Chapter 3 Alaric
ALARIC
Alaric fumbled with the last strap of his breastplate, fingers methodical—he knew what he was doing, of course—but stiff from a night on a plain pallet rather than silken sheets.
He winced as leather chafed against sensitive skin unused to such rough quarters.
Yet a small part of him savoured that discomfort.
How quaint, to suffer like a common soldier.
Beyond the flap of his tent, dawn lay over the world in cold pewter light.
Sleep had eluded him through most of the night—the thin mattress pricked at his noble-bred skin, yes, but more than that, his mind had refused to quiet.
He’d been entranced with his bout against the Upstart, imagining every tilt of lance and angle of shield needed to bring the commoner-knight's winning streak to its inevitable end.
As if the outcome were ever in question.
But this commoner-knight forged by sheer ferocity and raw talent had drawn Alaric's curiosity sharper than any blade. He refused to wholly admit it, but he was intrigued by the Upstart's boldness, by the promise of meeting strength unfettered by titles or privilege.
Sliding on his plain helm, he smiled to himself: today, he was only the Nameless Knight, and that anonymity gleamed richly in his chest. The Upstart wanted to keep his win streak, no doubt.
That would mean he wouldn't hold back. Perfect—Alaric did so hate an easy victory.
But a victory it would be. The commoner's streak would end today, by his hand.
Fiona’s soft nicker answered him as he stepped out, her breath steaming in the chill.
“Ready for this?” he murmured, running a gloved hand along her crest. The mare tossed her head with casual pride—of course she was ready. Bred and broken in since foal-hood, she was like him, in a way. That life of discipline would show him through today.
The tournament grounds had awoken overnight.
Where yesterday the earth had seemed beaten down and weary, now tension crackled in the air.
Trampled blades shimmered in silver, and the wooden barriers glistened under fresh gusts of wind that snapped pennons to attention.
Every taut rope and polished stake spoke of promise—of violence and glory.
Of Alaric’s assured win that morn.
Escorting Fiona toward the marshalling area, Alaric observed the rabble in their threadbare cloaks and mud-caked boots.
These early-rising peasants pressed against each other like cattle, jostling for positions along the rails that his kind would never deign to touch.
No velvet cushions here, no canopied boxes—just the stink of unwashed bodies and cheap ale.
They came hungry for spectacle, and he felt a thrill meeting their eager eyes.
If they knew a man of his station was masquerading in plain steel, the magic would vanish like morning mist. If he won, he would never know if it was his talent or his title that had granted him victory.
Let them all believe in the Nameless Knight.
“Ser,” barked an attendant, beckoning him to the marshalling area. “First bout. Prepare yourself.”
He checked his armour a final time; unmistakably fine in its fit and quality, yet deliberately unadorned.
The man thrust Alaric's lance at him, noting with distaste how poorly balanced it was compared to the practice weapons Alaric had trained with at court.
Compensating for its inferior craftsmanship, he tested it, feeling the flex of seasoned ash, the way it wanted to move in his grip.
Alaric shifted until it felt like an extension of himself, the way all good fighters learn to use their weapons.
He ran a gloved hand down the lance’s polished shaft, imagining the Upstart astride his own steed: muscular thighs, broad shoulders, the taut line of his jaw set with determined concentration. Then, those broad shoulders hitting dirt, that stubborn jaw slack with shock.
A flicker of something unspoken warmed Alaric’s veins—anticipation, he decided. Excitement.
Everything was as it should be.
Then, across the list field, a ripple of movement caught his attention.
A cry went out in the crowd, first bubbling up from the commoners who had gathered on his opponent’s side, and then spilling forth into the grandstands.
Here was the people’s champion, the proof that any commoner could become great.
The Upstart had arrived.
Alaric watched him approach and, without meaning to, began to measure him.
The Upstart sat upon a broad-shouldered destrier, the horse draped in his patron’s yellow and blue.
His armour was noticeably old, slightly out of fashion, but every dent and scratch had been coaxed into a muted gleam that did much to offset the agedness of the cuirass. Someone had cared enough to make it so.
That someone walked at Halden’s stirrup.
The Upstart’s squire, that skinny shadow Alaric had observed yesterday. Even now, the boy’s attention never wavered from his knight, hands adjusting straps that needed no adjustment, checking fastenings already secure.
Alaric knew the look of duty well enough. But devotion, freely given? He had yet to experience that for himself. What Alaric and his title inspired was service. What stood before him now was something else entirely.
He shook his head clear; sentiment had no place in the lists. Besides, Alaric hadn’t come here to find devotion. He wanted a victory that could truly be called his.
The Upstart turned, and for a moment their eyes met across the length of the lists.
The impact was physical; Alaric’s chest constricted in an odd way at the sight of the Upstart’s aggressive confidence.
The man was a brute, Alaric reminded himself, someone so far beneath Alaric’s station that in any other context they wouldn’t exchange words, much less lances.
And yet.
There was something in that line of the jaw, the breadth of the shoulders, something that made Alaric’s pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with the approaching joust.
He looked away, annoyed at himself.
A groom appeared at Fiona’s side, offering a mounting block Alaric didn’t need. He swung into the saddle with practiced ease. Fiona shifted beneath him, her muscles tense with anticipation.
The squire—his temporary squire, borrowed from the tournament staff since he had none of his own—fumbled with the shield.
It took three attempts to secure it properly to Alaric’s arm, and by then his shoulder already ached from holding it at the correct angle.
No matter. Endurance was his strong suit.
“Visor, my lord?” the squire asked, then immediately flinched. “I mean—ser.”
Alaric sighed; his bearing gave him away. But that didn’t matter, either. Only this bout. “Yes. Lower it.”
The world narrowed to a horizontal slit. The grandstand became a blur of colour and motion. The field compressed into a single line: the barrier running down its centre, and beyond it, Halden the Upstart.
Who was also lowering his visor now, his squire stepping back with visible reluctance. Alaric watched the way the young man’s hand lingered on his knight’s stirrup, the gesture both possessive and tender. Then Halden’s heel touched his mount’s flank, and the moment shattered.
A horn sounded, summoning both competitors to the centre of the field. Together they moved forward, meeting before the royal box, where a minor lord and his retinue served as the day’s judges.
Up close, the Upstart was even more obviously a man who’d risen from struggle.
His face bore the evidence of battles both in and out of the tournament—a nose that had been broken and reset more than once, a scar through one eyebrow that pulled his expression into a permanent challenge.
His eyes were the pale blue of winter ice, and they fixed on Alaric with immediate, instinctive hostility.
Alaric, for all his experience with catty nobility, shivered at that gaze.
“Ser Halden the Upstart,” announced the herald, “victor of thirty-seven bouts, undefeated these eighteen months past, champion of the western circuit, knight of—”
“Get on with it,” Halden muttered, just loud enough for Alaric to hear. Impatience radiated from him like heat from a forge. The herald spluttered a little but did as the Upstart wished. He gestured over to Alaric.
“—and his challenger, the Nameless Knight.”
The silence that followed Alaric’s non-introduction hung awkwardly in the air. The crowd stirred. A knight without lineage or achievement was an oddity, and the emptiness of his name against Halden’s many wins felt nearly pathetic.
But after a lifetime of hearing his name dragged out into a litany of titles and expectation, to be underestimated was a gift.
The lord gave the signal, and both knights retired to their ends of the lists.
The drums intensified. The crowd went tense; bodies pressed forward, and chatter simmered to low whispers.
Everyone wanted to see if the Upstart’s streak would continue, if today would be the day someone finally put him in the dirt.
The marshal raised his flag, and Alaric’s world contracted to three things: the horse beneath him, the lance in his grip, and the distant figure of his opponent. Everything else—the crowd, the doubt, the mess of emotion—fell away like water off oiled leather.
The flag dropped.
Fiona surged forward, her powerful hindquarters driving them toward the barrier.
Alaric couched his lance, feeling the weight distribute through his arm and shoulder.
The distance between knights collapsed with each pounding hoofbeat.
Through his visor, Halden grew from a distant figure to an onrushing threat, his own lance levelled with deadly precision.
Instinct guided Alaric. He had just enough time to mark the other knight’s position—square in the saddle, lance arm steady, shield angled to deflect rather than absorb—before—
Impact.