Carla smiled, though her voice remained serious.
"I would gladly recommend my son to you, Noble Lady," she said, "but I myself am rooting for Noelle. Quietly, I don't care much for House Wolfwood. All that matters to me is that my son is happy. My husband, Bandorn, wants him to marry the Princess. But my son is strong—he told his father outright that he will never enter a marriage of convenience. That is not up for debate. He will only marry the girl he falls in love with."
"And how did your husband react to that?" Floralys asked curiously.
"What could he do?" Carla replied. "Already at fifteen, my son has done more for House Wolfwood than all the others combined in a hundred years. His influence is greater than Bandorn's."
Floralys nodded with respect.
"Then your son must be a strong young man. What is his name?"
"Andras Wolfwood, the Young Wolf," Carla answered proudly.
"I'll meet him anyway at the Hero's Ball," Floralys remarked.
"Just don't fall in love with him yourself, hahaha!" Carla laughed.
"Who knows what winds fate may blow," the elven lady smiled. "But look at all these pastries they've brought us. Even together we won't be able to finish them."
"No problem," Carla replied. "Whatever we can't eat, Ironclaw will devour."
"Ironclaw? I think I've heard that name somewhere before," Floralys mused.
"My son's puppy," Carla explained.
"You mean that Beast‑girl? I see… so she's the household pet," Floralys said, a little surprised.
"That's right!" Carla laughed. "And she eats plenty. So don't worry, not a single pastry will go to waste."
Meanwhile, at the other table, Alexander the Bard poured out questions without pause, while Ironclaw puffed out her chest with pride.
"So then, Ironclaw," Alexander began, "what kind of young man is the Young Wolf?"
"My master is strong! My master is the strongest! And I am the second strongest!" Ironclaw answered proudly. "Though Noelle, Andrea, Anita, and Christina are strong too."
"I see! Together you defeated the Blue Monster. And how did you meet your master?" the Bard pressed further.
"The first time I saw him, there was that tingling!" Ironclaw said.
"Tingling? So you fell in love at first sight!" Alexander exclaimed.
"I adore my master! He's the best!" Ironclaw declared.
"And then what happened?" Alexander leaned closer.
"There was tingling—three times! As if lightning struck me!" Ironclaw explained.
"I understand, you fell head over heels! The angel of love pierced your beast‑girl heart three times! No, four times! This is wonderful! Continue!" Alexander enthused.
"After the tingling… um… I marked my territory! Three times! Or rather, once more after that…" Ironclaw confessed.
"You marked your territory? I see! Like a beast‑woman, you confessed your love to him three times! No, four times!" Alexander cried out. "This will make a splendid song!"
The Bard had somewhat misinterpreted Ironclaw's words, but it mattered little. In taverns, stories are born this way: what in the first telling is small and green, by the tenth becomes large and blue. Thus legends are born, and posterity loves to hear them—full of passion, exaggeration, and accompanied by a Bard's lute.
Within two weeks, the qualifiers of the Royal Knightly Tournament had concluded. Through the battles, the finest warriors rose above the rest, and in the end, four Wolf Knights secured their place among the top thirty‑two.
Anita won all three of her matches with ease. Her lightning‑fast movements and mastery of the wind element earned her the nickname "Whirlwind" from the crowd. Andrea, in her second duel, once again severed her opponent's arm—striking such fear that her third opponent refused to even face her, forfeiting the match and granting Andrea automatic advancement. The other two Wolf Knights, Xaba and Jula, fought grueling duels and emerged victorious, securing their places in the group stage.
The greatest favorite of the tournament, however, was the Hero, Eris Scarlett, representing the Royal Family and the Royal Knights. Both the spectators and the noble houses regarded her as the strongest contender.
Among the outstanding knights of the group stage were:
Eris Scarlett, the Hero, Royal Knight, and personal bodyguard of the Princess
Apollonia Velvett, Lieutenant of the Royal Knights
Christina Silverwood, Captain of the Silver Knights
Botond, the Giant, Captain of the Red Rose Knights
David, the Twinblade, Captain of the Green Hawk Knights
Andrea Wolf, Wolf Knight
Anita, the Whirlwind, Wolf Knight
Lazuro, the Black Horse, swordsman and adventurer
Thus, the group stage of the Royal Knightly Tournament promised truly legendary clashes: the champions of the Kingdom's greatest houses, the Hero herself, and the finest knights all gathered in one arena, united by a single purpose—to prove their strength and draw closer to ultimate victory.
Alexander Loverchild, the Bard, sat at a corner table, his lute resting in his lap. His eyes sparkled as he thought of the eight greatest champions of the Royal Knightly Tournament. His fingers plucked the strings slowly, while he tested words aloud.
"Eris… bold… heroic… no, too simple," he murmured.
"Apollonia… harmony… crown… hm, perhaps that will do."
"Christina… shining… no, that doesn't sound right. But Silver Captain—that's a fine title."
"Botond… giant… iron… ah, too harsh. But strength, strength always rhymes with valor."
"David… avid… twin blades… striking like lightning. Yes, I like that!"
"Andrea… with wind… with peril… with sword… yes, that is poetry."
"Anita… Whirlwind… swift hand… good, good!"
"Lazuro… Black Horse… mystery… adventure… yes, that will make a ballad!"
The Bard laughed, drew a deep breath, and began weaving the lines together. The sound of the lute slowly became a song, and the words found their rhythm.
Alexander Loverchild's Song of the Eight Champions:
"Eight heroes now step onto the field,
Their names to a hundred taverns revealed.
Eris Scarlett, fire and light aglow,
The Hero who makes every heart overflow.
Apollonia, Royal Lieutenant true,
Her blade strikes lightning, her spirit never subdued.
Christina, Silver Captain, radiant sword,
Her name brings fear to every foe's accord.
Botond, the Giant, Red Rose Knight,
His strike topples mountains, walls fall in fright.
David, the Twinblade, swift as the breeze,
Two swords that dance, foes fall with ease.
Andrea Wolf, rushing with the gale,
Her strike a storm, resistance will fail.
Anita, Whirlwind, lightning in flight,
Her name brings dread to comrades in fight.
Lazuro, the Black Horse, mystery and quest,
His path is sung, the people attest.
Eight champions, eight names, eight legends rise,
Their ballad resounds in the Kingdom's skies.
Who among them shall be the final hero?
The song preserves them all, the people's echo."
The Bard nodded with satisfaction, raised his lute high, and declared:
"Thus are legends born! Eight names, eight destinies—and my song shall keep them forever!"
The Tavern Debate About the Tournament
In one of the loudest, smokiest taverns of the Royal Capital, the Whispering Griffon, every table was already taken by early evening. The air was thick with the smell of beer, sweat, and freshly roasted meat. In the background, a bard tried to sing over the noise—mostly in vain. But in the corner, four men were arguing with such intensity that even the innkeeper kept glancing their way, wondering when the table would finally flip over.
"I'm telling you, Eris Scarlett will win!" shouted the red‑haired, freckled man as he slammed his palm on the table. "She's fifteen, but she moves like a lightning strike. I saw her training at the practice yard. Anyone who says she's too young simply hasn't seen her fight."
"Too young," grumbled the second man, a barrel‑chested fellow already going bald. "The knight tournament isn't for children. That shield alone—she couldn't lift it even with help. The winner will be Christina Silverwood, captain of the Silver Knights. Thirty‑three years old, experienced, and the strongest female knight in the kingdom. If anyone knows how to stay standing when others are eating dirt, it's her."
"Silverwood?" snorted the third, a thin man with an absurdly long mustache. "I respect her, but the tournament isn't just about strength. There's Botond the Giant! Have you seen that man? Even his horse is afraid of him! When he swings that mace, the castle walls tremble. The others don't stand a chance."
The fourth man, who had been quietly sipping his beer until now, slowly set down his mug. The others turned toward him—they knew that when he spoke, peace was never an option.
"You're all wrong," he said calmly, but with such confidence that nearby tables fell silent. "The tournament will be won by a she‑wolf from Wolfwood. Either Andrea Wolf or Anita the Whirlwind. Those girls don't just fight. They hunt. They survive. And if needed, they tear their opponents apart. The tournament is just a game to them."
The other three erupted at once.
"They're not even real knights!"
"The rules—!"
"The Whirlwind is too fast, that's cheating!"
The argument grew louder and louder. Tankards clattered, chairs scraped, and the bard gave up entirely, realizing the four men's shouting would drown out anything he played.
"Let's bet on it!" the red‑haired man finally yelled. "If you're all so sure about your champion, let's put something on the line!"
"Let's bet," the barrel‑chested man agreed. "But not money. That's too easy."
"In what, then?" asked the mustached one.
The fourth man grinned.
"In a whole barrel of beer. The losers buy the winner an entire barrel."
The tavern erupted in laughter and murmurs. A full barrel was no small wager.
"It's a deal!" they all said at once.
They shook hands, sealing the bet, and the tavern filled once more with laughter, shouting, and the promise of a wager that would be remembered for weeks.
The knight tournament hadn't even begun, but the capital was already burning with anticipation.