Asmora had always been a place defined by the weight of the earth and the cruelty of the water. Before Alaric arrived, it was a village of broken backs and quiet, rhythmic suffering. It was a place where people lived in the margins, hoping only that the next flood would be shallower than the last.
But the air had grown thick with something new. The palisades were rising like the spine of a sleeping beast, and the farmbeds were turning dark with imported soil. Above it all, the Wizard's Tower watched, a marble sentinel that seemed to have judged the town and decided to remain.
The tournament grounds were a testament to this change. The dirt had been leveled and packed until it was as hard as a stone floor. Simple timber stands offered seats to merchants, while villagers clustered behind rope lines. The air was a soup of woodsmoke, roasted meat, and the sharp tang of oil on steel. For the first time, Asmora felt like a town.
The noise alone proved it. It was a tide of wagers, laughter, and the high-pitched shouts of children. Farmers who had spent their lives debating grain now spoke with sudden expertise on the arc of a sword. Even the old ones, who still traced signs in the dirt when they looked at the tower, were pulled toward the arena. Fascination was winning.
At the edge of the field, banners snapped in the wind. They were deep blue, stitched with a pale, crude star. The needlework was local, lacking refinement, but the imperfection gave it a soul. Starfall had a banner, and for the people of the mud, that meant they finally had a name.
Asimi sat upon the raised platform, her silver hair catching the light like hammered metal. Beside her, Alaric stood on a wooden step. At four years old, he was a strange sight, a child with the eyes of a veteran and the stillness of the tower itself. The platinum ring on his finger glimmered as he watched the sand below.
Dawn was a shadow at his shoulder, her hands white-knuckled around her quarterstaff. To the crowd, this was a game. To the children on the platform, this was the beginning of an army.
A herald stepped into the ring, his voice carrying the practiced boom of a man used to shouting over the wind.
"People of Asmora! By the will of Empress-Consort Asimi and the authority of Prince Alaric, we begin the quarter-finals of the Starfall Tournament!"
The roar that followed was deafening. Alaric felt the fragility of it, the way a cheering crowd could turn into a screaming mob. He stepped forward, his voice cutting through the noise.
"The semi-finalists will be knighted," Alaric said, his voice high but carrying a weight that silenced the front rows. "The champion will be my Commander. The next six will be Sergeants. This is the foundation of Starfall."
The herald lifted his arm. "First bout! Roderic Stonevein versus Silas Vayne!"
Roderic entered like a landslide of iron. He was broad, thick-chested, and covered in scars. He carried a kite shield pocked with the ghosts of old battles and a flanged mace made for breaking mountains. He didn't wave or acknowledge the cheers. He simply walked to his mark and waited, as immovable as a cliffside.
Silas followed, moving with the fluid grace of a dancer. He carried a rapier and a long dagger, spinning the blades with arrogant confidence. He bowed to the platform, a mocking flourish that earned a ripple of laughter, then turned his amused gaze on the mountain of a man before him.
The bell rang.
Silas moved first. He was a flicker of shadow, circling Roderic with light, dancing steps. His rapier darted in like a snake, striking the shield with sharp, rhythmic pings. He was probing, looking for the rust in the armor or a slow reflex in the muscle.
Roderic didn't chase him. He shifted only his feet to track the movement. He was a boulder in a stream, letting the water break against him.
Silas grew bolder. He feinted high, then lunged low for Roderic's knee. Roderic dropped the shield, the metal hitting the dirt with a heavy thud to catch the blade. Silas rolled inward, his dagger flashing toward an exposed armpit, but the mace came around. It was a heavy, vertical arc. Silas had to abort, throwing himself backward as the mace whistled through the air.
The crowd gasped. They could feel the weight of that swing.
Silas changed his approach, his smile fading. He targeted the joints, striking three times in one breath and drawing a line of red across Roderic's forearm.
But Roderic was patient. He waited until Silas committed to a deep lunge, then he surged. He slammed the entire weight of his shield forward like a battering ram, catching Silas mid-step. The air left Silas's lungs as he was sent reeling.
Roderic didn't give him a chance. He followed through, the mace coming down in a brutal arc. Silas scrambled, dirt spraying as he threw himself sideways. The mace buried itself inches into the earth, and the vibration traveled through the ground like a pulse.
Snarling, Silas tried one last gambit. He lunged for Roderic's throat. Roderic didn't move his shield, he moved his body, letting the rapier glance off his spaulder as he stepped into Silas's reach.
The mace rose, a short, vicious stroke that caught Silas in the thigh. There was a sickening crack, the sound of dry wood snapping, and Silas collapsed.
The rapier fell from his numbed fingers. The crowd was a wall of sound, but in the ring, there was a strange quiet. Roderic stood over him, the shield pinning Silas's chest to the dirt, the mace hovering a hair's breadth from his nose.
"Yield," Roderic rumbled.
Silas looked up, his arrogance stripped away. He nodded once, his jaw tight.
The bell rang.
"Victory! Roderic Stonevein!"
Alaric watched the big man walk away. He didn't look at Silas being carried off by the medics. He looked at the way Roderic hadn't wasted a single breath. That was the kind of man you built a wall with.
Beside him, Dawn whispered, "He didn't even blink."
"He didn't have to," Alaric replied, his gaze already turning toward the next pair. "He knew the earth would hold him."