The arena held its breath as the gray-cloaked rider stepped into the ring, sword drawn, visor down. No crest. No house name. Just silence and steel. Across from him, Alaric flexed his grip on the reins, his smirk visible beneath his open helm. He didn’t bother to hide his confidence. His armor still gleamed with blood from the last match.
“Well?” Alaric called, raising his sword lazily. “No words? No house to cry behind? Or are you here to play ghost?”
The cloaked rider said nothing. Alaric leaned forward in the saddle, his voice rising for the crowd. “Then let’s unmask you the old way.”
The horn sounded. The rider lunged. Their blades met in a thunderclap of steel. Sparks lit the dust between them. Alaric moved with his usual grace—precise, theatrical—but the gray rider fought differently. No flourishes. No showing off. His style was brutal, exacting. Calculated for pain.
The crowd roared. Some cheered. Some shouted confused names. “Who is he?” “That footwork—Halden-trained.” “No, not just trained… seasoned.”
From the royal box, Elowen couldn’t move. Her fingers dug into the carved arms of her throne. Her heart beat too loud. The way the rider moved—it struck something in her chest that wasn’t thought, but memory.
Alaric advanced again, feinting left and slashing right. The gray rider didn’t fall for it. He met Alaric’s blade with a parry so hard that it knocked the older knight off balance. Alaric snarled, driving forward with a grunt, but the gray rider dodged, pivoted, and landed a hit across Alaric’s pauldron. The metal cracked.
Alaric’s eyes widened. “You fight like a man with something to prove,” he spat. “But I’ve already won her.”
The gray rider finally spoke. His voice rang clear beneath the helm. “Then why are you still chasing her shadow?”
Gasps swept through the crowd. Alaric’s fury twisted. “You think a nameless sword can unseat me?” “Only if it’s sharp enough,” the gray rider said, and struck again.
This time, Alaric’s blade flew from his hand, landing in the sand with a loud clang. He stumbled to his knees, winded, armor scraped, his polished pride cracked and filthy.
The crowd erupted. Shock. Awe. Whispers rose like smoke. “Who is he?” “Elowen must have sent him!”
“No. Look at her—she didn’t know.” And she didn’t. Elowen’s body was perfectly still, but her heart thundered in her ears. Her eyes locked on the gray rider, her breath caught in her throat.
He walked slowly to the center of the ring. Paused. Then raised one gloved hand to the helm.
The sound of the metal unlatching seemed louder than the cheers. He pulled it off. And the moment shattered.
Cillian. Dust clung to his jaw. His hair damp with sweat, his eyes searching only one face—hers.
The crowd gasped. Elowen’s breath left her in one broken exhale. Her grip on the throne loosened.