The Grand Melee — Day Three
The horns sounded.
The field was a sea of steel and fury.
Champions in gleaming armor surged forward, their weapons blunted but still deadly.
The rules were simple: last one standing wins.
Valeris leaned forward slightly on her throne, eyes sharp. She could feel it—
—the wrongness slithering under the surface.
The champion she watched wasn't the strongest.
Wasn't the flashiest.
But he moved like death.
Effortless. Precise.
Too perfect for a mere knight of the lower banners.
Asher caught it too.
His lips barely moved as he spoke:
"There. Black surcoat. No sigil. South quarter."
Valeris nodded once.
"Alive," she ordered quietly. "I want to know who trained him."
Asher grinned, a wolf's grin.
"Understood."
And then he moved.
Leaping from the dais like a hawk.
Sword flashing free.
The crowd roared, thinking it part of the spectacle—Valeris's personal knight entering the fray!
But this was no game.
The fight was brutal.
