The rain turned from a needle-like drizzle into a sudden, heavy downpour. The grey sky seemed to open up, washing the mud from the combatants' faces only to turn the arena floor into a treacherous, shifting lake. The torches hissed and sputtered, their orange light struggling against the rising wall of water, casting long, frantic shadows across the sand.
Kaelen stood in the center of the mire, his chest heaving. His blue mana was no longer a steady glow; it was flickering, sputtering like a candle in a gale. Across from him, Vesper was circling. She moved with a clinical, terrifying patience. She was breathing hard, but her eyes were clear, tracking the minute tremors in Kaelen's hands. She was waiting for the inevitable moment his mana ran dry, the moment the "tide" finally receded.
"The music is fading, Kaelen," Vesper called out. Her voice was no longer a rasp; it was sharpening, regaining a melodic clarity that felt out of place in the mud. She adjusted her grip on her rapier, her knuckles white. "Give it up. You have earned your knighthood. Do not break yourself for a title that will only weigh you down."
Kaelen did not look at her. He looked at the Knight-Commander's armor sitting on its oak stand, the dwarven runes catching the dull grey light. He thought of the southern ports, the smell of salt and rot, and the sisters who never came home because no one with a banner cared enough to look for them. He thought of the seaweed and salt his people ate while men in silk laughed.
"The song," Kaelen whispered, his voice raspy and thin, "has one more note."
He didn't just draw on his mana; he reached for the very center of his being, a desperate, final ignition. On the platform, Alaric felt the platinum ring on his finger grow searingly hot, vibrating in sympathy with the sudden spike of power below. Beside him, Asimi leaned forward, her metallic eyes widening. She could see the dangerous violet-blue hue beginning to bleed into Kaelen's aura—he was pulling energy from his own life force.
Kaelen's eyes turned a brilliant, terrifying white-blue.
He surged forward. It wasn't a run; it was a translocation of matter. The mud beneath his boots didn't just splash; it vaporized in a hiss of steam as he broke the sound barrier within the small confines of the ring. He became a single streak of cerulean light cutting through the curtain of rain. It was the most beautiful, violent assault the tournament had ever seen—a final, brave crescendo intended to end the fight in a single heartbeat.
Vesper didn't retreat. In that split second, she didn't even look like a mercenary anymore. Her posture straightened into a rigid, imperial grace. She threw her rapier aside—an act of madness that made the thousands in the stands gasp. As Kaelen's mana-charged strike reached her, she reached into the small of her back and drew a weapon hidden beneath her cloak: a masterwork parrying dagger of unmistakable Imperial design, etched with the sigil of a blooming rose wrapped in thorns.
She didn't just parry; she danced. With a flourish that defied the mud and the dark, she used Kaelen's own blinding momentum against him. She caught the first curved blade in the dagger's hilt and spun inside his guard, her movement so fluid it was as if she were made of smoke. As Kaelen's second blade hissed past her ear, she stepped into his center and delivered a precise, palm-strike to his solar plexus, simultaneously catching his cloak and tearing it away.
Kaelen's mana flared one last time, a roar of blue light that nearly knocked Vesper off her feet, but his strength was spent. He skidded through the slush, his blades falling from nerveless fingers as he collapsed to one knee, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
Vesper stood over him, but she was transformed. Her traveler's cloak was gone, revealing a high-collared, midnight-blue tunic of elite Imperial silk beneath her grime. The hood had fallen back, and her hair—previously tied in a plain, dusty knot—spilled down her shoulders in a waterfall of metallic silver that shimmered even in the gloom. It was the unmistakable, radiant mark of a high-born Lune Deva.
"Enough," she commanded. Her voice was a bell-like tone of authority that silenced the entire arena.
She held the parrying dagger at Kaelen's throat, her gaze fixed not on her opponent, but directly on Alaric. The silver in her hair seemed to catch the torchlight, making her look like a celestial being dropped into a pit of grey mud.
"My name is Valeraine of House Brionac," she declared, the name sending a shockwave through the platform. Even Ser Darmund's captain straightened his back in recognition. "Niece to Duke Theric Brionac, the Sword Saint. I was not sent by the border lords. I was sent by the Empress-Consort herself to see if this 'Starfall' was a prince's playground or a kingdom's shield."
She looked down at Kaelen, whose fingers were still twitching in the mud, inches away from his steel. He had lost by a hair's breadth—a single misplaced step, a fraction of a second's delay in his final strike. He looked up at her, his eyes clearing of the mana-fever, seeing the silver-haired noblewoman where a mercenary had stood a moment before.
Valeraine sheathed her dagger with a crisp, echoing snap.
"The Islander has the heart of a lion, and his final assault was worthy of a commander," she said, her voice ringing across the flats. "But he lacks the discipline that Starfall requires to survive the coming winter."
She turned her back on the mud and faced Alaric. In a display of sudden, shocking fealty, she dropped to one knee, her silver hair dipping into the slush. It was a gesture of absolute submission from one of the Empire's highest bloodlines.
"I yield the match," she said, her voice steady and resonant. "A Commander must be the heart of the order, and Kaelen has proven his heart is unbreakable. I claim my place as your Sergeant, Prince Alaric. Your house has been tested by the blood of the Brionac, and we acknowledge our master."
The bell rang—three sharp, iron notes that signaled the end of the tournament.
The crowd didn't just roar; they erupted in a chaotic symphony of cheers and hushed, fearful whispers. They had come to see a fight; they had stayed to see the unveiling of an Imperial secret.
Alaric stood perfectly still at the edge of the platform. He looked at Kaelen, who was being helped up by the healers, his face a mask of exhaustion and confusion. Then he looked at Valeraine, the silver-haired spy who had just handed him the keys to the Imperial court's respect.
The Order of Starfall was no longer a dream built in the mud. It was a political reality, anchored by a southern hero and guarded by an imperial needle.
"Kaelen of the Tidemark," Alaric's voice boomed, cutting through the rain. "Rise. Your commander's cloak is waiting."
Kaelen stood, his legs shaking, his eyes meeting Valeraine's. There was no hatred there, only the deep, silent recognition of two warriors who had seen the bottom of each other's souls. He had his banner, but he knew now that the price of his leverage would be a life lived under the watchful eye of the silver needle.