The hot noonval sun beat down against Jarot’s body, though the gentle stream cooled his body. He sat at the bank, staring at his reflection and the stones beneath the water, which sometimes unfocused his face. He heard the gentle steps of another approach him. The elder Iyrman sat away from most of the younger Iyrmen who were wading through a deeper part of the river further aside.

The tall, thin Iyrman sat beside Jarot, pulling off a gourd from his chest, offering it to his one armed companion. Jarot let out a grunt in response as thanks, accepting the gourd. Rajin remained silent, staring off into the sky as he listened to the Iyrmen nearby chatting away without a worry in the world.

“It is days like these I recall the noonvals of youth,” Jarot said. “The fields of green which I once rushed through as a boy. The noonval festivals when Black Boar and Blood Hound wrestled. The blood of Aldishmen I used to soak within.”

“…” Rajin remained silent, allowing Jarot to continue.

“I can feel it. The itch of battle. It grows stronger, but I can no longer scratch it.” Jarot sighed. “It is a good day for a fight.”

“How is your leg?”

“I can feel it too,” Jarot confirmed. “The ghostly sensation of where I should step. The feeling of the stream against the invisible leg I no longer possess.” He reached to his stub, rubbing it gently. “I am slower now. I cannot plant my feet firmly into the earth. My swings do not cut through the air to tear steel apart. It is worse than when I gave up my arm.”

Rajin pulled the cork off his gourd, sipping the fruit wine, which was only slightly alcoholic, due to how early it was in the day. “It is a good story.”

Jarot winced. He narrowed his eyes slightly, rubbing his knee again. He had faced against Lord Shama with wild abandonment, such wild abandonment, a sneak attack from the Blood Knight took his leg. Otkan engaged the Blood Knight to keep him at bay, but by then, it was already over. Lord Shama, who had caused such utter destruction and chaos, was able to retreat with the Blood Knight easily.

The fight was over, but more importantly, it had not ended. To lose his life in a fight, that was more than fine, but for the fight not to end with a clear victor, for the fight not to claim his life? How could Jarot live to face his grandchildren, or his greatchildren?

Jarot reached down for the gourd, feeling its fine texture against his thumb. His thoughts fell to Otkan, who had paid the price for his return, a price too heavy for his heart to bear.

“…” Rajin remained silent, quietly sipping at his wine.

“Hisbik?” Jarot asked, eyeing up the small flower resting over Rajin’s ear.

“Konarot gifted it to me.”

Jarot inhaled deeply. “Was it a gift to me?”

“The girl handed it to me…” Rajin noted the redness which filled Jarot, the old man’s rage flooding through his entire body.

“It is because my greatdaughter is so kind, of course,” Jarot stated, hiding his growl within his throat.

“Yes.”

Jarot splashed more water against himself before slipping his leg through the hold for his new leg, before pulling up the suspenders around his shoulders. He had found the suspenders helped him keep his balance, distributing more of the pressure around his waist and shoulders rather than his right leg. Of the two legs the Blood Knight had taken, the right was the worst to take.

“Babo!” came the shout, the little girl charging over to the old man, with her twin brother in tow. “Look! Fower!” She showed off the white flower within her hair, pressing it down with her hand, hiding most of it from her greatfather.

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

“My greatdaughter, you are so cute,” Jarot said, bending his left leg to half squat to pet her head gently.

“Caeh full, babo, caeh full,” the girl said, bowing her head lightly.

“I am always careful with you, yes?”

“No.” The girl smirked up towards her greatfather, before cackling. Little Jarot also cackled, quietening when his greatfather pat his head too.

“Did you-,” the older Jarot began, before Konarot held up a flower. Jarot looked to Rajin, smirking at the old man. He, too, was getting his own flower.

“Babo,” Konarot asked, tilting her head slightly.

Jarot noted the girl was the only one not to be wearing a flower. “Where is your flower?”

“Here,” Konarot said, before she parted her hair slightly, waiting expectantly. “Babo, please put in my hair.”

“…” Jarot took the flower and gently placed it within her hair, allowing her silver hair to wrap around the flower’s stem, keeping it in place.

“Thank you.”

The old Jarot smirked towards Rajin, for of course his greatdaughter would ask for him to place the flower within her hair.

Rajin narrowed his eyes just a hair’s width. “It is a good day for a fight.”

Indeed, it was a good day for a fight.

‘What is he doing here?’ Sir William thought, his eyes glued to the Iyrman who had appeared.

He was tall and strongly built, wearing heavy furs of grey over his more neat attire, contrasting with his dark eyes and hair, which fell down towards his shoulders. At his side was an axe, the same axe which caused William’s head to throb. On his forehead was a tattoo, a pattern of blue diamonds, and at the centre of his forehead, a single blue circle. The Iyrman also carried a large sack, which carried half of what was requested, and upon his back lay a crimson shield.

The Baron’s eyes remained glued to one of the figures which had appeared alongside the Iyrman who had taken the previous tournament by storm. She was a woman in her fifties, tall and thinly build, like a pencil. Her long white hair was tied up neatly, her thin black glasses, no doubt magically enchanted, held piercing hazel eyes which judged all those before her. She wore robes of deep purple, the white trim so clean, as though they had been washed only moments ago, untainted by the yellows of sweat or time.

Minister Florence Eastriver.

“Are you doing well, Sir Vonda?” Dunes asked, noting how the young woman relaxed upon seeing them arrive.

Vonda bowed her head gently in response. For a moment, she struggled to push through with her words. “I am well, Manager Dunes.”

Dunes smiled, his eyes falling across the nobles ahead of him. A Baron, a Baroness, and a knight. Not just any knight, but a knight who had come across them previously. The positions seemed rather awkward too, for Vonda was certainly standing in opposition to the rest of her family. ‘Let us hope this can be dealt with neatly.’

“Minister Florence,” the Baron began, keeping his voice neutral. “It is a pleasure to see you.”

The Minister pushed her glasses up with her ring finger, her lips forming a slight smile. “Baron Barthold Eastlake.”

“…” The Baron bowed his head gently, before his eyes fell to Sir William and then to the young man who began to don… purple armour?

“Jurot, correct?” Sir William called, approaching the young Iyrman, who stood with his arms crossed.

Jurot nodded. “William of the Thunder Riders.”

“It’s Sir William now,” the young man replied, reaching out to shake the Iyrman’s forearm. “I didn’t expect to meet you like this again.”

Jurot nodded, shaking the knight’s forearm. “You will face my brother?”

“I will be facing…” Sir William paused, his eyes falling to the young man donning… purple armour?

Purple armour.

Puthral.

Sir William had fought in the martial section of the tournament, for the warriors who did not use magic, like Jurot and himself. Kitool’s presence was awkward, due to the fact she was not quite like other warriors, though did not exactly use magic. However, he had personally come across Jurot, who had been a wall he couldn’t overcome. It wasn’t just that he couldn’t overcome Jurot, it was that Jurot was a vicious wall who had completely crushed him.

However, the young knight recalled another figure who had made a name for himself during the tournament. He was a young man adorned in purple who had gone against Flaming Hyena of the Golden Savages and beat him. He then went up against the Golden Savage herself, Vasera. Vasera, who had no doubt forfeited her matches in order to allow the future King’s Sword and her cousin to gain recognition for themselves, the same with this young man.

However, what was even more shocked, was the fact that he had beaten both Sir Roseia and Sir Karra, before surrendering to them. It wasn’t that the young man had beaten them, he had beaten them in the same way Jurot had beaten him.

One strike.

One kill.

Purple Adam.

The Baron watched as Adam unwrapped the scarf around his head. ‘A leaf ear?’

“I had heard you held the blood of fae,” Sir William said.

Adam pulled the helmet onto his head, before he strapped Strong Shield onto his left arm. “Sir William…”

“Yes?”

“I want you to know that this matter is just business,” Adam began, pulling up his axe, stretching out his arm to prepare him.

“Of course.”

“However, I have to admit, I take great pleasure in beating up nobles, so I have to apologise for the fun I’m about to have.”

Dunes let out a soft sigh. ‘If you’re saying something that stupid…’

Vonda smiled from behind her scarf.