The sun beats down mercilessly on the realm. The stands are overflowing; among the crowd, casual chatter is exchanged just as eagerly as coin pouches for wagers.
The seats of the royal box are occupied by King Marc, Queen Gineber, the two princes, and the princess. Hilda stands behind the family, as serious and vigilant as a guardian gargoyle. The obese Master of the Joust runs out of breath blowing his trumpet from the balcony. The curtains of the champions' pavilion are pulled back by a pair of young attendants.
Hooves and claws plow through the sand and straw—sixteen mounts for the sixteen champions enlisted in the competition.
Ordered by importance or reputation, Axiel appears first, guiding his white mare. He wears an ornamental scarlet armor whose plates interlock to resemble the petals of a bloody rose. Men applaud in admiration for the realm's protector, while women squeal and offer him words of love. Axiel remains impassive to it all, including the glares of disdain cast by several members of noble families.
Wolfen, being a silver-rank adventurer, emerges from the tent halfway down the line, whipping the chains coiled around the giant wolf he rides. Four thick steel blades, as long as his forearm, protrude from the knuckles of his gauntlets.
Marcus is among the last. Lacking a saddle suited for the wingspan of the thunderbird, he has to cling to its feathers and grip tight with his thighs. The dinosaur scratches the edge of the arena with its beak, hunting for insects. Marcus gulps, feeling the gaze of the crowd—not just from the stands, but also from the floating crystal balls. He assumes his father and sister are cheering him on from some town square.
Marcus takes comfort in not having the strangest mount in the jousts; that title belongs to the person right behind him...
The last in line is one of those mysterious tourney knights, the kind the common folk love so much, introduced only by a moniker. His face is hidden by black bandages and the shadow of his hood, and he wears studded leather armor darkened and greased with black oils. He rides a decapitated horse, an animal raised from the dead by some form of necromancy.
The sixteen form a line. Axiel is the first to break it; he rounds the barrier in the center of the lists and stops before the royal box. The Master of the Joust introduces him to the crowd:
"Sir Axiel, second captain of the Stoicus army, the Knight of the Rose! Fighting under the favor of the beautiful Gineber!"
The stands erupt in applause.
The princess of the same name stands up and leans over the railing to get a closer look at Axiel, blushing at the thought of such a handsome and gallant man dedicating his interest to her.
"You have my full favor, brave knight," says the young girl with long silver hair, her palms pressed against her chest. Her mother, Queen Gineber, stands behind her and places a hand on her back, but the princess doesn't even notice; she is entranced by the crimson knight.
Queen Gineber offers a faint smile as she looks at Axiel.
It remains unknown where the eyes beneath the visor of the red helm are looking.
"The Knight of the Rose, what a great joke," says a voice dripping with acidic mockery, belonging to the second figure in line—a competitor who breaks formation to ride in front of the others, his eyes never leaving Axiel.
The horse has a golden coat, just like its rider's armor, a breastplate so gleaming it blinds the eye. A standard-bearer, eleven or twelve years old, runs behind the rider holding the emblem of a golden peacock with a rainbow tail on a white field.
The noble continues:
"Rumor has it that 'The Rose' is the name of the brothel where Sir Axiel grew up. Now look at him, so arrogant he asks for a princess's favor, and no one reprimands him! We live in a society in decay."
The line of warriors shifts uneasily; no one speaks a word. Marcus grits his teeth and glares angrily at the presumptuous man, wondering who he thinks he is to speak of the second captain that way.
Axiel steps forward to choose his opponent. The golden knight puts himself in the middle. They stare at each other for a minute; it seems a clash is inevitable. But Axiel walks right past him and taps his lance against the shoulder of a warrior who stands over two meters tall.
A horned helm and heavy armor, shieldless, with shoulders as broad as his massive horse—a mount draped in a brown caparison stained with bloody handprints. The warrior raises both arms and claims the favor of his goddess of violence, a deity Marcus does not recognize.
Axiel and the giant position themselves at opposite ends of the lists, their lances pointing at one another.
Marcus's shoulders relax upon seeing that the lance is blunt, designed more to unhorse than to kill. But the tension returns when the trumpet sounds and the horses shoot forward with fury.
The lists tremble and dust rises. Hooves thunder like hammers.
Marcus holds his breath, almost as if he were the one charging, and when the lances close in, he shuts his eyes on reflex. He hears the crack, an impact like thunder, and opening his eyes, he sees the wood bowing against the red breastplate before finally shattering into a tangle of splinters.
The combatants ride past each other. Axiel is left hunched over, his back scraping against the barrier of the lists. He drops his intact lance, and upon reaching the other side, manages to right himself and steer his mare to once again face the giant, who is already preparing to charge.
A red-coated soldier runs out to extend a replacement lance to his captain, but Axiel rejects it with a gesture and draws a white steel rapier, a weapon with a hilt resembling a rose, its jade roots growing in a spiral to protect his grip.
The rivals shake their reins and spur the flanks of their mounts with their heels. They charge at each other.
Marcus takes a deep breath and forces himself to keep his eyes open.
The giant's lance nearly touches the captain's chest again...
And the next instant, it doesn't.
A red blur drops behind the giant.
Axiel, inverted mid-spin, brings the rapier down in a swift motion of his arm, the tip connecting solidly against the horned helm, striking from the nape to the crown.
It rings out like a bell.
Axiel lands on his feet, his eyes closed and his rapier extended.
On the other side of the lists, the giant sways as if drunk. The helm splits into two perfect halves, and the man, his eyes rolled back and his mouth hanging open in a drool, collapses into the dust.
Applause and cheers flood the arena. Princess Gineber squeals with excitement. Queen Gineber slumps back in her seat and lets out a sigh of relief. King Marc watches his wife out of the corner of his eye.
"Plebeian luck," says the noble, who is, in turn, the next to ride before the king's box.
"Sir Goro IV Segismundo, the Golden Promise, grandson of Goro the Eight-Times Undefeated!" announces the Master of the Joust.
"Nine times! My honorable grandfather will add one more tally when he returns from defeating the rebel kings," Goro IV replies loudly, his lance pointing to the sky. "I fight for myself and for my illustrious family, the Segismundos! I need no maiden's favor!"
The Master of the Joust brings a fist to his mouth and clears his throat, swallowing whatever words he might have had.
"But they forced me to choose one..." Marcus mutters to himself. He might not be the most educated young man, but even he knows that for nobles, many rules are optional. He doesn't see it as an injustice, but rather as something that has simply always been.
Goro and his opponent take the places occupied a moment ago by Axiel and the giant. The horses' hooves strike the ground as they launch forward.
Marcus raises an eyebrow at the moment of impact.
Goro's lance unhorses the enemy rider with the first strike, in a move resolved with astonishing ease. The rival lies sprawled in the sand, not making the slightest attempt to get up or continue the battle on foot.
Shouts of excitement swell in the stands. Marcus feels confused, and for a moment thinks he's overthinking things, but then a scornful laugh blooms from a nearby competitor.
"They noticed it too..." murmurs Marcus. Goro's rival had his guard so wide open it almost seemed deliberate. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
The battles continue.
Warriors fall. So far, with no injuries requiring the priests to intervene.
Pit, who has taken on the role of squire for Marcus, offers him a leather waterskin. The young soldier removes his wooden helmet to take a long gulp. With his black hair flattened by sweat, the cool water is a true blessing.
It is time for the fight of Wolfen the Gale. The dark-skinned adventurer, after being introduced by the Master of the Joust, approaches to choose his rival and flashes a smile at Marcus.
The young soldier frowns beneath his helm, and his leaf cloak turns a red that looks like blood. The thunderbird seems to sense his tension; its feathers bristle like a cat's.
Wolfen's claws draw near, and Marcus is stunned when they tap the warrior beside him.
Still uneasy, he watches how the match unfolds.
The giant wolf leaps the wooden barrier, landing paws-first on the enemy horse and rider, knocking them both down. A scream escapes the rival as the weight of his mount shatters his leg.
The crowd goes silent. The priests enter the arena to intervene. Wolfen raises his arms to celebrate his first victory.
Marcus lowers his face and sighs. He shakes his head, annoyed at letting himself be affected by the adventurer's mind games. He doesn't even notice the next contestant being introduced until the wooden lance taps his shoulder.
Looking up, the first thing Marcus sees is a lyre.