"Before the final blades are tested," Arthur declared, his voice rolling across the arena like thunder, "there is something I must say."
The words struck like a hammer blow.
All motion ceased. The roar of the stands crumbled into silence. Smiths froze at their forges, soot-stained hammers hanging limp in calloused hands. Judges paused mid-step, quills suspended above parchment. Every eye turned to the raised platform where the king stood.
Arthur's cloak stirred in the breeze as he swept his gaze across the sea of faces—competitors with sweat and ash still clinging to their skin, nobles leaning forward in their jeweled seats, commoners craning on tiptoe.
"The last five blacksmiths," he said, his tone deliberate, measured, "whose blades are yet untested… are not true contestants."
The words rippled outward like sparks flung onto dry straw. Gasps and murmurs surged through the stands. Smiths glanced at one another—frowns deepening, jaws tightening, eyes wide with disbelief.
