"The priiiiiiince; DAEMION!"
The crowd exploded.
Cheers crashed against the stone walls and rose skyward, as though even the heavens were forced to listen. The great gate of the arena began to open; slow, deliberate, merciless.
Metal groaned.
Stone scraped.
From the darkness beyond, a single footstep echoed onto the arena floor.
Another followed.
Then another.
He stepped forward, and light found him piece by piece.
First, his knee guards; polished steel etched with the sigil of Greyfort, caught the sun and flashed like fire. His greaves followed, layered and battle-worn, speaking of training harsher than war. Plates rose along his thighs and waist, locking seamlessly into a finely forged cuirass that hugged his frame.
He was of medium build, lean and hardened rather than bulky; strength shaped by discipline. His shoulders bore light pauldrons, flexible yet deadly, allowing speed over brute force.
Two swords rested in his hands.
Medium blades; balanced, elegant, deadly. Their steel shimmered, reflecting the sunlight in sharp, dancing streaks across the arena sands.
His face came into view.
Long-featured and composed, eyes steady with quiet fire. His hair fell to his shoulders, restrained beneath a helmet crowned with a sweeping feathered crest that fluttered gently as he moved.
Prince Daemion of Greyfort walked forward.
The arena lost its mind.
"DAEMION!"
"DAEMION!"
"DAEMION!"
The sound rolled like thunder.
He lifted his left arm.
A single gesture.
The arena fell into stunned silence.
"Hail Greyfort!" he shouted.
"HAIL GREYFORT!" the crowd roared back as one.
The king allowed himself a small, proud smile.
Daemion moved to the center of the arena and stood tall.
From the gallery, Leah watched him; eyes shining with excitement and something softer, heavier beneath it. Pride warred with sadness in her chest, but in the end, she smiled. That was her brother, standing where legends were born.
Beside her, Thalia stared without blinking. Her gaze was fixed on him alone, her expression open, unguarded; full of admiration that made no effort to hide itself.
Daemion turned toward the royal balcony and knelt, lowering his head.
The king rose slightly, resting a hand over his heart. The queen inclined her head, one palm raised in blessing, her fingers glowing faintly with restrained magic.
"Rise," their gestures said without words.
The Arena Master stepped forward once more.
"On the other end," he boomed, "I present the undefeatable; the warrior whose silence speaks louder than armies. He does not boast. He does not warn. His sword; and his will; have broken all who dared stand before him."
The opposite gate opened.
An elegant figure emerged.
A man in his fifties, broad-shouldered and unshaken by time. His armor was darker steel, layered and scarred, each mark a memory of survival. A dragon-crested helmet crowned his head, its eyes set with crimson stone.
In his hand
a spear.
Long, balanced, deadly.
The crowd erupted anew.
"ARTHUR!"
"ARTHUR!"
"Behold; our mighty warrior of Greyfort! SER ARTHUR DUNGEON!"
Arthur strode forward with calm authority. Reaching the center, he swung his spear in a powerful arc, leapt backward into a flawless backflip, and landed lightly. In midair, the spear traced a ring of fire that burned briefly before vanishing into sparks.
The crowd roared in awe.
Arthur bowed first to the king and queen, then turned to Daemion.
And thenbhe looked to the gallery.
There she stood.
His wife.
Clad in fitted female armor; dark steel shaped for movement, not ornament. Her pauldrons were sharp, her breastplate engraved with the mark of a veteran. Her hair was tied back tightly, her stance proud and unyielding.
A warrior.
She cheered with a radiant smile.
Arthur's face softened. He placed a fist over his heart, then extended it toward her. She mirrored the gesture, her eyes bright with fierce love.
Only then did he turn back.
He stepped close to Daemion.
"Sensi," the prince said, bowing his head with humility.
Arthur smiled and placed a hand briefly on his shoulder.
"I won't go easy on you," he said quietly. "Make me proud."
The Arena Master returned to center.
"Today," he declared, "we witness a battle between master and student. Today, Prince Daemion proves his worth to this kingdom!"
The rules rang out, sharp and dramatic.
"Two hits for the prince; victory!
Three hits for Ser Arthur; the end of hope!"
The crowd leaned forward as one.
"To protect them," the Arena Master continued, "our queen shall cast a spell; an invisible armor. When struck, the impact shall explode outward, throwing the warrior back. The point of impact shall flash red!"
"WOOOOOOO!" crowd excited
The queen rose.
She moved swiftly to the balcony's edge, grasping the pentagonal pendant at her neck with both hands. Her lips moved in ancient words. The gem glowed; green, brightening with each syllable.
She thrust her hands forward.
Green energy surged, wrapping around both warriors. They lifted into the air as the magic shaped itself; forming armor of pure force around their bodies. Then, slowly, it faded from sight.
They landed.
Protected.
Blessed.
The queen nodded once and returned to her throne.
The Arena Master stepped back as the stage beneath him lowered.
"Before the mighty gods; LET THE TOURNAMENT BEGIIIIIN!"
The arena exploded.
"DAEMION!"
"ARTHUR!"
Steel rang.
Daemion scraped his swords together, sparks flashing. He dropped into stance; one knee back, weight coiled. One blade forward, aligned with his arm; the other angled toward his opponent.
Arthur casually spun his spear and leveled it.
Daemion drove his back foot into the sand.
And sprinted forward.