Tomas comes in fast, muscles coiled, axe already in motion. He’s young, younger than me. He can't have seen eighteen winters.

  But he's strong. The weapon arcs through the air with impressive force, whistling past as I pivot back just in time. The wind from the blow kisses my cheek.

  He recovers quickly, swinging again, this time lower, a cleaving strike aimed for my thigh. I hop back, just out of range, my boots skidding slightly on the packed dirt.

  Green. Greener than me even. How much combat has he even seen?

  He lunges forward, axe raised high. I step inside the arc and swing hard, my cudgel smashing against the side of his helmet with a loud crack. The impact jars my arms, and Tomas stumbles, reeling, nearly falling. The crowd gasps and then cheers.

  Cheers rise around me as I advance slowly. The roar of the crowd rolls over me, it's a strange feeling. Being seen like this, looked on with excitement, rather than suspicion.

  This... is fun.

  Tomas, dazed but not broken, gets his helmet straight and roars as he lunges again.

  I catch the haft of his axe mid-swing, the wood jarring in my palm. With a twist and a grunt, I pull him off balance and bring my cudgel across his head again.

  The blow smashes the helmet clean from his head. It clatters across the dirt, revealing wild eyes, bloodied lips, sweat-soaked hair. He stumbles back, releasing the axe still in my grip.

  But he doesn't back down, battle-induced rage drives him forward. He charges, no weapon, just his fists.

  I sidestep at the last moment. My cudgel arcs behind him and cracks hard against the back of his skull. He collapses face-first into the dirt.

  Silence. Then an explosion of noise.

  The crowd roars. Voices call my name. Boots stomp. Hands clap. I look around, heart thudding, the noise almost too much. They’re cheering me.

  I lift the cudgel high.

  Gandre steps forward, raising his arm. "The red sash holds the field! The match is decided!"

  Two attendants rush in, one to help Tomas up, the other to offer him water and check for injuries. Zaenith looks on in the physicians tent, her face grim, but nodding in approval.

  I back away, breath heavy, body still humming with adrenaline.

  Round one, is mine.

  I step out of the ring, giving a quick bow toward the marshal’s post as expected. It's customary, a sign of respect for the officiants and the crowd. One of the attendants ushers me to the edge of the pit, just beyond the wooden barrier.

  Another name is called behind me. Two new fighters climb into the pit, both wearing blue and red sashes like mine. As they begin circling one another, Osric pushes through the crowd and claps a heavy hand on my back.

  "Now that was a fight, lad! Thought you were gonna knock the boy's head off!"

  I grin, still catching my breath.

  Elsie appears at his side, eyes wide. "That was so exciting! I didn’t know you could move like that! He didn’t stand a chance."

  I rub the back of my neck, smiling. "Yeah, well. I'm sure they'll be much tougher fighters for me later, he seemed pretty young."

  "Ah, you're too modest lad." Osric laughs. I settle in beside them, watching the next match unfold.

  Elsie practically bounces with excitement. "I can't wait for Lord Daniel's match! He's such an incredible swordsman. Like a proper knight from the stories."

  I grunt. "Sure."

  Osric chuckles. "You’ll be facin’ him in the finals, mark my words. That’ll be a fight worth watchin’."

  I shrug. "If I get that far."

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Osric nods, pulling out a wineskin, and taking a swing. "A drink lad?" He says, offering me the flask.

  I wave it off. "Better keep my head clear."

  "Suit yourself," he says, grinning. "More for me. Nothing better than getting properly soused at a festival."

  Elsie rolls her eyes. "Just don’t go chasing after other men’s wives again."

  Osric lets out a bark of laughter. "Who’d want to run off with a fat bastard like me?"

  She smirks. "Apparently, fatter old women."

  He roars with laughter, clutching his belly. "Goddess, you’re just like your mother."

  The fights continue for some time, some impressively skilled, others not so much. Following the last man to fall, I spot Ren at the edge of the crowd, standing still amidst the shifting bodies. His sharp features and tall frame make him easy to pick out.

  "Excuse me," I murmur to Osric and Elsie, nodding toward Ren. "Going to say hello."

  "Tell him to cheer for you next time," Elsie calls with a grin.

  I weave through the onlookers and come to a stop beside Ren, who doesn't look at me, his eyes remain fixed on the pit.

  "Not competing?" I ask.

  He chuckles softly, arms crossed. "I’ve no desire to rob young warriors of a chance at victory."

  He glances at me briefly, then back to the ring. "If someone worthy stepped into the pit, perhaps then I would give thought to partaking."

  A roar catches my attention, the crowd erupting into a frenzy. I quickly see the reason. Daniel, clad in the same worn armor as the rest of us, steps into the pit with an arming sword in hand. He looks less impressive than before, no polished plate, no fine longsword.

  Gandre raises a hand. "Second match, Daniel, red. Brenn, blue. Ready yourselves."

  The two men nod. Daniel’s opponent is broad and solid, wielding a short cudgel and buckler.

  Gandre drops his hand. "Begin!"

  Brenn lunges forward immediately, swinging low. Daniel steps back with a casual ease and counters with an absetzen, a parry with simultaneous thrust. His blade slides along the haft of the axe, redirecting the blow while driving the point of his sword into Brenn’s throat.

  The motion is clean, efficient, no wasted energy. Brenn doubles over with a wheeze and collapses onto his knees, arms hanging limp.

  Gasps ripple through the crowd.

  Daniel lowers his blade and steps back. "Yield?"

  Brenn grunts and nods once.

  Gandre raises his hand. "Red sash holds the field."

  Damn... that was fast.

  I turn to Ren, but his expression remains unchanged.

  "What about him?" I ask. "Does Daniel make you want to compete?"

  Ren closes his eyes, shaking his head. "No."

  A slow, sinister smile curls across his face as his eyes open, pupils narrow, almost serpentine. "My blade," he murmurs, voice low and unsettling, "hungers for more seasoned blood than his."

  I nod slowly, uncertain how to respond. Before I can say anything more, the herald's voice rises above the crowd. "Second bout for the red sash, Seven, to the pit!"

  A few heads turn.

  My turn again.

  Ren says nothing as I step away, the sound of the crowd already fading as I focus on my next battle.

  My next foe steps into the ring, a lean man, wiry and compact, holding an arming sword with both hands. He wears his mail tight and fitted, helm slightly oversized. I tower over him by at least two feet. The contrast draws a few chuckles from the crowd.

  Gandre must be going easy on me. First the boy and now him?

  We take our marks, facing each other at opposite ends of the pit, just beyond striking range. The marshal signals for us to salute. I raise my cudgel slightly, and he raises his sword in return, angling it across his chest in the traditional guard.

  We begin to circle slowly, both of us keeping our dominant foot back. His sword stays high in a roof guard, while I hold my cudgel close, watching for his first move. The dirt beneath our boots crunches faintly with each measured step.

  He dashes forward with startling speed, low and tight, his blade thrusting in a quick lunge toward my midsection. I twist, the point grazing my mail with a metallic scrape as I sidestep, barely keeping my balance.

  He pivots immediately, his feet moving with sharp precision as he follows up with a cut aimed high. I duck beneath it, the swing passing just above my helmet. He doesn’t let up, there’s no hesitation in him, another thrust, then a quick feint, trying to bait a block.

  I grunt, shifting my stance and catching his blade along the haft of my cudgel. Wood jars against steel. He tries to disengage, but I step in, shoulder low, and ram into his chest. The hit staggers him, just enough.

  But he slips past my follow-up, pivoting with stunning grace. I press him, but each strike meets nothing but air or the flat of his blade, before he strikes back, forcing me to retreat.

  I'm being overwhelmed, outpaced. It's hard to believe this smaller man could push me so hard.

  He's older, probably twice my age, but fast and no doubt far more skilled.

  His sword slips past my guard and smashes against my ribs, hard. I brace for agony, but feel only a dull thud.

  My mail soaks most of the force. The rest, my thick bones absorb.

  I blink, stunned.

  Is this what it's like to wear armor? Incredible. I should get myself some.

  The tables begin to turn. I adjust my stance, letting him swing low, aiming for my ribs or chest, anywhere my chainmail can take the hit. Most of his strikes glance off, dampened by the rings and my sheer mass. He's too small to reach my head easily, a fact I don't hesitate to account for.

  He steps in again, landing another blow to my chest. I grunt but stand firm, the strike rattles, but doesn’t hurt overmuch.

  That’s when I counter.

  I raise the cudgel high and bring it down with all my weight, catching the crown of his helmet in a heavy, diagonal arc.

  The wood crashes against the iron.

  And his knees buckle instantly.

  He crumples, falling sideways with a dull thud.

  Out cold.

  Gandre steps forward, raising his hand high as silence falls over the pit.

  "Victory to the red sash! The field is held by Seven!"

  More cheers rise from the crowd, excited applause, hollering. I drink it in for a moment, looking over the amassed townsfolk.

  As it dies down, I give a brief nod to Gandre as I pass, he returns it with a grunt of approval.

  I did it. I won again.

  Maybe I can do this after all...

  Results

  + 1 Skill