---

As another round of duels wrapped up in the arena below, in the box overhead, a red-haired man gave a contemptuous huff, and the silver-haired elder seated next to him laughed. While the former Lord Marshal seemed quite pleased at the turnabout match that had concluded the set -- no wonder, given the victory had been performed with a Snow Incantation, a form of magic few other than Ser Ward could even use in the first place -- the head of the Eastern House was, predictably, disgusted.

It was no wonder, the raven-haired man mused, his armor clicking as he shifted in his chair. Though the other Knight-Commanders had donned more comfortable clothing for this little occasion, Commander Gilbert Tervellan alone had chosen to attend in full battle dress. Perhaps the others thought him foolish, or a mere braggart seeking to make an imposing first impression -- but Prince Laurentius, the Lord Marshal, had merely given him a wry, knowing smile and said no more.

Yes, it was no wonder indeed. Aside from a select few worthies, the lion's share of this year's candidates were lacking, by all objective measure -- moreso, even, than the usual fare of the previous years. Most of the commoners who weren't already known the order thanks to the prestige of their teachers or their victories in other, provincial tournaments were... well, just that. Common. At best, they knew how to hold a sword -- at worst, they didn't even seem to know how to swing it.

And even if things went according to plan, most, if not all of those nobodies were going to end up under his command. It was ironic, then, that Vallentin was the one complaining -- though, Tervellan supposed, he didn't know yet just how fortunate he was going to be. Not that he'd appreciate it, even if he did know.

But, his annoying co-worker aside, at least some of the nobodies made up in other fields for what they lacked in swordsmanship. The young man with the Snow element was only the most obvious in this regard. Really, some of them were quite inventive, actually. Though, that wasn't always a good thing. As if on cue, one of the matches down in the arena concluded rather abruptly as a short blonde boy who'd just moments before been running away from his opponent's wind incantations suddenly reversed directions, dashing headlong into him the moment he started chanting again. Before the taller youth could even finish his spell, the blonde had... thrown his cloak over the young man's head?

...Wait, why was it wrapping around his neck like that? Struggle though he might, forgetting not to drop his sword in the process, he couldn't seem to remove it, either. It was almost like something was --

A loud whack split the air as, blinded, muffled, and his concentration broken, the taller lad was knocked to the floor with a solid -- albeit utterly uncoordinated -- blow. And as he fell...

-- weighing it down.

From every pocket of the dislodged cloak, rough and heavy rocks began spilling out onto the floor, and though Tervellan couldn't make out all of the rather heated words between the boy and the horrified referee for his quarter, he could have sworn he heard the lad vehemently insisting that "You said we could bring our own weapons if they're blunt! These are blunt rocks! What's the problem?!"

The ref cast a glance up to the box, and it was only then that Tervellan realized the match had happened in the quarter flying his banner. He supposed it fell to him, then, to adjudicate. He raised a hand in acknowledgement, and gave a slight, authoritative nod. He'd respect the victory for no reason other than the fact that it had amused him -- but he also wouldn't allow such a thing to happen again. The referee seemed to adequately grasp his intentions, as a moment later, the fiery blonde's cloak had been confiscated and he was grumbling his way back over to the sidelines.

...He turned back to the other commanders. Laurentius looked like he wasn't sure whether to laugh or gape in confusion, and so had elected to do neither. Caius, on the other hand, had decided immediately upon the former and was laughing uproariously. "They might not be as skilled as last year's, but it seems this year's candidates aren't lacking in audacity!" He chortled.

Vallentin, on the other hand, mostly just looked like he wanted to strangle someone -- and whether it was the blonde boy who'd just committed such a dishonorable act in front of the entire crowd, or Tervellan himself for letting him get away with it, the raven-haired knight couldn't say for sure.

...But, well, he was going to be getting his pick of the dregs, anyway. He had to take what talents he could get -- even if those talents weren't those of a knight.

As the next set of contestants was announced, he sighed, sinking back into his seat with a creak and a clattering of mail. His hopes had been negligible, but, well... perhaps this year's worst candidates might surprise him, after all.

---

A fire crackled in its fireplace nearby, providing a warm orange glow to the overstuffed red couch. A taller man ran his fingers through his own dark hair with one hand, slamming shut a book with his other hand. His eyes were piercing, calculating, not entirely present for a moment. It would not be uncharacteristic to say he was examining the future, trying to predict it. The man's armor creaked as he stood up and set a small book on a side table, making a clear motion to leave.

A young voice broke the otherwise calm moment. "Why can't you stay? Why can't I come with you?"

The figure stopped, letting loose an expectant sigh, and turned back. "I am clearing a path for you to follow. It's not safe for you yet."

The child was indignant, sitting up straight on the couch to confront the man. "My… Lady Lothwren says I was born under a powerful star, and that the stars chose me to be a hero."

The man shook his head slightly, taking a few steps towards the child before kneeling down to get to eye level. "You may possess the gifts of the heroes of old, but no one, not the stars nor the Spirit of Arbert Grayle himself, can choose who you are. If you want to be a hero, you need to choose that path."

"I want to be a hero." The boy looked into the man’s eyes, smiling softly. “Like you.”

The man gave a pained sigh, nodding as he stood back up and fetched a small wooden sword mounted atop the fireplace's mantle. He held it outstretched to the boy, motioning towards a large open space in the parlor. "Then show me your cuts. Let's see where you need to improve."

---

Why think of that now?

Nathaniel turned his gaze towards his fellow nobles and gave a short bow. "I hope to see you both at the entrance ceremony."

Nathaniel moved methodically towards his assigned fighting arena. His eyes scanned towards some of the other contestants he was impressed with. Cyrus Locke was off speaking to a few other skilled commoners, wiping the sweat from his brow. The two locked eyes for a moment, and Cyrus’ sly grin told Nathaniel all he needed to know: Cyrus would only be rooting for him to have a chance to beat him down later. Nate’s eyes turned towards Zenshin Ferros and Donathon, who each made respectable showings. His eyes narrowed as he got into his starting position in the training grounds. He had begun to recognize the name of his opponent. Julian Baker was the least impressive of the commoners to make it this far. Cheap and brutal tricks were the name of Baker’s game, with not a sign of competent swordsmanship in sight.

Nathaniel shifted the grip on his hand and a half training sword, making a few quick practice cuts through the air. The weight was awful on these weapons, but that was somewhat expected. He could compensate for the difference.

After all, he wasn’t about to lose to a common thug.

Right?

@Mcmolly

---

Zenshin was left without time to soak in his win as the next round of matches were set to begin, Zenshin himself being apart of it. A mix of feelings had begun to stir within him as he heard his name as well as who his opponent would be, Donothan. An image of how that boy wielded and examined the practice weapon seemed like second nature to him flashed in his head. Zen could feel a dryness spreading within his mouth as he gulped down some air.

He had barely made it out of that last fight with a win. His incantation was extremely rushed resulting in a rather poor display. It was an okay start but he felt as though it wasn’t enough to get into the knights. Even with his subpar win there had seemed to be a group of people whom were swayed by the Valeforians performance. Even some nobles seemed to be on notice of Zenshin not because of any particular talent but because of the rare Snow incantations he could use.

Zenshin took his place on the stage once more but it was different. There was an eagerness in the air as people waited in anticipation waiting to see if the boy would cast other snow incantations in his next bout. There was excitement not just for him but also for his opponent, Donathan. This particular young swordsman was stood out based on their demeanor. Group that with their weapon of choice which almost seemed to match its user in size and how he wielded it like nothing. There was a myriad of thoughts popping into peoples head. They were unable to the extent of his skill in the match previous this one and the people were rather eager to learn.

Zenshin watched as Donathan made their way on to the stage, exchanging looks once settled in. Zenshin was a bit caught off guard by his opponents look as he wasn’t expecting it. It was thought this person looked at him with relief. A relief that was different from the looks of relief others had today when they looked at him. It was as though Donothan was relieved that Zenshin made it past the first fight and was able to prove some doubters wrong.

Zenshin couldn’t help but let out a nervous smile, as he raised his weapon for battle. His stance still incredibly shaky yet possessing comparatively more confidence than before. He couldn’t help but let a bit of the excitement in the arena seep into himself.

”Nice to meet you” he greeted him followed up with a nod of acknowledgment.

---

"Elidthianis Hawke will fight Lucien Navietas."

A soft exhalation as Luen heard her false name called, and a vague thrill of fear and anticipation ran through her. I guess there's no going back now. And, fittingly, she didn't look around, didn't look back. A few murmurs and stares went her way. Nothing horrible; just "who is that" and "Lord Asceron has a son?" and "why does he look like that?" Her paper-white skin prickled at the stares, and nerves began to dig fishhooks into her skin. She took a deep breath as she moved, then another, and another, arriving in short order at the quartermaster's table.

She barely gave the wooden weapons arrayed in front of her a second glance, instead shrugging up her sleeves and holding her slender, rune-scored bracers out for observation.

"I fight entirely with Incantations."

At the man's confused stare, she glanced around to make sure her opponent wasn't watching, then realized she didn't actually know what he looked like to begin with and flicked her dominant left hand. One of the lines of runes lit up with a sudden pale blue light, and with a sound like a rushing stream, the mist around her thinned as it rushed towards her palm. A bit less than a second later, a totally transparent knife--like glass--coalesced into her palm.

The quartermaster's eyebrows shot up for a moment as he looked on--it was a somewhat unusual Incantation, she reflected--but a moment later he was all business. "Is it safe?"

By way of answer, she flipped artfully it in her hand, then slapped the edge down on her right hand. Where it impacted, it bounced with a dull thunk, though she did wince a touch at the impact. Then she placed it upon an empty space on the table, sliding it gently over for him to check for himself. "Perfectly safe. Nobody's going to be hurt."

He tested the edge, tested the dulled point, and evidently found it to his satisfaction, as he gave a quick nod. As he dropped it back down to the table, he made eye contact, though it only lasted for a few seconds before his eyes awkwardly slid away from hers and the muscles of her face tensed.

"Passes muster. It's allowed." She gave him a small smile in an attempt to look completely un-threatening. There was no response, and she gave an infinitesimal sigh. Taking the knife, she tossed it unceremoniously to the ground, where, with no wrist-flick this time, she dispelled it and let it fall into a small puddle.

The nerves gnawed at her gut still as she walked deliberately up the steps to the arena, then headed to the designated segment, breathing deeply as she went. People fought around her, though everything seemed...a bit muted. This fight would decide everything. Would determine whether she became a knight, or retreated back to her home with her tail between her legs in humiliation and ignominy.

Still, she thought, I'm not bad at this. I think I have a fair shot.

At the very least, I'll put up a decent fight.

---

The murmurs about Eli’s presence at the tournament were, suffice to say, a bit more prominent among the crowd.

It was a reality Eli was quite used to. Lord Elidthianis Hawke, the youngest son of the Marquess of the North, and the Lord of The Aerie. The Absolute. The Reincarnation of Alexander himself.

The words and titles still ran his blood cold and the whispers from above did not aid his temperament at all. He moved forward, going through all of the motions and preparations. Use aura to dull his blade to avoid an incident, make sure all pre-measures were made, and contain any excitement to a bare minimum. It would be unwise if he was caught off guard in a battle of skill and he wanted–no, needed to show that he wasn’t a pauper playing a game of pretend. Everyone had told him he should’ve been studying politics and magic. But he wasn’t “playing” knight. His intention had always been to reject the twin gods of fate and destiny and give them a bitten thumb for all to see.

When he arrived at his destination he smiled, full of confidence and readiness.

“I suppose you're my dance partner?” Eli commented, nonchalantly as he looked over the opponent in the circle before him. “You don't look like much.”

---

As Luen took a few long, deep breaths to calm herself and focus on the now, a boy appeared in front of her, standing languidly on the other side of the arena. She gave a muffled sound of surprise: this was the boy that had been standing next to her, the one that also had white hair. Elidthianis Hawke...she thought she knew the name from a book she'd read once, but she couldn't quite place which book it had been, nor nail down exactly in what context she'd heart the name. So, despite the whispers from the crowds, the surprise that Luen expressed was quite different.

She stared at him across the arena. His vivid, brilliant blue eyes were set off by his hair, much like her own crimson ones, and though his skin wasn't as white as her own, it was certainly pale to some extent. She blinked a few times in confusion and her mouth opened to say something before she was cut off by him speaking instead, and saying something that only made her more confused:

"I suppose you're my dance partner? You don't look like much."

She couldn't help but give a surprised "Eh?"

Of all the comments on her appearance she'd thought would be made, that was the least in line with whatever she'd expected. She looked weird. As little time as she'd spent outside of her house, all the rumors that had gotten back to her were more than enough to make sure she knew that inviolable truth. So why was he acting like nothing was wrong with her, in any way? She blinked a few times, trying to jigsaw that into her worldview, before she was reminded that she should probably respond to him; it was only polite, and just as before, she felt an immediate sort of kinship with him. What she wanted to ask was why he was so...un-hated.

But by the whispers in the crowd and the stares that went his way, maybe he was a little less so than he seemed at first. The feeling of kinship grew stronger, and she softly asked, loud enough to be heard by her opponent but quietly enough that the crowd gathered around the clump of arena's wouldn't: "Do they call you Ill-Starred as well?"

But that was as strong as she let that feeling grow, because she still needed to fight him, in the end, and he seemed very confident with holding a sword. So she flicked her hand out, and just as before the mist in the air coalesced, this time as her favorite weapon: a transparent, glassy replica of her father's glaive that she held in an easy, practiced grip of her own. She took one more long, deep, steadying breath. If she could force him back and keep him at her range, if he couldn't get in close, then the fight would be over quickly.

And then the signal was called. So she darted forward, determined to claim the initiative, and swept her glaive at him in a wide, vicious arc. The more she kept this fight to her tempo over his, the better.

---

Whenever he was faced with magic he was sure to taunt them, asserting that using magic was a clear sign that they could handle whatever he threw at them.

“Never mind that.” He remarked as his brows narrowed and a smirk rose upon his lips, “You tarry with magic? Interesting. That must mean you have quite the skill. That’s good. I was hoping for a good warm up.”

The loud ‘shnk’ of his sword being drawn from its sheath could be heard across the arena–a beautiful steel blade with a hilt of gold and cobalt, with soft engravings upon its metal. It wasn’t the fanciest looking sword in a noble’s hand, but it certainly wasn’t the most unremarkable. Many others had to use dulled blades or wooden practice swords to show their skill and it became evident Eli would not use either. It was then that he swung a few practice swings, before ultimately extending his aura from himself to the sword, ensuring that if a blade struck someone it would not cut through their flesh and bone, but strike with a smattering thud of a wooden club or practice sword.

“Frankly, I was getting bored waiting all morning for some action.”

It was then that the signal was called forth and his opponent moved on him. He laughed as he begin to show everyone how good his footwork and perception was. It got his blood running, though he did not swing for the white-haired opponent once. He was seeing how they fought first. To see their movements.

Honestly, as the minutes langured on, he was not impressed.

“Your form is sloppy.”

“Your footing needs work.”

“You’re all impulse. Think about your strikes.”

“Is this your first duel?”

The remarks came from his mouth like a ballista as he seemed to dodge their attacks without any real effort. It must've felt infuriating.

---

Stop it.

Another swing of her glaive. Another missed strike, as Elidthianis stepped seemingly-effortlessly out of the way.

Stop it.

She tried again, this time a feint into a quick stab. But again, he danced past it. Her teeth ground against each other so hard her jaw hurt.

Damn you, stop it!

Whispers descended around them as he continued to taunt her, and she had to fight to keep the red veil of anger from blinding her as he continued humiliating her with how little he seemed to care. Still, she clung gamely on. She still had a few options up her sleeve, right? She just needed to get a little less straightforward, and a little more tricky.

With a sudden motion she hurled her weapon as though it were a throwing spear, then, as he inevitably let it fly past, let the magic dissipate as it fell back into water. Immediately afterwards, another one dropped into her hand and she brought it to bear again with a twirl.

All of this, though, was more or less a smokescreen. As she did her best to draw his eyes to her futile throw and the glaive being created again, a few more lines of runic script lit up on the larger of the two bracers, and behind and a bit above him small pockets formed in the fog as slivers of water, nearly invisible through the mist, slowly and silently accreted, edges and points blunted like the rest of her weapons. She swung for him again, trying her best to keep his attention on her as the knives finished forming, even as a growl of frustration and embarrassment seeped from her throat.

Then, at an unseen command, they lanced at him like shards of glass. She let out a huff of grim satisfaction as she launched another attack and the knives closed in. Even you can't dodge it this time.

---

Both times before, when Julian had entered the arena, she had done so with calm, if not with bravado. She had felled first a mountain of a young man, then a skilled incanter -- one through sheer anger, the other through trickery.

But the opponent she was facing in the third round was a different sort. A noble. Not just that, but a proud master of the blade. He must have been important, whoever he was -- she'd guessed as much when she heard his name called. The cheers from the crowd had been deafening compared to the others, save only for the one whose name was called shortly after him.

But whoever "Elidthianis Hawke" was didn't matter to her. What mattered was the brown-haired boy standing in the arena across from her. What mattered was the rumbling in her stomach. What mattered was the cloak that had been stripped away from her, depriving of one of her few weapons against those bigger, stronger, and more skillful than herself. What mattered was the sword gripped tightly in her trembling, white hand. What mattered was the sun shining above her, and the dark place she'd left behind, never to return to.

She slipped a hand into her pocket, and held it there until the trembling stopped. But the rest of her body didn't seem to get the memo -- or rather, she didn't let it.

When Julian Baker entered the arena for her third match, she entered it with her head low, her teeth gritted, and her eyes darting about like a cornered rat. She entered it looking for all the world like a weakling, about to be crushed, grasping at straws in hopes that something, anything, might turn the tables in her favor. She looked like she had nothing left to offer, and everything still to prove.

As though realizing it only too late, she gave a stiff, awkward bow -- a barely-adequate attempt at formality from one whose mind was clearly preoccupied entirely by things other than the match she was about to lose, and lose badly. Then, she slowly, jerkily raised her sword, and waited for her opponent to approach and claim an easy victory. The crowd booed and jeered, but then, all at once, seemed to just... forget about the blonde's existence. After all, there were much more interesting matches afoot than some street urchin getting crushed, right? In the very next arena over, two nobles were going at it in a glorious showdown of magic and swordplay. Even her opponent's gaze was liable to wander, dazzled by such a spectacle. And why wouldn't it? His own opponent was practically beaten already, without him having to so much as lift a finger.

...But what was important hadn't changed, no matter how much her outward aspect had.

What was important, you see, was that no matter the odds, and no matter what it took... Julian Baker was still going to win.

---

@pkken

As the matches continued on around them, Dot was pleased wit what she saw, at least for the most part. The blondie, Baker, was proving to be an outright menace to the whole event, and while his tricks were certainly entertaining, it was nothing compared to the incredulous scowls plastered onto the faces of the noble pricks watching. Hang their stupid ceremony, show them all what life looked like outside of their towers and their parties. A handful of matches down and only now were the blue-blooded spawn starting to trickle in.

A pair of them were squaring off in one of the arenas; some pale, lanky fucker who conjured water into a knife for the gobsmacked quartermaster, and then a boy who looked like a full-course meal of insufferable nobility, from the cool cockiness of his demeanor to the saccharine condescension in his tone. Season with foppish good looks. Arrogant grin for garnish. The whole crowd seemed to be drooling over him. Dot found herself hoping they might find a way to lop each other’s heads off, but failing that, she bitterly rooted for the ghostly boy.

Another noble made for the stage, as did the Baker kid. Well, no contest there who she sided with. Only difference now was that the people Julian might hurt deserved it. They might not be allowed to do any real damage here, but when it came to reputations, she hoped there’d be a healthy amount of bloodletting.

For her own part, she was sad to see herself matched against the Valeforian boy. He was tenacious, and crafty as well; she wouldn’t be able to talk him out of the arena and frankly, she didn’t want to. Whatever his skills with the sword were, this was going to be a proper match. As she stepped onto the stage, Zenshin smiled and raised his blade. He looked nervous. Less nervous, sure, but still nervous. Dot smiled back, gave him a respectful bow, and shouldered her waster.

“You too. Lets put on a good show, maybe these bastards let us both in, ah?”

Part of her wanted to let him go ahead when he was ready, but she’d been in his shoes before. Verite most often initiated their spars when she’d first started training, and she’d found that helpful. So, gripping the handle with both hands, she walked briskly forward, gait level and measured. Halfway across she shrugged the blade down, twirled it back up and lunged to swing it down at him. It wasn’t a particularly fast move, but it did quickly close what distance remained.

---

Nathaniel's eyes very quickly scanned over his opponent, the peasant who managed to get by on dirty tricks. Nathaniel held his sword aloft, in front of his face, broad side facing his opponent. He gave a bow in this position, pressing his forehead along the broad-side of the training sword. He had everything to prove, and yet this match had been decided already. Nathaniel waited for his opponent's bow to meet his own, rising as his opponent rose. Nathaniel's motion of readiness was a stark contrast to Julian's: Nate simply lifted his other hand to meet the grip of his sword, and turned the blade outward to face his opponent. Julian's stance was shoddy, jerkily moving about their sword arm as if they were unfamiliar with the weapon's balance. This duel had already been decided.

It was no surprise Nathaniel's eyes drifted to another one of the battles, between two nobles Nathaniel had conversed moments ago. The more empathetic one seemed to go on a quick offensive, but the display was almost difficult to watch. It was like a tide crashing into a cliff, an avalanche of attacks that were expertly parried, blocked, or sidestepped. The opponent was impressive, the kind of person Nathaniel could only have wished to duel, to show off their own talents. But instead, Nathaniel was stuck with someone untrained. His eyes turned back to Julian, and they were filled with the intensity of an individual with a singular purpose: win.

"You are a mockery to this training ceremony. Let's be done with this."

Nathaniel lowered his stance, rolling back onto the balls of his feet for a moment. His body rocked back for a moment, before he leaned himself forward and took off into a quick sprint towards Julian. His sword remained held over his shoulder and behind his back, allowing his upper body to rotate slightly in between steps to keep himself balanced. He closed the gap with Julian quickly, training sword lifted high in the air as Nathaniel was just entering striking distance. Nathaniel's movements were swift, and his grip and aim true.

Weak grip, stance unbalanced... Two strikes to disarm, and the match is over. This is easy... maybe too easy.

But the die had been cast. As an unsettling feeling creeped up the back of Nathaniel's spine, he had already made his opening move. He didn't anticipate this had been a trap.

---

Julian was going to backpedal. There was no reason to expect anything else. She was clearly rattled already, and stalling for time -- what reason could she possibly have to step forward, then?

But that was exactly what she did. As Nathaniel approached, sword upraised to deliver a heavy stroke and knock her weapon from her hands, she didn't even try to block it. Instead, she simply lunged forward, raising her own weapon.

A ploy, then. No matter. There was still ample time for a swordsman as skilled as Nathaniel to deflect a strike from such an untrained and feeble opponent. It would be a simple matter to pull his own attack, parry the blow, wind his blade over her guard, and then force the weapon from her hands.

Or, well, he was probably thinking something like that. Julian wouldn't know -- she didn't know anything more about swordsmanship than what she had heard of in books about knights and fantasy stories. But whatever his plan might have been, he probably was at least expecting her to actually swing at him.

But no swing came.

Instead, the hand she had hidden inside her pocket came darting up and a curtain of blinding, itching, scratching pain filled his vision as, of all things, a handful of sand, meticulously collected from the riverbank that morning and saved for this very moment, was hurled directly in his face. Her last resort, and strongest weapon had finally been unleashed, as, deprived of every other trick she could think of, she was forced to fall back upon the very first teachings of the school of hard knocks: when in doubt, go for the eyes.

Caught off-balanced by his own attack, this would in turn open the way for teaching number two: if they can't stop you, go for the legs. A swift kick was aimed at his shin, then, a moment later, she rammed her shoulder up against his chest, aiming to knock him to the ground, before finally...

The match would only end when someone was disarmed. So, in this moment of golden opportunity, all that was left was to whack the crap out of his hand until he let go of his sword!

...In her defense, he had asked her to "be done with this." So really, she was just obliging his request by ending things as quickly as she could. And so quick it was that most of the crowd probably wouldn't even have time to shift their attention from the overly-flashy duel happening in the next arena over before Julian's ruthless counterattack was already complete -- leaving them in silence as they wondered what had just happened.

---

Stinging pain. Sudden darkness. Nathaniel hadn't caught the slip of the hand, he was too focused on the sword arm of Julian. Now, he was without sight as he roared in pain. He drowned out his own hearing, leaving him surprised by the sudden strike to the shin. It didn't feel like the swing of a training sword. Nathaniel's mind poured through the various books and manuals he had read, but he couldn't understand what had just happened. Did this charlatan use magic? Nathaniel heard no incantation.

In the briefest moment before he was knocked off his feet, Nathaniel's lips and tongue had tasted some of the coarse… dirt? Sand? It made little difference. He had been tricked, just as the others. This Julian had employed yet another underhanded deception against him. This realization was met with a strong push in the chest, and his right foot had been knocked out of position just enough to fail to catch his weight. Nathaniel slammed onto his back, and the grip on his sword loosened. In a moment of panic, Nathaniel tried to lift his weapon up to swing blindly. He didn't even have the chance to do that much, as Julian had the leverage to swing down on his sword hand over and over. Nathaniel fought with his aching muscles to hold on, but he could only do so much against this disorienting onslaught. His grip weakened further still, and the sword was knocked from his grip. A shrill whistle could be heard piercing the air.

The match was over.

Nathaniel lost.

The teen removed his gloves, wiping and rubbing his eyes furiously while lying on the ground. The pain was extraordinary, and tears streamed down his cheeks involuntarily. A life of training, studying, preparing… all taken away in an instant. After clearing most of the sand from his eyes, enough to actually be able to look towards the box with the four knight Commanders, the face familiar to him was gone. The man he had known as a child had stepped away.

After everything, Nathaniel wasn't good enough.

He let his hand slam back into the ground for a moment, his eyes closed to help keep the involuntary tears at bay. He felt sick to his stomach, a mix of pure sorrow and anger mixing with anxiety in his gut. He had staked his life on this path, and had little else to go home to. He wasn’t meant to be a noble, or an aristocrat. He cared little for politics or parties. Yet here, and now, the only life he had ever dreamed of, had been swiftly snatched from his grasp by a conniving thug of a baker’s boy. Nathaniel’s pain latched onto a solitary name as he laid in his own defeat.

Julian Baker was the source of his dishonor. If he got the chance, he would unmask that rat for all to see what he had seen: not a future knight, but a charlatan with a pocket full of dirty tricks.

---

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

Eli closed his eyes in front of his opponent, channeling the latent energy from his soul as his aura became apparent to even those who were not magically inclined. It flashed in hues of gold and crimson and as the water-forged blade struck him they instantly evaporated into steam upon striking him. His smile dropped, a tone of disappointment lingering over his words. He had hoped that when he arrived he could get by on all of his skill and none of his gods-gained talent. None of the magic that he resented so much.

He moved backward, listening to his opponents movements and still refraining from being hit. He spoke as he did so, until he sent some easily defendable strikes back as well.

“I was born underneath a shooting star, you know.” He uttered matter-of-factly as he reopened his eyes, his feet digging into the ground. “Since you want to tarry with magic, should I show you mine? Or would you prefer we keep this a skill-based contest?”

His query felt ominous in some way.

There was a smell to it as his aura returned back to its natural, non-visible form.

“You could also choose to drop your weapon and give up now. Save me the time. Not that I care either way. As long as I get a good fight, it would be fun for me.”

---

Well, she wasn't wrong. He did not in fact dodge the knives.

But what he did wasn't really any better. Honestly, it was miles worse. Luen almost laughed as she batted aside the obviously mocking blows; there was no way for them to even reach her, such was the difference in their reach. As it was, a small and deeply bitter smile spread across her face. Of course I would fight a fire aura. Why did I think my luck would be any different? After all, she was born under a star too, she thought. Just a different one, apparently.

But still. She wasn't going to just throw her weapon down. She knew she was going to lose; it was obvious from the start. But that was no reason to give up. Not until she landed at least one hit. So in response to his jibe, she flourished her glaive again, brought it to bear, and redoubled her offense. Stab, slice, sweep, strike; she wove them together into an elaborate string, striking from every angle that she could.

And yet still he remained untouched. It didn't even seem possible.

Her pallid face finally began to show some color: a furious flush of anger and embarrassment as he made a mockery of her in the most thorough way possible. The lightness of her weapon let her keep going past when her arms would've otherwise tired, but even then, she was starting to feel the fatigue of constant movement; she wasn't quite sure how long she'd been in the arena, but it felt like an eternity.

Still, she refused to use her magic again for more than the glaive. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

With a sudden burst of speed she moved closer in; further in than spacing with a glaive would dictate in a normal fight against a swordsman. When she was nearing the range of his sword, she feinted high, then dropped low and swirled it at his legs. She was close enough now, she was pretty sure, that he couldn't just backstep it, and he'd need to jump. And she'd be there: with a final twirl, she cannoned her elbow back with all her strength. If she'd read the situation right, then she'd clock him right in the chin.

And then the fight would probably end, since she was too close now, and she sincerely doubted an elbow to the chin would knock this boy down, given that her strength wasn't exactly something to write home about. But, she hoped, she could at least say she'd landed a hit on him.

---

Tervellan had only averted his eyes for a split second, but once again, to his dismay, there was another infraction to adjudicate in his quarter... and sure enough, the Baker boy was responsible again.

That much wasn't surprising, all things considered. None of the happenings in the lad's prior matches had given even the slightest indication that he would be fighting fairly. His... creativity was honestly almost impressive, though it could hardly make up for his utter lack of qualities befitting a knight. Perhaps he would have done well if he had instead submitted himself to one of the more discreet branches of Grayle's military -- the Prince's Shadows, for one. But unfortunately for everyone, and especially for Tervellan, he had decided to make a spectacle of his little tricks instead.

And what was surprising was that, apparently, in the very first instant of his third battle, they had worked.

It hadn't been Tervellan's intention to give his opponent an easy win. Though he had pulled a great many strings in the organization of this tournament, and would be pulling even more to get his way come the selection afterward, he hadn't seen any need to rig the odds in young Lothwren's favor. He was, after all, one of the most promising young swordsmen of his generation -- and the only reason to add the "one of" qualifier was because of the Absolute boy in the next quadrant over. Even so, there wasn't any contestant on the entire roster that should have been able to overwhelm him so thoroughly. He had competed against the best of the best and had not been found wanting.

But the best of the best did not make a habit of carrying pocketfuls of sand into the arena with them -- and not even the most powerful of Auras could protect its wielder from a threat they did not anticipate. This, which should have been that boy's finest moment, was turned to ignominious shame by such a trifling thing -- and he, in some sense, was accountable. If he had simply disqualified the Baker boy after his last stunt, then...

But what was done was done, and a Knight Commander was not supposed to play favorites, no matter how promising the cadet in question might have been. Since he had let the previous "victory" -- if it could be honestly called such -- stand, he would have no choice but to do the same again.

But that didn't mean he had to let things end like this. The Baker boy was creative, tenacious, and honestly, even amusing in his own way, if only for how easily his antics incited anger in a particularly contemptible colleague. But even a man as open-minded as Tervellan knew that such paltry "skill" could not be presented side-by-side with the champions of this year's tournament.

Then the solution was simple. A black mark would have to be placed upon the boy's record. Someone who had succeeded through such underhanded methods couldn't complain if he came to be unseated through the same, now could he? And the captain could always make up for jeopardizing the lad's future by taking him into his own division as a consolation prize -- not that any of the other captains would have selected him in the first place.

Excusing himself from the discourse of his peers -- not that there was much discourse to be had beyond Vallentin's flabbergasted tirades about the flagrant dishonor and contemptible incompetence of the commoners this year -- Tervellan rose from his seat, and stalked down from the stands, towards where the subordinate managing his corner was standing. He doubted anyone would notice his absence -- all eyes were still transfixed on the arena, where one Aura user had just spectacularly defeated a skill Incanter in a white-knuckled duel more intense than any the crowd had seen that morning... and where another had just lost so anticlimactically that few in the crowd could yet believe what had occurred.

Yes, indeed. Tervellan had pulled many strings in the organization of this tournament. It would not be difficult to pull another. But who to make use of? The Absolute would be too obvious -- making one street urchin face two Aura users in a single day was sure to draw attention. But there were other prominent nobles, and other great talents, who would surely take the defeat of one of their own to heart... A youth of overweening pride and accomplishment, then. Perhaps the son of Marquess Keighley? Yes, the young lord Zeno's temperament was exactly the sort that would see the matter settled quickly and decisively. He would do quite nicely...

But elsewhere, even as his opponent's friends were helping him from the field, a young blonde boy was still naively celebrating his upset victory, oblivious to the whispers of the crowd around him, or to the conversation that was unfolding between the announcer and the man in black armor off to the side of the arena...