesper said, her voice dropping to a low, cold rasp. "Steel is honest. Let us see which one lasts longer."
Alaric raised his hand, the platinum ring flashing once in the gloom. He dropped it.
"Begin."