The mage’s vow made Riftan’s skin crawl. He slammed his tankard onto the table, but Ruth seemed unperturbed and continued celebrating, buying ale for everyone in the tavern.

Riftan watched Ruth’s antics through narrowed eyes before heaving a sigh and rising to his feet. He was about to climb the stairs to his room when a drunk man swung his arm around his shoulders.

“You really are somethin’, aren’t ya?” he said with a hearty laugh. “All of Balbourne’s in a tizzy over the possibility of the first commoner champion in decades. So, tell me. How’s it feel to be famous?”

Riftan scowled and tried to shake off the man’s arm. Just then, an acrimonious bellow rang out from the corner seat.

“You fools! Celebrating when a pagan mutt is about to claim what’s ours!”

The tavern went silent as though everyone had been doused in ice water. Riftan turned to the voice. Three men in sentry uniforms sat around a small table full of empty tankards. One of them, his face flushed from drink, pointed his finger at Riftan.

“This year’s coveted prize is the sword of one of Darian the Monarch’s knights! The legacy of the Western Continent’s hero is about to fall into the hands of a desert spirit-worshipping pagan, yet you all laugh and make merry?

‘What did you say?” Ruth leaped to his feet in anger. ‘Master Calypse is no pagan! In the year I’ve been traveling with him, I have never seen him do anything that goes against the will of the church. With what evidence do you make such accusations?”

“Evidence? Why would we need any when it’s written all over his face?” The man waved his hand, snorting loudly. “1t’s outrageous that an immoral scoundrel who hawks monster parts was even allowed before His Holiness!”

The mercenaries gathered at the other end of the tavern bared their teeth at the sentry.

“0i!” one of them yelled. “Do you have a problem with how we make a living? The sentry shrunk back before raising his chin. “I only speak the truth.”

A burly mercenary hurled his tankard and huffed, “Goddammit, can’t a man enjoy his drink in peace without some bastard tryna pick a fight?”

As the atmosphere grew increasingly hostile, the other sentries elbowed their companion in the ribs. The loud-mouthed sentry finally seemed to cotton on to the tension, and he quietly looked about the tavern.

Riftan finally broke his silence. “Since you seem to have a problem with me winning, I’ll give you a chance to stop me. If you manage to land even a scratch, I’ll forfeit the next match. What do you say?

The sentry visibly recoiled and glanced at the sword at Riftan’s waist. Though he clearly had no problem with public mockery, his bravado seemed to disappear at the prospect of facing Riftan in single combat. The man clamped his mouth shut.

Riftan sneered before whirling away and climbing the staircase. Ruth made a tentative attempt to follow, but Riftan promptly put a stop to it with a ferocious glare. It was embarrassing enough that such a slight had managed to anger him without having to listen to empty words of comfort.

After slamming his room door, Riftan removed his protective gear and tossed them into the corner. Bluish moonlight seeped through the open window. He gazed up at the crescent moon for a moment before crashing onto the bed.

Faint unease crept into his heart. What if the girl shared the sentry’s opinion? Though he was used to insults, he did not think he could bear to hear such words of disdain coming from her. Rubbing his aching chest, he tried to shake off the awful feeling.

The stands were even more crowded the next day. Conversely, the headcount within the waiting room had shrunk to four. That did not include the six squires who waited on the knights.

Ignoring the furtive glances of everyone in the room, Riftan sat polishing his sword in the corner. It was not long before the soldiers called his name. Once again, he put on his helmet and sauntered down the tunnel leading to the arena. His next opponent was as heavily built as Gayron, the mercenary he had fought on the first day. He passed a sideways glance over him.

The young knight had a head of reddish-orange curls often seen in the southern regions, but his large frame hinted at a northern lineage. He grinned, his calm eyes at odds with his brawny physique.

“Quite the talent you have there, chum. I’ve been itching to fight you since day one.”

Taken aback by the knight’s manner of speech, Riftan cocked a brow. The young man tapped the sword strapped to his back and added, “Let me warn you, though. This fellow and I are as wily as you are. I’ve been hankering for a good fight, so I suggest you keep your eyes peeled. 1 don’t want this match to end too quickly because of any sloppiness on your part.”

“1’ve never met a braggart who was as good as he claimed.”

“And I’ve always found needlessly somber people grating,” the young man retorted.

Trumpet blasts cut short their battle of nerves. Riftan strode to the center of the arena and stood at a safe distance opposite his opponent. In an instant, the air around the knight changed. It was clear he was not all talk. Riftan shifted, bracing himself.

The flags went up, setting off a chorus of thunderous cheers from the stands. In a move atypical of a knight, the young man skipped the show of gallantry and did not offer Riftan the chance to attack first. The knight’s blade a claymore as big as he was came at him at an incredible speed. Their swords met as Riftan blocked the incoming blow, sending a bone-rattling reverberation all the way to his shoulders. He felt as though he had been hit with a cannonball.

Bearing down with his sword, the knight hissed, “Impressive. You managed to block me.”

He sounded surprised, and Riftan found himself thinking the same. The last time someone had managed to outmuscle him was when he was fifteen. Yet, he now found himself struggling to push the young man back. Clenching his jaw, he tensed his legs and plowed forward.

The young man gritted his teeth and fought back. Both were keenly aware that it would all be over as soon as one of them allowed even the tiniest opening. An indeterminable amount of time passed before the knight’s whole body tensed like a bowstring, abruptly shifting his stance and breaking the deadlock. He executed the move with a speed unusual for a man of his size.

The knight’s blade swung up from below, and Riftan only just managed to deflect it. A second blow came immediately after. The knight’s footwork was nimble, and his constant movement made it difficult to find an opening. Sparks flew as their blades clashed, and the ringing of steel against steel filled the arena.

I can’t let this drag on.

The way Riftan’s blade was resonating had him worried. He did not think it could withstand any more parrying for much longer. As he deflected the next furious wave of attacks, he sought an opening. His opponent’s sword was sturdier and longer. He would have to take a risk and deliver a deciding blow.

Riftan evaded the blade flying at him and switched his footing. His opponent responded by changing position just as quickly. As the knight swung his sword over his head, Riftan went to block the attack.

The moment the knight’s arms rebounded upward, Riftan went straight for his head. The knight yanked his sword back, but he was too late to block him completely.

Riftans bastard sword struck the side of the knights helmet. Though the young man had narrowly managed to thwart a critical blow, the attack made him lose his balance. Seizing the opportunity, Riftan whacked the knight’s hand with the hilt of his sword, then jabbed the tip of his blade under his helmet.

A heavy silence fell over the stadium. The knight looked down at the blade pressed below his Adam’s apple and conceded with a sigh

“1t’s your match.”

At those words, the stands erupted into cheers. Riftan lowered his sword and slowly retreated.

The knight pulled off his helmet and grumbled, “Damn it. This headache is worse than that time I downed four casks of ale. Were you trying to kill me? If I’d been any slower, you would’ve split my skull open.”

Catching his breath, Riftan sheathed his sword. “I could ask you the same. You would’ve cut me down the middle if that thing had landed.”

He pointed to the knight’s massive claymore with his chin.

The young man shrugged. “Well, I didn’t want the humiliation of getting knocked out within five minutes because I was too slow. About time someone tarnished your ‘single-strike’ reputation, isn’t it?”

The knight did not seem all that humiliated at having lost to a mercenary.

Though Riftan could feel a hint of vexation, he did not sense any hostility.

‘You’d better not lose now after defeating me,” the knight said, turning to the waiting room.

His curiosity piqued by the knight’s unusual attitude, Riftan studied the coat of arms on the man’s armor. It was a dragon with its wings wrapped around itself. He absently wondered which knightly order the coat belonged to as he made his way to the waiting room.

Compared to the first match, the final duel ended quickly and without much excitement. Riftan was crowned champion, and he started up the stairs to the podium as part of the victory ceremony. The pope, a stately-looking man with a long beard, presided over the arena in the seat of honor surrounded by high-ranking nobles of the Seven Kingdoms.

The Duke of Croyso was easy to spot. Though he had only ever caught glimpses of him from afar, the grim air he exuded was etched into Riftan’s memory.

The duke was not a large man, but his slim frame had a dignified bearing that he draped in garments of unbelievable opulence. Though the dark auburn curls Riftan remembered were now flecked with white, his austere face was the same.

He furtively eyed the duke before shifting his gaze to those beside him. The girl was not there. Instead, lavishly dressed noblewomen far too old to be the little girl sat beside him.

Did she not come?

Perhaps she was too young to accompany her father to such an event. Hiding his disappointment, Riftan looked away.

When he paused on the sixth stair down from the podium, a Temple Knight intoned, “Kneel before His Holiness!”

Riftan slowly lowered to one knee and bowed his head..