Gerik trained in front of his house under a sky the color of old iron. The ground was hard-packed dirt dusted with the first thin layer of frost that had fallen overnight. He moved through forms with deliberate slowness at first, then faster, letting muscle memory take over. He was good with a blade. Years of freelance work had honed the skill until drawing and striking felt as natural as breathing. But even he felt a flicker of excitement as he tested the new longsword. The steel sang when he cut the air. The fuller channel along the blade caught the weak morning light and threw it back in faint blue ripples. Unlike previous bouts where he had fought with a short sword and a dagger in each hand, this time he would wield only one weapon. His trusty longsword. The balance sat perfect in his palm, the grip wrapped in dark leather that molded to his calluses. He liked the weight of it. Solid. Unyielding.

  His old dagger had been melted down the day after the Mikos fight. The smith had used the metal to mend the damage to his reinforced leather vest where ribs had cracked and seams had split under repeated blows. The patches were rough but functional. Gerik ran a thumb along one of them now, feeling the faint ridge where the dagger's steel had been hammered in. Today he stepped into unknown territory at that. Badeur Smith remained a blank page. No stories, no witnessed techniques, only rumors that shifted like smoke. Gerik sheathed the longsword, rolled his shoulders, and walked toward the arena.

  The day was chilly. Wind carried the scent of pine and distant snow from the foothills. Gerik arrived early, boots crunching on the gravel path that led to the tournament grounds. He passed the medical tent where attendants carried a man out on a stretcher. The fighter's face was swollen purple, one eye sealed shut, arm cradled against his chest at an unnatural angle. Word had spread quickly: Prometheus had been the first to advance to the next stage with dominant performances that left opponents broken or yielding before the final blows landed. Six others had joined him in the quarterfinal bracket through sheer force or cunning. Now this fight would decide the final man to complete the eight elite who would move to the crucial stage. The victors would earn the right to compete for the grand prizes. And for Gerik, the second-place berth in Pestilence's private army.

  He entered the arena floor. Badeur was nowhere to be seen.

  The crowd had been hyper since before his arrival. They had just witnessed epic battles that morning: a spearwoman who had disarmed three opponents in succession with whip-fast strikes, a mage whose illusions had turned the ring into a maze of phantom duplicates until his foe surrendered in confusion. The stands thrummed with leftover energy. Spectators drank ale from clay mugs, some spilling over the railings in their excitement. They salivated in anticipation.

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  Chatter ran wild.

  "Maybe Badeur is a chicken," one man shouted from the upper tier, voice carrying over the din.

  "Who wouldn't be?" his companion shot back. "He is going up against the Huntsman."

  Ever since he had felled Mikos, Gerik had been given a moniker: the Huntsman. The animal-like beatdown on the Beloved had scarred the man's once-perfect face and left him with serious injuries that would take months to heal. Broken arms, shattered nose, teeth knocked loose. The crowd remembered the silence that had fallen when Mikos went limp, the way Gerik had walked away without triumph or gloating. It had become one of the few legends going around this tournament. Whispers followed him now. Some called him brutal. Others called him inevitable.

  While this went on, the young man with the star tattoo on his cheek sat in silence near the middle stands. His face aimed at Gerik. Blue eyes steady. Messy black hair falling across his forehead. He said nothing, simply watched.

  The rules of the tournament stated that any fighter who had not shown up to a scheduled fight would be given the grace of two minutes to arrive and fight. After that, forfeiture. The timekeeper, a thin man in a striped tunic standing on a small platform, held a brass hourglass in one hand and a mallet in the other.

  "One minute remaining!" the timekeeper yelled.

  The crowd grew louder. "Oh well, maybe the Huntsman is going to the next stage!" someone bellowed. "The Huntsman is awesome!"

  A man in the front row threw his ale mug upward in excitement. The liquid arced and splashed across several heads below. Laughter erupted. A woman nearby grabbed her husband by the ear and dragged him toward the exit, scolding him the whole way while others around them laughed harder.

  Gerik stood patiently in the center of the arena. Arms crossed over his chest. Eyes closed. His breathing was slow and even, almost like he was meditating. The new longsword rested sheathed at his left hip, hilt angled for a quick draw. The chill wind tugged at his cloak but he did not move. The noise of the crowd washed over him like distant surf.

  Then the crowd stopped. Silence fell sudden and complete.

  Footsteps approached from the fighter's tunnel. Heavy. Measured. Deliberate.

  Badeur Smith had arrived.

  Gerik opened his eyes.