Before Ventren stepped back into his tent, he caught sight of a man with a scarred face and brown hair being outfitted nearby. Around his neck hung the artefact the witch had tasked him to retrieve.
Stavross Cross.
Finally—Ventren had found him. Stavross wore a baron's circlet, marking his newfound status which was granted by the cruel king himself. Yet his expression did not reflect pride.
It looked more like… fear.
"I swear by Myriam," Ventren muttered, voice low and venomous, "I will butcher you."
A few squires and physicians nearby stared at him, startled by the sudden and out-of-place outburst. Ventren noticed and quickly turned away returning to his tent.
The witch was waiting for him again.
"He definitely knows you're here," she said calmly. "The herald announced your name loudly—more than once."
Ventren groaned. "That changes nothing. I'm killing him."
"Focus on getting his necklace—"
"I WANT HIM DEAD!"
"Okay, okay."
"I don't care if I bash his skull in before the entire kingdom or splatter the spectators with blood," he snarled. "I want him fucking dead!"
"Calm down, Ven."
He snapped his gaze to her, eyes glaring. "Do not call me that, you imbecile!"
It reminded him of Irina.
"The only one who could call me that is dead to me!"
He seized a nearby table and hurled it out of the tent in a fit of rage.
The witch twitched. "Alright, again please listen," the witch said carefully. "Don't you want answers? You can't just kill him—it'll violate tournament rules. Knock him out or cripple him or both. I need you in the Royal Guard."
Ventren's breathing slowed.
"Control your rag—Uh-oh, someone's coming." The witch vanished.
"Sir Ventren?" A squire peeked into the tent, visibly shaken. "Are you alright?"
"Get me a lucerne warhammer. Immediately."
"Yes, sir." The squire ran to the armoury and returned moments later, presenting the weapon. Ventren exchanged his axe for it.
He stepped outside his tent to a straw dummy provided by the tournament organisers and struck it repeatedly. He used every part of the lucerne—the spearpoint, the beak and the hammer head. Its length was similar to his usual weapon, allowing him to wield it with ease.
Ventren had mastered polearms for years—axes, hammers, bec de corbins and mauls. Though he preferred the cleaving brutality of an axe, his goal now was simple.
I will kill Stavross Cross.
If the opportunity arose, Ventren would kill him without hesitation. He would stop at nothing to get his revenge.
After nearly thirty minutes of practice, he returned to his tent and waited.
—/—/—
Fuck.
Stavross was panicking mid-duel.
Though he fought well, every strike was hesitant. His movements were shaky and his combat prowess dulled by fear.
Why is he here? How is he alive? We killed him. That Merrow titan will doom us all!
With a desperate strike of his pommel, Stavross downed his opponent.
"Victor!" the herald announced. "Baron Stavross Cross of Halborin!"
Stavross rushed into his tent, panting heavily.
"I must warn the others," he muttered. "Richard—and Irina—must know he's alive. That we failed!"
He stood and moved toward the exit only to be stopped by a figure clad in black—it was Sir Harketh. He had his hand on his sword hilt.
Ah. Fuck.
"Where are you going, Baron?" Harketh asked coolly.
"Sir Harketh, please—let me pass! I must tell my wife something important!"
"No one leaves the tournament grounds," Harketh replied. "Orders of the Prince Regent. Security concerns. An imperial assassin has been spotted."
"But—"
"You will not leave. Are you one of the imperials?"
"No... I am not. Sir."
Stavross returned to his tent in fury. He grabbed his tournament sword and etched words along the blade with a dagger.
Myriam Te Occidat — May Myriam strike him down.
—/—/—
Ventren defeated his final opponent before the semifinals with brutal efficiency. The man looked half-dead by the end. He returned to his tent before the herald could announce the victor. He knew he won.
"He is next…" he muttered.
"Sir Ventren," the squire called, "you're up in ten."
"Alright."
Ventren sharpened the beak and spearpoint of his lucerne. When nine minutes passed, he stood and marched back to the arena.
There was Stavross with a sword and shield in hand.
Rage surged through Ventren. The memory of that night replayed endlessly—the blade piercing his cracked armour, the physical agony and the deeper betrayal of trusted friends turning on him.
"Lords and ladies, nobles and knights, burghers and peasants! The final match is upon us! Today we have witnessed a great number of duels—some more interesting than others. But this final duel is one of surprise and suspense…"
The crowd roared.
"To my right—Sir Ventren of Ironhold! To my left—Baron Stavross Cross of Halborin! They were once comrades of the famed Blind Stars Freehold party—now rivals in the Great Tournament! May the better warrior prevail!"
Ventren slammed his lucerne into the ground, discarded his arm shield, and gripped the weapon low with both hands. Slowly, he raised it and roared.
The sound was raw, violent and supernatural. The crowd fell silent.
"STAVROSS!" Ventren bellowed.
Even Stavross looked ready to flee. His eyes were full of fear.
"B-Begin!" the herald stammered.
"Ventren, wait—I can explain—"
Ventren swung.
The lucerne crashed down, shattering the lower half of Stavross' shield. Before Stavross could react, Ventren tore his klappvisor from his helm with bare hands and struck him, sending him stumbling back.
Ventren advanced relentlessly.
Stavross recovered just enough to dodge and threw away what remained of his shield. Ventren smashed it aside and shifted his stance, using the lucerne as a spear. The weapon was parried and Stavross struck Ventren with his pommel.
"Damn you, Stav!"
Stavross swung overhead which Ventren caught with the shaft and struck Stavross in the stomach. The armour cracked as it absorbed the blow. Stavross leapt away, screaming in agony.
"I yie—AHH!"
Ventren smashed his jaw before he could finish.
The referee rushed forward but froze as when Ventren was battering Stavross' shoulders and thighs, Stavross slashed Ventren's chest—his sword glowing as it bypassed armour and cut flesh.
Ventren screamed. "It burns! What the fuck—?"
Stavross seized the moment, exchanging blows with the wounded Ventren. Each strike slipped through armour unnaturally.
"Using holy magic?!" he roared. "You fool!"
Enraged, Ventren smashed Stavross' thigh, his bone cracked. Stavross collapsed, weeping, pleading and begging for mercy with his eyes. Ventren drove the lucerne to the ground, mounted him and beat him savagely, gauntlet to flesh.
"What are you referees doing? Guards, stop him!" Prince Vaenir shouted. "Do not let him kill the baron!"
Ventren glanced up—and threw his lucerne.
It struck a city guard beside the prince—revealing a dagger. It was an assassin in disguise, whom Sir Harketh was looking for.
The crowd went silent.
"He saved me," Vaenir whispered.
Ventren tore the necklace from Stavross' neck.
Even if I can't finish him off… He would die of his wounds. Suffer as you die, wretch.
Vaenir descended with more guards in tow.
"You saved my life," the prince declared. "Witness all—Sir Ventren is the victor of the Great Tournament!"
The crowd erupted in cheers. Ventren nodded once in acknowledgement, then collapsed of exhaustion.