I could hear the noise of the crowd swelling just beyond the arena walls—footsteps crunching against gravel, voices rising in excited waves, the occasional trumpet bring overhead. The energy was infectious, but it never quite reached me.

  In contrast to their lively chatter and bursts of fanfare, my nerves remained coiled tight. The anxiousness in my chest had long overtaken the flicker of excitement I felt earlier that morning. Now, all I could focus on was the quiet thrum beneath my skin—like a war drum no one else could hear.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Trevon. He was uncharacteristically silent, posture rigid, eyes fixed ahead as if trying to predict the outcome before the first match had even begun.

  Maybe he felt it too—that strange stillness before the csh.

  He’d grown up watching this tournament—year after year, from these very stands. But this time, he wouldn’t be in the audience. For the first time, he’d be stepping into the arena himself. And watching versus competing? Entirely different things.

  As for me, I’d never even cared to attend—not once. And now? I wasn’t just here to watch. I was walking straight into the ring. My first time, too.

  Both of us were first-timers. Trevon had the crowd in his bones. I had it in my throat.

  I crossed the short distance between us and tapped his shoulder. The gesture was as much for him as it was for me.

  He turned, and for a moment, the weight behind his red eyes softened.Then came a small smile—tired, but sincere.We didn’t say anything. There was no need.

  Just then, the arena gates creaked open with a groaning metallic echo. A herald’s voice rang out moments ter, magically amplified so it soared above the crowd like a crashing wave.

  “Welcome, one and all, to the Annual Bourdelle Sword Tournament!”

  A thunderous cheer erupted from the stands—the kind that vibrated in your chest and rattled your bones. I shifted my weight, rolling my shoulders back to ease the tension. Trevon exhaled beside me, low and steady.

  “The Swordpy Division will commence shortly,” the announcer continued. “Participants, report to the staging area. Team events and exhibitions will follow this afternoon.”

  So it begins.

  We moved with the other participants to the designated prep area—a wide ring just off the main arena, cordoned with painted lines and worn practice dummies. Squires and assistants darted around us, checking armor, handing out cloth bands and tokens, calling out names.

  I felt eyes on me. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Some are curious. Some expectant. A few sharp and invasive, pressing like needles into my back—the weight of a thousand assumptions I never asked to carry.

  A steward approached and handed me a ribbon—shimmering gold, marked with the royal crest. “First Prince Cassius,” he said with a bow. “You’ll be announced in the third match.”

  I nodded and stepped away from the others, the ribbon still heavy in my hand. Gold and crested—like everything else tied to the title forced upon me. A piece of fabric shouldn’t carry weight, but it did—woven with expectation and judgment.

  I wasn’t afraid of the swordpy. I knew my bde. I knew my body.What unsettled me was everything around it—the scrutiny, the stage, the silent comparisons. The feeling that I wasn’t stepping into a match, but onto a scale.

  And beneath that... a fainter weight. A memory.Of standing on another field, in another life—where I had failed to protect something far more important than pride.

  But this was no battlefield, and that life I was trying to bury.

  The wind carried a faint mix of sweat and iron—a reminder that this was now. That I was here.

  Beside me, Trevon was fussing with his sword again—holding it up to the light, swaying it back and forth as if checking for fws only he could see. As if he hadn’t already done it a dozen times.

  “Trevon,” I said dryly, “at this rate, people will think you’re here to inspect swords, not compete.”

  He rubbed the back of his head, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. I gave his shoulder another light tap.

  “The nerves keep coming back,” he admitted, his voice dropping just above a whisper. “Every time I look at how many people are watching… it hits me all over again.”

  He gnced toward the crowd, then down at his bde.

  “It wasn’t like this st year. I swear the crowd’s doubled. So many eyes—I can’t seem to shake it.”

  I scanned the arena, and he wasn’t wrong. The stands were packed, the walkways overflowing, the air buzzing with voices and expectation.

  I recalled what Theoden said the night before—most of the usual competitors were returning this year. Fewer fresh faces, more seasoned ones.

  However, Even within this single tent, the number of participants competing in the Novice Division easily approached a hundred.

  Some faces stirred faint recognition—remnants of a past life. A few would one day earn titles, glory, and songs sung in their name. Others… were here simply for the attention. For the fleeting shine of spectacle and clout.

  I studied them one by one. Perhaps they sensed my gaze, because slowly, they began to look back.

  Some quickly averted their eyes, uneasy.Others held my stare, calm and measured.A few returned it with deliberate intensity—as if trying to unnerve or challenge me without drawing a bde.

  A quiet contest of presence. One I didn’t pn on losing.

  Just then, Trevon leaned in, his voice low and tinged with indignation.

  “Seriously? What’s with those looks?” he muttered. “Who do they think they are, gring at you like that? Like you’re just another name on the list?”

  He scoffed, straightening his posture. “That’s it. Nerves gone. I’m officially offended on your behalf.”

  I let out a breath—part amusement, part relief. Trevon’s absurd loyalty had a way of grounding me.

  “They weren’t just gring at me,” I said calmly, eyes still fixed on the crowd. “You got a few looks too.”

  “Oh, then now it’s personal.”

  A grin tugged at the corner of my mouth.

  At that moment, the tension we’d been carrying seemed to melt away.Repced by something colder. Sharper.A shared resolve neither of us needed to voice.

  We weren’t the type to flinch.Not from steel—and definitely not from stares.

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