The sun stared straight down at the Azurian Sea, which was eerily calm this day—a glassy expanse of deep blue that stretched to the horizon without a single ripple to disturb its surface.
The sky above was a pale, cloudless dome, and the air was still, heavy with the salt-scent of the sea. A lonely ship was anchored upon that vast stillness, entirely motionless, as if it too was holding its breath.
The people aboard the vessel, however, were wholly restless.
Queen Melisande stood near the railing, her posture composed, her expression unreadable. Her hands were clasped before her, and her gaze was fixed on the distant point where another ship would soon apear.
Beside her, Torin stood with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the same horizon. Echo lay at his feet, her massive head resting on her paws, seemingly unbothered by the tension that crackled through the air.
Everyone else on the ship was shifting anxiously in anticipation of the duel. Some were concerned for their futures—or those of their noble houses—their faces pinched with worry, their hands fidgeting at their sides.
Others simply looked forward to the spectacle, their eyes bright with barely concealed excitement. Warriors like Qasim and a few other knights also looked forward to the duel, not for the politics or the stakes, but simply for the desire to better themselves.
Aside from personal battle experience, nothing helped a warrior improve his skill like watching other accomplished warriors fight. There was much to learn in that regard.
Count Gautier was one of those concerned with their future. That much was clear to anyone who saw him pace back and forth across the deck, his boots thudding against the wood in a restless rhythm.
His gaze kept shifting to Torin—who wore nothing but a single vambrace on his right arm, a pair of black pants, and leather boots—and his anxiety only seemed to rise with each passing moment.
He stopped pacing and rubbed the bridge of his nose, a gesture of weary exasperation.
"Remind me again," he said, his voice strained, "why you're not wearing armor?"
Torin smirked, the expression easy and unconcerned.
"Don't need it." He shrugged, the motion casual. "It only gets in the way." His eyes turned to the water, his gaze sharpening. "Especially here."
Gautier simply stared at Torin, his mouth slightly open, waiting for a follow-up that was clearly not coming. The silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the gentle lapping of waves against the hull.
He frowned, his brow furrowing deeply.
"If you have a plan—as you should—explain it to us." He gritted his teeth, his voice carrying a note of strained patience. "I don't appreciate the fact that you're talking in riddles. This is not a game, Storm Caller. The future of my house—and this kingdom—rests on your shoulders."
Torin grinned, the expression sharp and unrepentant.
"But I really like riddles." He gave Gautier an up-and-down look, his eyes glinting with amusement. "And above all else, I like watching you squirm."
Gautier's face darkened, a flush of color rising to his cheeks. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, it seemed like he might actually explode. But Queen Melisande only seemed amused, her lips twitching up for a fraction of a second before her expression returned to its usual stony blankness.
She said nothing, but her gaze lingered on Torin with something that might have been approval.
Gautier opened his mouth to say something—a retort, perhaps, or a cutting remark—but Torin cut him off by pointing at the horizon.
"Save it," he said, his voice flat. "Armand and his people are here."
Both the queen and Gautier turned to see a massive ship, considerably larger than the one they were on, speeding toward them. Its sails were full and dark, its hull painted in the colors of House Armand, and it cut through the water with the sleek, predatory grace of a hunting beast. The sight of it made the air on their own ship grow heavier, the tension spiking.
Melisande studied the approaching vessel, her expression unreadable.
"That man always seems to be overcompensating for something," she said dryly, her voice carrying a note of quiet contempt. She shook her head slowly. "He did not enjoy playing second fiddle to my husband in everything. Anyone could see that."
Torin raised an eyebrow, his gaze shifting to her.
"But not the late king?"
Melisande sighed, a soft, weary sound.
"My husband had many virtues." She paused, her gaze turning distant. "The one I appreciated the least was his mercy. It did not befit a king to be so forgiving—especially not to those who would have seen him undone."
Torin let out a low hum, his gaze returning to the approaching ship.
"Well, it matters not." He grinned, a sharp, confident expression. "You'll get the chance to rectify the mistakes of the past soon enough, Your Majesty." He paused, his voice dropping to a low, steady tone. "I'll make sure of it."
...
Torin stood at the front of the small boat, his spear resting with its base on the deck, its tip pointed toward the sky. The wood beneath his feet was worn and salt-stained, creaking softly with the gentle movement of the water.
Behind him, Bragi sat at the oars, his strokes slow and steady, his breath coming in measured rhythms. The skald's eyes were fixed on the approaching boat, his knuckles white against the wooden handles.
From the direction of Armand's massive ship, another small boat approached—smaller than Torin's, sleeker, cutting through the water with practiced precision. At its helm stood Garran Holt, the Bannerless Knight, his greatsword resting on his shoulder, his plate armor gleaming dully in the afternoon sun.
Soon enough, both boats stopped, separated only by a small expanse of water—a narrow channel of calm, blue sea that seemed to stretch endlessly in all directions. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant cries of gulls and the soft lapping of small waves against the hulls.
Bragi and the man rowing Garran's boat both rose simultaneously, their movements synchronized by some unspoken signal. Without a word, they jumped into the water, their bodies cutting through the surface with clean, practiced dives, and began to swim back to their respective ships.
Torin and the Bannerless Knight were left alone, standing opposite each other on their small vessels, a stark contrast in every way.
Torin was bare-chested, his skin pale but scarred, his muscles defined but lean. He wore only a pair of black pants, boots, and a single vambrace on his right arm—his shield, folded and ready. His spear rested in his hand, its ancient bone gleaming faintly.
Garran was fully dressed from head to toe in plate armor, with leather beneath. The armor was by no means gaudy or flashy, but elegant in its simplicity—a practical suit, well-maintained and well-worn. The only thing that stood out was the pair of greaves he wore, which had a distinctly elven design: sweeping curves and delicate filigree that seemed out of place on a warrior of his reputation.
As Torin studied his opponent—the way he held his sword, the set of his shoulders, the stillness of his posture—Garran was the first to speak. His voice was gravelly, muffled by his helmet, but it carried across the water with surprising clarity.
"Let me start by apologizing," he said, his tone measured, almost weary. "All these schemes... it's not what I wanted. I am but a pawn in someone else's game."
Torin raised an eyebrow, his grip on his spear shifting slightly.
"Why apologize, then, if it's not your doing?"
Garran let out a long, slow sigh—a sound Torin could hear all the way from his boat.
"I'm apologizing simply because I intend to take advantage of the situation either way."
He lowered his sword, resting its tip on the boat while holding the hilt with both hands. The blade caught the sunlight, its edge gleaming with deadly promise.
"I cannot lose." His voice hardened, carrying a note of iron resolve. "I will not."
Before Torin could reply, the sound of an explosion thundered behind him. The air shuddered, and a wave of heat washed over his back, followed by the distant crackle of dissipating flames. He turned his head just in time to see a fireball spell exploding high above Queen Melisande's ship, its orange and red tendrils spreading outward like the petals of a deadly flower.
Another explosion boomed from the other side, and Torin's gaze snapped to Duke Armand's ship, where a second fireball rose into the sky and detonated with equal fury. The signals were clear—the duel had begun, and the spectators were marking its start with magic and spectacle.
Torin's grin widened, a fierce, eager expression that seemed to light up his face. He began to bend his knees, lowering his center of gravity, his muscles coiling like springs.
"And that's my cue to put your words to the test," he said, his voice low, almost a growl.
Suddenly, he sprang forth. The boat beneath him snapped in half, its wood splintering under the force of his launch as he soared into an arc, heading straight toward his opponent like a missile.
The wind rushed past him, and the world narrowed to the figure of the Bannerless Knight below.
Garran's eyes widened under his helmet for a split second—a flicker of surprise at the sheer audacity of the move. But he quickly gathered his bearings, his training taking over. This seemed like a desperate attempt to end the fight quickly, and it might have worked if he had been thirty years younger. But he wasn't one to panic now, and so he responded with calm, measured precision, the tip of his sword angling toward Torin, his hand gripping the hilt tightly in anticipation.
Soon enough, Torin was within Garran's range. The knight didn't hesitate as he thrust his sword forward, the massive blade aimed at Torin's midsection—a clean, efficient strike designed to impale and end the fight in a single, decisive moment.
...
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