The second semi-final drew a different kind of silence from the crowd. Kaelen's bout had been a spectacle of elegance sharpened into cruelty, making the villagers gasp and shout. This match promised no such beauty. It promised weight.
Alaric could feel it in the way the rope line held tighter, as if the spectators expected the ring to spit blood farther than before. Even the air seemed heavier—thick with the scent of wet earth, sweat, and that faint copper sting that clung to the back of his tongue. The arena had been raked, but the dirt looked bruised, dark where it had soaked, dried, and soaked again.
He stood on his observation step, his cloak clasped neatly, his boots dusted a dull brown. The platinum ring on his left hand pressed cold against his skin. He found himself rubbing his thumb over the etched runes without thinking; it was easier to look composed when he had something to anchor his hands.
Dawn stood close at his side, her quarterstaff upright. Her midnight hair was tied back but refused to stay perfect, a few strands dancing in the hot wind. Her eyes were fixed on the gates, bright in a way that made Alaric think of a wolf watching a tree line. She hadn't spoken since Kaelen's victory, but he could feel her attention working like a strained muscle.
Asimi sat behind them, serene and vigilant. Her metallic eyes moved between the crowd, the knights, and the far hill where the tower watched, pale and silent. Alaric had begun to understand how his mother measured danger; she was like a mason with stone, tapping and listening for the hidden faults.
The herald stepped into the ring, his voice a booming crack. "Second semi-final! The finalists will be chosen!"
Alaric's stomach tightened. Every time the herald spoke, the tournament felt less like something he was observing and more like a creature he had birthed with his own hands. He had invited these men. He had promised them purpose. Now, the price of that promise was being paid in pain.
The herald turned toward the western gate. "Entering first—swamp-born, bandit-breaker, the man who pulled a halberd from a soldier's hands like ripping roots from the earth—Haskel Mireborn!"
Haskel stepped out to a rumbling mix of cheers and uneasy murmurs. He looked worse than he had in the quarter-finals. Bandages wrapped his shoulder where the halberd had torn him, and his thigh was hastily bound with cloth already stained a dark, wet crimson. He carried his ugly tools—the wedge axe and the hooked cleaver. He moved like he didn't trust the ground to stay solid, his gait flat-footed and wary.
His eyes found the ring, then briefly flickered toward Alaric before sliding away.
The herald raised his arms toward the opposite gate. "Entering second—rusted plate survivor, the boulder that does not flinch—Marek of the Broken Cities!"
The noise changed. It didn't rise; it thickened. Marek's armor was a heavy, battered suit of rusted plate, the kind that had been noble steel before decades of war and neglect had eaten at the edges. His sword was plain, a long arming blade with a grip worn smooth by sweat. He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't bow.
His eyes were fixed past the ring. For a heartbeat, Alaric thought he was staring toward the tower, as if he could see through wood and distance to the heart of the mountain. Then Marek's gaze snapped back to Haskel.
Haskel smiled. It was a crooked, feral curl of the lip, like a predator offered a long-awaited meal.
The bell rang.
They didn't circle. Marek stepped forward with the inevitability of a falling stone. His boots sank into the dirt and pulled free without hurry. His sword came up in a simple guard that wasted no motion. There was no feint. He swung once, a controlled cut aimed not to wound, but to measure the man before him.
Haskel slid back, axe raised. The blade rang against the heavy wedge head, the impact jolting Haskel's arm. Alaric saw the bandage on the man's shoulder shift, the wound beneath it protesting. Haskel's cleaver hooked toward Marek's wrist in the same breath, trying to unmake his grip.
Marek didn't react like a man afraid of pain. He rotated his wrist, let the cleaver scrape harmlessly against steel, then shoved forward with his shoulder. It wasn't a push; it was a crowding. Marek's armor clinked—rusted plate grinding against itself—and his sword swung again, closer this time, aimed for Haskel's ribs.
Haskel twisted, the sword kissing his leather armor and biting shallow. Blood seeped through. Haskel hissed, but his eyes gleamed brighter, as if the cut pleased him. He lunged low, cleaver hooking for Marek's knee. The crowd gasped, remembering the crack that had ended Edrin Falk.
Marek's leg shifted only slightly. The cleaver struck the plate with a harsh clang and skidded off, sparks snapping in the shadows. Marek answered immediately, his sword hilt driving forward into Haskel's face like a hammer. The pommel connected with the cheekbone with a wet, ugly sound.
Haskel staggered back, spit and blood spraying into the dirt. His grin vanished, replaced by a tight, feral focus. He blinked hard to clear his vision, blood already running from a mangled nostril.
Marek advanced. No pause. No flourish.
Haskel's axe came up in a frantic block, catching the next cut. He tried to counter with the cleaver, but Marek's sword moved with efficient cruelty, clipping Haskel's forearm. Blood welled, slicking Haskel's grip on his weapons.
Haskel retreated, then suddenly surged forward, changing rhythm like swamp water when something moves beneath the surface. He threw dirt with his boot—an ugly, desperate trick. The spray flew toward Marek's eyes. The crowd shouted in protest, and Dawn stiffened beside Alaric.
Marek didn't flinch. Dirt struck his helm and cheek, sliding down the rusted metal. His eyes narrowed, but his stance did not break. His sword came down in a heavy cut aimed at Haskel's wounded shoulder.
Haskel caught it with his axe, but the force drove his arm down. Pain flashed across his face as the bandage tore, fresh blood soaking the white linen. Marek stepped in close and slammed his gauntleted forearm into Haskel's throat.
Haskel gagged, his breath strangled. Alaric's stomach clenched at the sound—it was the noise of a body refusing to cooperate. Haskel shoved back desperately, his cleaver scraping against Marek's plate. The hook found a seam near Marek's elbow and yanked.
Marek's arm jerked. For the first time, his expression changed—just a flicker of acknowledgment. He stepped back half a pace, then swung his sword flat, smashing the side of the blade into Haskel's ribs.
The impact folded Haskel. Air burst from him in a harsh grunt, and he stumbled, his boots slipping in the churned dirt. His axe dipped. His cleaver shook in a blood-slick grip.
Marek didn't let him reset. He advanced, his sword point rising toward Haskel's throat. The pressure was relentless, suffocating. Haskel tried to circle away, but Marek moved with him, cutting off every angle like he was closing a door.
Alaric leaned forward, the cold of his ring pressing into his skin.
Haskel made one last attempt. He lunged low for the knee again, trying to repeat his quarter-final miracle. Marek stepped aside and brought his sword down. The blade struck Haskel's axe haft hard enough to crack the wood.
The shaft splintered. Haskel's eyes widened as the sword point came up and stopped inches from his throat.
Yield.
The word lived in the silence. Haskel's chest heaved, blood running from his nose, his arm, and his ribs. His mouth worked, trying to form a stubborn refusal. Then, his shoulders sagged. He nodded once.
The bell rang.
The crowd erupted, but the sound felt distant to Alaric, as if he were hearing it through water. Marek stepped back and lowered his sword. He didn't look at Haskel, and he didn't look at the crowd. His gaze lifted toward the hill again, toward the pale line of the tower, as if the finals were merely a formality.
Haskel stumbled away, spitting blood into the dirt. Medics moved toward him cautiously, as if he might still bite.
Asimi leaned close to Alaric. "That one," she murmured, and Alaric knew she meant Marek, "does not break."
"He didn't even blink," Dawn whispered, her voice full of a strange reverence.
Alaric swallowed, his throat tight. He watched Marek walk out of the ring like a man walking toward an answer only he could see. In the finals, Kaelen would face him—water against stone, a song against rusted iron.
Alaric realized then that he wasn't simply choosing a commander. He was choosing what kind of violence Starfall would become.