The air over the field was thick with sunlight and anticipation. Dust hung motionless, caught in the late-day glow as if even the motes were waiting to see which banner would rise highest before nightfall. The herald’s voice boomed over the hush.

  “Final round—first to five points! Sire Raymond of Goldeer versus Toby of Highmarsh!”

  The stands erupted in cheers, applause crashing together with boot-stomps and sharp whistles cutting through the noise. A knight of renown against a squire barely grown. Some whispered the match would end in a single breath. Others remembered how far the Falcon’s boys had come.

  Toby stepped into the ring. The packed earth felt alive beneath his boots, warm from a day of battles. Across from him stood Sire Raymond, helm beneath one arm, blade raised in salute.

  “Ready yourself, lad,” the knight said. “I won’t insult you by going easy.”

  Toby smiled, heart hammering. “Wouldn’t want you to.”

  Once Sire Raymond slipped on his helmet, the herald’s hand dropped.

  “Begin!”

  They closed the distance in an instant—the first clash of wood sharp and loud. Sire Raymond’s style was fluid, controlled; Toby’s quicker, lighter. Their blades struck and parted, then met again, each swing testing the other.

  Sire Raymond struck first—a diagonal cut, heavy as a falling gate. Toby ducked, spun, and drove a quick jab toward the ribs. The parry cracked like splitting timber; the impact jolted through his wrists.

  A sharp tap to his shoulder—Sire Raymond’s counter.

  “Point to Sire Raymond!”

  The crowd roared approval.

  Reece shouted from the line, “He’s just warming up, Toby!”

  Zak cupped his hands and bellowed, “You’re supposed to block the sword, not invite it!”

  Toby grinned despite himself, rolled his shoulder, and reset.

  Fast. Strong. But he’s telegraphing the turn of his hips. He exhaled slowly, remembering Maxwell’s lessons. Watch the breath, not the blade.

  This time, Toby met Sire Raymond’s approach with measured patience. The knight pressed forward, sweeping strikes that would have crushed a lesser fighter’s guard. Toby moved with the rhythm—sidestep, deflect, step inside. Their swords locked; for an instant, they stood chest to chest, strength against strength.

  Then Toby twisted his wrist and broke contact, striking across Sire Raymond’s forearm before springing back.

  The officiant’s flag rose. “Point—Toby of Highmarsh!”

  Cheers broke loose. Reece punched the air.

  “That’s it!”

  “One for the Falcon!” Zak added.

  Toby felt his pulse even out, the blood settling into rhythm. The field had narrowed in his mind—no crowd, no noise, just movement and breath.

  Sire Raymond smiled. “Good. Again.”

  He surged forward with renewed vigor, a sudden storm of offense. Toby barely parried the first three blows; the fourth glanced off his guard and forced him back. Sire Raymond pivoted low, sweeping his leg subtly—not enough to trip, but enough to break balance.

  The following strike caught Toby across the ribs before he could recover.

  “Point to Sire Raymond!”

  Toby gasped, the sting sharp even through the padding. He backed up, sucking in air.

  “Breathe, you idiot!” Zak called.

  “He’s making you dance out there!” Reece said.

  Alright then. Dance faster.

  Toby chuckled through the ache. He’d underestimated the knight’s adaptability—Sire Raymond was reading him now, catching his timing. Toby reset his stance, quieter, more deliberate.

  Don’t chase him. Let him come to me.

  Sire Raymond advanced, expecting retreat. Toby didn’t give it. He met him head-on, their blades bristling again and again in tight arcs. The knight’s power drove him back step by step—until Toby abruptly stopped resisting, letting Sire Raymond’s force pull him forward.

  Then he pivoted. The redirection sent the older man stumbling half a stride, just enough for Toby to slide his blade across the chestplate with a loud crack.

  “Point—Toby of Highmarsh!”

  The crowd rose to its feet.

  Reece whooped. “That’s two!”

  Zak laughed breathlessly. “Maxwell would’ve lost his pipe seeing that one!”

  Toby allowed himself one quick smile. Use what’s given. Let strength undo itself. He used what he’d learned, strike by strike.

  The knight nodded approval. “Well played. Let’s see you keep it.”

  The next clash was longer, heavier—sweat flung from armor, breath rasping. Sire Raymond’s technique was immaculate; Toby’s was instinct honed by countless bruises. When the opening came, it was narrow as a heartbeat—Toby feinted right, then drove a thrust low.

  Sire Raymond blocked high by reflex. The wooden edge hit his thigh with a clean smack.

  “Point—Toby of Highmarsh!”

  The noise that followed shook the air.

  “He’s ahead!” Reece shouted.

  Zak yelled, “Two more like that and we’ll be knighted tomorrow!”

  Toby stepped back, breathing hard, gripping the hilt tighter. His arms burned, but the fire in his chest only grew. He had studied the knight’s rhythm—the faint pause between attack and defense.

  Yet Sire Raymond was grinning. “Not bad, boy. But a fight’s a long road, and we’re halfway.”

  Sire Raymond came alive. His next charge was pure authority—a flurry that bent Toby’s guard backward. A strike high, one low, a twist that disarmed him for an instant before Toby snatched his weapon back mid-fall.

  The last blow landed clean against his side.

  “Point to Sire Raymond!”

  Pain bloomed under his ribs. Toby gritted his teeth, nodding once in acknowledgment.

  “Shake it off!” Zak yelled.

  Reece added, albeit a little quieter, “You’re still in this!”

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  He was. Barely. His hands trembled. But under the fatigue there was something sharper—clarity. Every clash was a lesson, every wound a word in a language he was beginning to understand. They circled. Sire Raymond waited for impatience to show. Toby refused to give it. He focused on breathing, and steadied his rhythm.

  When Sire Raymond lunged, Toby sidestepped, letting instinct guide him. Their blades locked, ground together, then Toby twisted under and behind—a half-spin that ended with his blade pressed to Sire Raymond’s back before the knight could turn.

  “Point—Toby of Highmarsh!”

  The stands exploded. Someone shouted, “The squire’s leading!”

  Zak’s voice carried above them all. “That’s our Falcon! Keep it up!”

  Sire Raymond turned, expression unreadable behind the helm. “You’ve got skill, boy. But do you have endurance?”

  Toby only answered with his stance.

  Sire Raymond proved his question. He came again, relentless. This was mastery—no hesitation, no rhythm to read. Every strike chained into the next like flowing water. Toby blocked high, low, high again; his arms screamed.

  Then the knight feinted left, reversed mid-motion, and struck his chest with perfect precision.

  “Point to Sire Raymond!”

  The score tied—four to four. The crowd’s roar dimmed into a hum of tension. Even Zak and Reece were silent for a moment before

  Zak muttered, “Light help us, it’s even.”

  Toby’s lungs burned. Sweat trickled into his eyes. Across from him, Sire Raymond stood calm, sword poised.

  “One more,” the knight said quietly. “Let’s end this properly.”

  He shifted his stance—lower, steadier. “A clean strike. Or, if you’d prefer—” His eyes glinted behind the visor. “—we could finish this with a little Art.”

  Toby froze. The field itself seemed to hush. He’d felt the Physical Art before—in anger, in fear, in fleeting moments of desperation. But this… this would be deliberate. A test not only of strength and sword mastery, but mastery of the Art and the discipline to summon it on command.

  Toby nodded once. “Aye, Sire. The Art it is.”

  Sire Raymond raised his blade in salute. “Then let’s show them what discipline looks like.”

  They moved and Toby’s world slowed. The first clash was silent, as the crowd seemed to collectively take a breath. The air felt like it compressed around them. Toby felt it immediately—that pressure in his chest, that pull between breath and motion. He felt goosebumps up his arms as Sire Raymond too, pulled upon the Art.

  Sire Raymond’s strikes came as arcs of light. Toby parried one, two, then stepped into the third, letting instinct flood him. Heat coursed down his arms; the edges of his vision flared white.

  Their swords met again, force rippling through the ground. For a heartbeat, neither yielded—power against power, control against will. Then Toby exhaled. Just one calm, measured breath. His blade slid past Sire Raymond’s guard, tapped the older man square on the chest—light, quick, and absolute.

  “Point!” the herald called. “Match—Toby of Highmarsh!”

  The cheer that followed drowned everything. Reece and Zak were shouting, laughing, pounding the rail.

  “He did it!”—“Falcon takes the field!”

  Toby stepped back, lowering his sword, breath shaking. His vision returned to color. Sire Raymond stood before him, still but breathing heavily, then gave a slow nod and lifted his helm.

  “Well done,” he said, between breaths. “I meant to test your resolve, not lose to it.”

  Toby shook his head. “You didn’t lose, Sire. I just… learned faster.”

  That drew a soft laugh. “Aye. You’ve worked hard—that much is clear. To touch the Art so young and wield it with control… that’s no accident. That’s discipline.”

  Toby’s throat tightened. He wanted to protest—that he wasn’t in control yet, that he still barely understood it—but the honesty in the knight’s gaze stopped him. Instead, he bowed low.

  “Thank you. For the match. And the lesson.”

  Sire Raymond rested a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll go far, boy. Keep that fire pointed in the right direction.”

  The crowd continued to roar, chanting his name now, mixing it with the cry of his banner—“Falcon! Falcon of Highmarsh!”

  Toby looked to the stands, saw Zak pounding Reece’s back, both of them laughing like children. He saw the white falcon of Highmarsh rippling beside the golden deer of Goldeer—two banners sharing the same wind, neither outshining the other. He smiled.

  A victory for Highmarsh. A victory for myself, but… this is only the beginning.

  He had proven himself not through rage, but through rhythm. Not by defying his training, but by becoming it. The Art pulsed quietly within him—a flicker of promise, of power—before settling, to be drawn upon another time. Toby bowed once more to Sire Raymond and whispered to himself, “Highmarsh endures.”

  The cheers hadn’t faded even as the sun began to sink behind the western towers. The field glowed orange, dust sparkling like gold in the dying light. People pressed forward to catch a glimpse of the young squire from Highmarsh—the Falcon’s boy who had bested Sire Raymond of Goldeer.

  When the herald raised his hand again, the crowd fell to a hush.

  “By order of the judges and the grace of His Majesty’s court,” he called, “the victor of this year’s Spring Sword Tournament—Toby of Highmarsh!”

  The roar that followed rolled like thunder through the stone stands. Zak whooped loud enough for the next fief to hear; Reece joined in, clapping till his palms went red. Even Sire Raymond, the vanquished, smiled as he led the applause.

  Two guards stepped forward carrying an oak chest bound in black iron. Its weight hit the table with a deep thunk. The herald gestured to it with ceremonial flourish.

  “Your prize purse, by decree—one hundred silver crowns and four gold marks, with the gratitude of Eaglelight for your valor.”

  Toby blinked at the chest as if it might vanish.

  One hundred silvers. Four gold marks?

  That was enough to feed ten families for a lifetime. Enough to buy his own horse, maybe even a small plot of land. He bowed his head as the crowd cheered again, forcing himself to breathe steady, to act as Master Maxwell would.

  Then the steward approached with something else. It rested on a velvet cloth—a longsword, masterfully forged, its steel so polished it seemed to hold the reflection of the city itself. The guard was inlaid with two small rubies that glimmered like drops of blood in the sunlight; a third sharp gem sat perfectly centered at the bottom of the pommel, deep crimson and alive with light. Its scabbard, wrought from black leather banded with silver and scarlet thread, completed the weapon’s elegance—a sheath worthy of its steel.

  The steward presented it with both hands. “Forged by the royal smiths of Eaglelight. For the champion.”

  Toby reached out and took the sword. It felt warm—balanced, alive, and humming faintly under his fingers. For a heartbeat, he was no longer on a tournament field but back in the ashes of Brindle Hollow, staring into the red eyes of the elf that had ended everything. The rubies gleamed like those eyes.

  Perfectly paired. Perfectly cruel.

  The cheers faded behind the rush of memory. He swallowed hard, grounding himself.

  Not yet. Not here.

  He turned to Sire Raymond, bowed low, and offered the proper salute of respect.

  “You honored me with your time, Sire.”

  Sire Raymond inclined his head. “And you honored me with your fight. Keep training, lad—you’ll make your master proud.”

  Zak elbowed Reece and muttered, “He already has.”

  Reece only grinned. “Just wait till Maxwell hears he didn’t waste all that shouting.”

  Toby couldn’t help but laugh softly. The sound broke whatever trance the moment had held. They left the field together under the crimson banners of sunset, the crowd still chanting Falcon, Falcon, as the last of the light bled out of the sky.

  Back at the Silver Stag, the innkeeper’s face lit up when they entered—equal parts pride and disbelief.

  “By the saints, you three again! The talk of the city, you are. Thought I’d have to throw the lot of you out tomorrow morning, now you’ve gone and made the front of every drunk’s tale tonight!”

  Zak puffed his chest. “You hear that, Toby? Local heroes. I think that means free ale.”

  The innkeeper chuckled, sliding three steaming bowls of stew onto the table. “You’ll have to pay like everyone else. But tonight I’ll make sure it’s the good kind.”

  They laughed, easing into their seats. For the first time in weeks, Toby let himself relax. His prize chest back in their room. The sword rested at his hip, strapped to a dark leather belt; its scabbard caught the lamplight with a faint shimmer, like the city’s rooftops at night.

  Reece reached for a loaf of bread and said through a grin, “If we keep this up, Sire Kay’s going to start charging us rent for the glory.”

  Zak raised his spoon. “Then I’ll send him the bill for my bruises.”

  The laughter came easy. The tension of battle, of training, of expectation—it all loosened like armor straps after a long march.

  But as the meal wound down and the tavern grew quieter, the door opened and a servant in the King’s colors stepped in, scanning the room. His gaze landed on them at once.

  “You’re the squires of Highmarsh?”

  Toby stood, careful and respectful. “Aye, we are.”

  The man bowed slightly. “You’re requested at the castle within the hour. The Castellan said you’ve been waiting long enough.”

  Zak groaned, rubbing his temples. “We just sat down.”

  Reece shot him a look. “You wanted glory.”

  “Not at supper time!”

  Toby smiled faintly, but his pulse quickened. The rubies on the new sword caught the lamplight again, burning quietly red.

  “Then let’s not keep the King waiting,” he said.

  They rose together, gathered their things, and stepped out into the cool night—the cheers of the day already fading into memory, and the promise of something far greater waiting behind the castle gates.

  Along the King's Road

  Something is tearing through the farms of Windshore—something fast, ruthless, and impossible to track.

  Giles survives its attack by sheer luck.

  The men who find him aren’t so lucky in their assumptions.

  A haunting fantasy about guilt, survival, and the shadows—human or otherwise—that hunt us all.

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  Dark Fantasy

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