At high noon, trumpets blared across the castle square.

  Upon the raised dais sat the game's principal players:

  Count Caspar lounged in velvet finery, wine goblet dangling from languid fingers.

  Eileen sat rigid in matching splendor, spine never touching the chairback.

  The arena divided like some macabre chessboard:

  To the left - Eileen's retinue of twenty-five armored knights/squires flanked by fifteen motley mercenaries in patchwork gear.

  To the right - Caspar's black-armored host, threefold in number (one hundred twenty at minimum estimate).

  Beyond the makeshift palisades surged a human tide. The coastal hamlet's entire populace had converged, many clawing for vantage points.

  Adam, having abandoned his skeletal steed Tomato in the throng, squeezed through.

  "Those two upon the dais - liege lords?"

  "Correct."

  "That petite figure... familiar somehow."

  "Petite? The female? No recollection."

  "Regardless. Which merits my oath?"

  "Depends who'll have you."

  "Wait - that red-haired sellsword! Known to me!"

  Adam pointed at Parth amidst Eileen's forces.

  "The tavern recruiter from yesternight?"

  "Precisely. His musk lingers in my senses."

  "Sworn to House Behir?"

  Adam's gaze locked onto the Behir sigil adorning Parth's chestplate. After three heartbeats' silence, he began shoving through the throng toward the mercenary.

  "Madness!" The cat's screech echoed inside the helm. "Join now? Without your skeletal steed, these true-blooded knights will shatter your bones!"

  "My chassis withstands battering rams!"

  From the dais, both Parth and Eileen marked Adam's approach—his faceless full plate gleaming like a lighthouse amidst the rabble.

  Parth waved; Adam reciprocated.

  "Seeking me? Tilts commence shortly—" Parth gripped Adam's pauldron at the palisade.

  "Enlistment. Now." Adam's metallic timbre brooked no delay.

  Parth blinked. "Post-tournament?"

  "Immediate."

  Turning, Parth bellowed toward Eberos: "One more swordsman?"

  Eberos' nod carried regal grace.

  "Welcome aboard!" Parth clapped Adam's backplate.

  Adam steadied his helmet and vaulted the low fence into the sand-strewn arena.

  "That knight who blocked our path yesterday? Here?" Eileen's gaze narrowed at Eberos.

  "Armor matches. Likely a mercenary affiliate. Their captain mentioned absent members on missions—perhaps concluded."

  "Mission? Waking sleeping cats?" Eileen's lips twitched. "Let his plate armor exhaust their sweat."

  Count Caspar observed the exchange through slitted eyes, whispering to his steward: "Resorting to Red Scorpion rabble? No wonder House Behir decays. Let her scrape the barrel—thorough defeat breeds compliance."

  The herald strode forth, unfurling a parchment scroll with ceremonial flourish:

  "By accord of Houses Caspar and Behir, this tournament commences under successive challenge rules! Combatants shall duel in mounted or foot combat at the victor's discretion. Elimination criteria:"

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  A breathless hush gripped the square—knights, sellswords, and peasants alike leaned forward.

  "In mounted bouts: unseating, unconsciousness, death, boundary breach, or surrender constitutes defeat. In foot bouts: unconsciousness, death, boundary breach, or surrender ends the match. The vanquished withdraws; the victor faces the next challenger, choosing subsequent combat form."

  Eileen turned her glacial gaze toward Count Caspar, whose fingers stroked a self-satisfied smirk.

  "This cycle persists until one faction stands depleted of combatants! Should House Caspar fall, we pledge undying fealty to Lady Eileen—even unto warring against celestial hosts, even unto blood's final drop. Should House Behir yield, Eileen Beira Behir shall wed Charles Caspar. Let both parties validate the accords!"

  The herald's scroll snapped shut.

  The square erupted in thunderous roars.

  "Tournaments and bloodshed... so long as crimson flows not from my veins," Parth muttered bitterly.

  Identical parchment scrolls materialized. Caspar's sigil-stamped wax pooled beside Eileen's seal.

  "Let the melee commence!"

  Ecstatic peasants tossed flower petals from battlements. None cared for political stakes—mere diversion from life's drab monotony.

  "How's your foot combat?" Parth tilted his head.

  "Never tried."

  "Never wielded steel afoot?" Parth's eyes widened.

  "Correct."

  "Then pray your challengers choose mounted duels. Ahorse, you might rout their entire host—given stamina. Where's your steed?"

  "Stranded in the mob."

  Parth summoned a page to retrieve the skeletal mount.

  ……

  First tilt: Eileen's crop-haired youth clashed with Caspar's portly knight. Lances met—Eileen's champion soared through air, unconscious. Caspar's victory.

  Second tilt: The Adonis-like knight with warrior's braid took the field. Shattered lances yielded to flashing blades. Five passes later, the portly knight thudded into dirt. Eileen's triumph.

  Third bout: The Adonis-like knight shifted to foot combat, twin swords dismantling a chainmailed swordsman.

  Fourth clash: Against spear-and-shield veteran, the knight's footwork proved peerless.

  Adam observed silently, tactical dread coiling—foot combat posed perilous unknowns.

  Fifth engagement: The Adonis-like knight outdueled a zweih?nder brute, crowd's roar peaking like storm surge.

  "Who is this knight?" Maidens clutched trembling kerchiefs.

  "Michael Barak! A Baron! Unwed! Further details require coin!" An enterprising peddler capitalized on hormonal frenzy.

  Sixth clash commenced as gasps rippled through petals-strewn stands. Caspar's champion loomed—a two-meter colossus wielding a two-handed maul.

  Upon the dais, Eileen's visage tightened while Caspar's smirk remained intact.

  Brute force eclipses finesse. Defying expectations, Michael maintained foot combat.

  The maul's arc sent Michael catapulted through splintered palisade, sprawled in sawdust. Spectators shoved him back into bounds.

  Clutching fractured ribs, Michael locked eyes with Eileen and charged anew.

  Blade kissed flesh thrice—mere surface wounds. The maul's retaliatory swing shattered his pauldron.

  Even fresh, this duel favored the colossus. Now, after five grueling bouts, Michael's legs trembled like newborn foal's.

  "Such weapons terrify yet simplify," Adam marveled.

  "Heft determines lethality—if you can lift it," Parth shrugged.

  The maul's shadow engulfed Michael's bloodied visage.

  "Yield?" the colossus boomed.

  "Never!" Michael's whisper carved through dead silence.

  As the maul ascended, Eileen's voice cleaved the tension: "Yield!"

  Two hundred necks swiveled toward the dais.

  Eileen descended marble steps, silk slippers crunching gravel. She knelt beside her fallen knight, clasping his gauntlet.

  "Forgive my failed oath..." Michael's breath rattled.

  "You honored it through five battles. Rest now."

  Tears traced paths through grime on Michael's cheeks.

  Eileen's gaze swept her retinue. "This trial demands valor, not martyrs. Preserve your lives—that's my command."

  "Aye!"

  Within the ranks, Adam's plated arm rose tentatively like rusted machinery creaking to life.

  "Do you require clarification?"

  "Does victory grant formal knighthood?" Adam's metallic timbre cut through snickers.

  A knight leaned toward Eileen: "Mercenary recruit."

  "Understood." She met Adam's visor. "Provisional titles were bestowed."

  "Formal enfeoffment," Adam insisted, gauntlet clanging toward Parth. "He claims ours are temporary."

  "You seek barony with fief?"

  "Affirmative."

  "Fifty vanquished foes securing my victory earns you landed title."

  "Contract accepted."

  Parth's jaw slackened. The retinue erupted:

  "Did the rustbucket say 'contract'?"

  "Fifty kills? Delusional!"

  "Cat fumes rotted his cogwheels!"

  Adam pressed on, oblivious: "Additionally, I require proper armaments—"

  Eileen's retreating silk slippers silenced him. As she ascended the dais, Hórsal's gauntlet barred pursuit: "Focus on combat parameters. Delusions prohibited."