After Gautier and his men had disappeared into the evening crowd, Torin turned to Qasim, his eyebrow raised in question.
"And what brings you here?" His voice carried a note of dry curiosity, not quite suspicion but close to it.
Qasim shrugged, the motion easy, almost casual. "I heard you got into a scuffle. I was worried."
Torin gave him a suspicious look, his grey eyes narrowing. "Worried about what? My well-being?"
Qasim smiled—a small, knowing expression that didn't quite reach his eyes. "No. I know how well you can handle yourself."
He let out a long sigh, his gaze drifting to the sky for a moment before returning to Torin. "I was worried you'd suffer a scheme that would disqualify you from the duel."
Torin's expression turned even more suspicious, and even Echo tilted her massive head, as if she too found the words strange.
Torin scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive. "And why does that matter to you anyway?" He gave Qasim an up-and-down look, taking in the Redguard's robes, the broken blade at his hip, the ever-present calm in his posture. "I don't know why you decided to tag along, but I'm sure it isn't because Torygg asked you to."
You're not the type to involve yourself in politics, Torin thought. You're more the type to wander off into the wilderness and find meaning in silence.
Qasim let out a low chuckle, the sound warm but distant. "You know me too well... the squabbles of men, and Mer do not concern me."
He began walking toward the palace, and Torin quickly caught up, falling into step beside him. Echo trailed after them, her massive paws silent on the cobblestones.
"I came here with you because the path forward—my path forward—is made no clearer than when I am in your company." He smiled again, that same knowing expression. "I don't know why. But the gods seem to speak and work through you... in more ways than one."
Torin scoffed at those words, the sound cutting through the evening air. "That's just a load of troll shit." He shook his head, his jaw tight. "You're just always looking for meaning where there is none. That's why you see things that aren't there."
He paused, his gaze fixed ahead. "That aside... I still don't understand why you care so much about the duel."
Qasim halted his steps at the question and turned to Torin with a puzzled expression, as if he'd just heard something utterly ridiculous. His brow furrowed, and his hand moved instinctively to the hilt of his broken blade.
"Sir Garran is the finest swordsman in High Rock," he said, his voice carrying a note of genuine curiosity. "Almost unrivaled."
He tapped the pommel of his broken sword. "Of course I would like to see his skill for my own eyes. It's not every day you get the chance to witness a legend in action."
Torin just stared at him for a moment, his expression flat, before palming his face with a heavy sigh. The sound of it seemed to echo through the quiet street, long and weary.
Qasim tilted his head, his confusion deepening. "What is the matter?"
Torin lowered his hand, shaking his head slowly, his eyes fixed on the distant palace towers.
"I'm just disappointed at myself." His voice was dry, laced with self-deprecation. "Here I am, dealing with an outpour of headaches that could have been avoided if I'd just tricked you into doing it in my stead."
Qasim stared at him blankly for a moment, processing the words. Even Echo let out a growl that sounded suspiciously like she was cringing, her ears flattening against her skull.
Finally, Qasim couldn't help but smile—a bitter, knowing expression.
"I'm appalled that you could think that way," he said slowly, "but I can't deny that you are right." His hand moved to the hilt of his broken sword, his fingers tracing the familiar grooves. "If you had asked me to fight the Bannerless Knight in your stead, I would not—could not—have refused."
His gaze turned meaningful as he looked at Torin.
"In fact, I wouldn't mind doing it in your stead even now."
Torin gave him a dismissive wave, the gesture lazy but firm.
"It's much too late for that now." He grunted, his jaw tight. "Besides, I've already done most of the hard work. All that's left is the duel itself, and that's the fun part."
...
Early morning next day. In the royal palace's training yard.
The sun had barely crested the eastern wall, its golden light spilling across the cobblestones in long, lazy streaks.
The air was crisp and cool, carrying the faint scent of dew and the distant salt of the sea. What few knights were awake—either patrolling the palace walls or overseeing the training of their squires—all couldn't help but steal glances at the towering mountain of muscle in the center of the yard.
Torin moved with brutal precision, his spear a blur of motion as he punctured hole after hole in the training dummies' vital points.
Each strike was deliberate, each thrust finding its mark with deadly accuracy. The wounds left behind by Skaldrfong froze over instantly, ice creeping across the straw and burlap like a slow, inevitable tide.
The Nords were a hardy people, capable of fighting under the most extreme conditions.
Their more gifted warriors could stagger onto the battlefield after a night of heavy drinking, shake their heads vigorously, and perform as if they'd had a full night's rest. Such was the extent of the physical advantage they had, and why they were so successful in most of their wars.
Torin was one of the most gifted in that department. He could spend months cooped up in his workshop, hunched over schematics and enchantments, and then stroll into a bandit fort without any preparation and slaughter everyone within.
By all intents and purposes, he could wrap himself in a blanket and wait for the day of the duel—and he'd still be fighting at his best.
But that's not enough, he thought, driving the spear through another dummy's chest. Not this time.
Too much was at stake. The alliance. His own pride. He wasn't going to settle for just being in good shape.
He intended to go into the fight in better physical condition than he'd ever been—a state of readiness that would leave nothing to chance, that would silence every doubt, that would ensure that when he faced Garran Holt, there would be no question of who was the better warrior.
That's why he was training so hard. Something he rarely did after moving out of Jorrvaskr.
Finally, Torin ended his routine by beheading the dummy in front of him with a single, fluid swing of Skaldrfong. The burlap head tumbled to the ground, rolling to a stop at the feet of a nearby squire, who stared at it with wide eyes.
Torin planted the butt of his spear on the cobblestones, his chest heaving slightly, and was ready to take a short break when Echo, lying nearby and watching him lazily, let out a low, rumbling growl.
Torin raised an eyebrow as he followed her gaze to see what had caught her attention. The sight of Gautier approaching him with his hands clasped behind his back made him nod in understanding. The count moved with his usual measured grace, his expression unreadable, his posture betraying nothing.
"I know, right?" he muttered in a voice so low only Echo could hear. "I don't like the slimy bastard either."
As the count closed the distance, Torin wiped the scowl from his face and replaced it with his best smile—the kind that was all teeth and no warmth.
"Count Gautier," he said, his voice carrying a note of false cheerfulness.
"What a pleasant..." He paused, letting the word hang. "Well, what a surprise."
A chuckle escaped one of the practicing squires, but a swift slap to the back of the head by the knight presiding over him was enough to stifle it—and any other chuckles that were struggling to escape the mouths of the other squires. The yard fell silent again, save for the sound of steel on steel from a distant training bout.
Torin just continued to smile, his eyes fixed on the count.
"What can I do for you?"
Gautier simply gave Torin a stare—the kind an adult would give a petulant child who didn't know better—and then cleared his throat. His gaze swept over the training yard, taking in the frozen dummies, the scattered squires, the lingering traces of Torin's morning routine.
"I'm here to inform you that we've finally agreed on the terms of the duel." He smiled, a thin, practiced expression. "Might I add that the terms were rather favorable to you."
Torin gave him a dismissive wave, the gesture casual, almost lazy.
"I don't need favorable terms to win. I'm no stranger to uphill battles." He rested his spear on his shoulder. "As long as you don't require me to tie one hand behind my back, I'm sure I'll manage..."
Gautier chuckled, the sound low and smooth.
"Well, then you'd be pleased to know that fair terms are exactly the advantage I'm talking about."
Torin couldn't help but frown at those words, his brow furrowing as he processed the count's meaning.
"What are you talking about?"
Gautier pinched the tip of his mustache, a thoughtful gesture that seemed almost theatrical. "I don't know how you settle differences in Skyrim, but here duels aren't as simple as they may first seem." He shook his head slowly, his eyes glinting with knowing amusement. "It's never a matter of who can outpunch who. There are many rules and regulations—traditions that must be observed, formalities that must be followed."
He grinned, a thin, calculating expression.
"Armand's people insisted that the duel should be a jousting match. And while I don't doubt your strength, you'd never match a knight in that field." He paused, letting the words sink in. "Nor in sword fighting, for that matter."
Torin scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive.
...
"Abusing tradition." He shook his head. "Typical." He met Gautier's gaze, his eyes hard. "What are the terms, then?"
Gautier's grin widened, a hint of genuine satisfaction flickering behind his careful composure.
"There are none." He spread his hands. "You can fight to your heart's content. The only way to lose is to die or surrender."
Torin nodded in approval.
"That's good enough for me."
He was ready to shoo away the count and get back to training when Gautier spoke again, his tone shifting to something more serious.
"However, it's too early to celebrate. We've yet to decide the time and place for the duel." His face hardened slightly. "And since we had the final say in setting the terms..."
Torin hummed, his mind already working through the implications.
"The when and where will be completely up to them." He crossed his arms. "And they'll more than likely try to take advantage of that."
Gautier nodded in agreement, his expression grim.
"Indeed. And I fear that's exactly what they planned—by suggesting such ridiculous terms in the first place, they gained the right to decide the time and place."
He cleared his throat.
"There's no need, however, to be overly concerned. We'll know what they're scheming soon enough. And at the very least, I should be able to buy enough time for you to prepare once we do."
...
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