The piercing shriek of a whetstone against steel snapped Owen out of the nightmare. His heart still hammered in his chest, the phantom memories of blood and laughter clinging to the edges of his mind like mist. He drew a sharp breath, the scent of oiled leather and cold steel grounding him. Owen blinked, bringing himself back to the present. He was no longer in the chaos but in the dressing tent, ready to fight in the king’s peace tournament.
Black-plated armour hugged his body like a second skin, its weight familiar and reassuring. His crimson cloak draped over his back, a symbol of the king’s royal guard, a reminder of his duty. The voices of the crowd outside swelled, excitement bubbling through the tent walls as spectators continued to gather for the tournament. The clink and scrape of his fellow knights preparing their gear surrounded him, an orchestra of routine. Owen exhaled slowly, forcing the tension to bleed out of his muscles.
He wasn’t just Owen the second son anymore—he was Sir Owen Flagg, knight of the Galian royal guard, protector of the royal family. The past was a distant, fading echo. At least, that’s what he told himself.
He glanced down at his clean fists. They were steady now, but the ache of old wounds lingered. Shaking his head, Owen gripped the hilt of his father’s sword, Ramshorn, the cool weight of the blade anchoring him. The white ram pommel gleamed in the dim light of the tent, its polished surface worn smooth from years of his touch. He closed his eyes and said the words.
'On my honour, and in the name of His Majesty, King Rickard of the House Rue, Father of Galia and protector of the faith, I, Owen of the House Flagg, do solemnly swear to serve and protect the king and his family in all their endeavours. I will not question, nor will I defy. I am his shield, I am his sword, his watchful eyes. My service will end upon my death. I swear to protect his subjects, down to the last… down to the last child born into this world, and when I draw my final breath, I know I will have given my all.'
The vow hung in the air, settling into the silence that followed. His skin prickled with a familiar rush of excitement, his pulse quickening. It never faded, that thrill before a fight, that surge of purpose before stepping into the fray. Even after fifteen years of service, his body responded as if he were still a young man. The familiar fire sparked to life in his chest, chasing away the lingering ghosts of his past.
The young knight with boundless energy and reckless ambition was gone. Now, he was an old man of forty-one years. The lines etched into his weathered face and the scars marking his body were testament to battles fought, won, and lost. His locks, a deep auburn, now streaked with faint grey hairs, and his joints creaked when he moved.
How many more battles could his body endure before it gave out? He had already watched too many people he cared about fall, their names etched into his memory like gravestones.
But not today.
Today, Owen Flagg was a knight. A bloody good one, if he didn’t mind saying so himself. He stood straighter, rolling his shoulders back, the familiar weight of Ramshorn secured to his hip. Purpose surged through him, filling the hollow spaces where doubt had crept in. He needn’t think about the past anymore. It had no place here. He had left it behind, buried it with the dead.
'You look focused, Owen,' came a voice, calm yet commanding, cutting through the ambient clatter of the dressing tent.
Owen froze mid-movement, fingers still running through his hair, sweeping it away from his forehead. He turned slowly, already sensing the familiar presence behind him.
Standing there, framed by the soft glow of sunlight filtering through the tent, was Sir Theon Balogun, The Silver Knight. His silver hair, the source of his legendary title, rested elegantly on his head, contrasting with the lines of age that marked his face. And yet, despite the signs of time etched into his features, there was an ever-present vigour about him—a quiet, powerful energy that radiated from every pore. During his training, Owen became familiar with Sir Theon’s solemn demeanour, but today, the pride in his captain’s smile was unmistakable.
'Thank you, sir,' Owen said.
'Remember,' Sir Theon said, softly but firmly, 'the king is watching. This is your chance to impress him. I will not be here forever.'
Owen felt the weight of those words land heavily on his shoulders, more real than the armour he wore. A new captain. The very thought made his pulse quicken. Sir Theon had been a fixture of the royal guard for as long as Owen could remember, an immovable rock of strength and wisdom. The idea of him stepping down, or worse, being gone entirely, sent a shiver down Owen’s spine.
'I know who I would pick if it were up to me,' Sir Theon added, the pride in his smile deepening, 'but you must show the king why you deserve it, Owen.'
Owen stood up straighter, the muscles on his back and shoulders tensing with renewed purpose. His mind buzzed with a thousand thoughts. Would he ever be ready? Could he fill the shoes of a man like Sir Theon Balogun? The doubt was there, creeping in like a shadow at the edges of his mind, but he pushed it aside. He had no time for doubt. Not here. Not now.
'Aye, sir,' Owen said confidently.
'Good.'
Owen’s gaze shifted, catching a flash of black armour approaching from the far side of the tent. The following smirk made his stomach tighten in irritation. Sir Mandon Jubilee—the Coast Knight, as he had been styled—sauntered toward them, his every movement dripping with arrogance. A clean-shaven jawline framed his smug and self-assured face, and his eyes, perpetually glinting with a misplaced sense of superiority, landed squarely on his brothers-in-arms.
Owen’s jaw clenched. Sir Mandon was the son of Lord Wesley of Coast, a powerful noble who supplied the royal fleet, and his sister, Princess Mirielle, had married the heir to the throne. It wasn’t long after the marriage that Mandon had slipped into the ranks as well, his ambitions well-oiled by the political machinery of his family.
'Don’t you two old men be too disheartened when I beat you both, will you?' Sir Mandon chuckled, his Coastman’s accent thick as he swaggered forward, daring to clap Sir Theon on the shoulder.
Owen couldn’t suppress the reflexive roll of his eyes, his blood simmering beneath his skin. It was all so easy for him—so convenient, so perfect, with his father’s ships and his sister in the royal bedchamber. Politics had done more for Sir Mandon Jubilee than any blade ever had, and the buzzards of Coast had perched themselves very high indeed.
Sir Theon glanced down at the spot where Sir Mandon’s hand had briefly rested on his shoulder, brushing it away like a speck of dirt. 'We shall see,' he replied, his voice chillingly calm.
'Sir Theon!' a voice called from behind, bright and eager.
Owen turned to see Prince Luis Paloma approaching with Sir Aurelio Diae at his side. Both men were clad in the resplendent golden armour of Eastamerean royal guard, their white cloaks draped over their shoulders like banners of purity and grace. The prince’s armour gleamed in the dim light of the dressing tent, polished to perfection, and his boyish features carried the excitement of youth—wide-eyed and eager. Sir Aurelio, more composed and regal, followed with a slight smile, but it was the young prince who held the attention.
Owen stood a little taller. Prince Luis had gained a reputation that stretched even to Galia. His performance in combat had been more than impressive—breathtaking, in fact. Earlier, he had danced across the arena floor, his sword flashing like lightning, his movements as fluid as the breeze. To watch him duel Prince Rickard had been like witnessing a rare spectacle: the kind of fight that filled men with awe. The crowd had cheered when he dodged, parried, and spun out of His Grace’s reach with the skill of a seasoned warrior.
Sir Theon gave a deep nod, his voice carrying a tone of respect. 'You must be Prince Luis,' he said. 'You fought very well against His Grace. When I was your age, I was squiring for Lord Hinley, so to see how far you’ve progressed at such a young age is very impressive.'
Prince Luis straightened a little, pride flashing in his eyes. 'Thank you, sir,' he said, his voice slightly shaky but full of genuine appreciation. Owen watched the exchange with quiet admiration. The prince had earned this praise. He hadn’t just been given a title and a sword—he had fought for it.
'However,' Sir Theon said, lowering his voice a notch, 'if you don’t mind me saying, you need to work on your strength. Speed and skill can only carry you so far. An opponent with brute force will bully you into submission if you’re not careful.'
Owen felt a grin tug at his lips, barely suppressing the amusement that threatened to spill over. Sir Theon wasn’t wrong. Prince Rickard had shoved Luis once during the duel, and it had sent the young prince sprawling into the sand. No amount of agility had saved him from that moment, and Owen could still picture the flash of surprise on the prince’s face as he hit the ground. Luis had lost the fight, but he’d earned everyone’s respect, regardless. His loss had not been in vain.
The young prince’s face flushed a little, but he bobbed his head eagerly. 'Y-yes, sir. I’ll work on it,' he stammered, glancing briefly at Sir Aurelio, who offered him a silent nod of encouragement. The prince’s voice faltered with the weight of nervous admiration, the kind Owen had once felt in the presence of legends like Sir Theon Balogun.
Luis’ fingers fiddled nervously at his side, before finally speaking up again. 'I was wondering… if you don’t mind… could I have your signature?'
Sir Aurelio produced a sheet of parchment, along with a quill and ink, handing them over to the prince with a knowing smile. Luis nervously offered them to Sir Theon, his hands trembling just a little as he did so.
Sir Theon’s stern features softened into a kind smile as he took the quill. 'For a prince of Eastamere,' he said, his voice warm, 'it would be my pleasure.' He signed the parchment with a flourish and handed it back to the prince, who accepted it with wide eyes and a grin so full of joy that it made Owen’s heart stir with an explosion of nostalgia and pride.
Prince Luis stared down at the signature as though it were a priceless treasure. His grin stretched from ear to ear, his earlier nerves melting away into childlike glee.
'Do you want my signature as well?' Sir Mandon’s voice cut through the air like a dull blade, his smirk all too present as he stepped forward.
Prince Luis looked up at Sir Mandon with a blank expression, the joy from a second ago gone as if it had never existed. The following silence was deafening. Sir Mandon’s grin faltered slightly when no response came. The prince offered no words—just silence. Not a refusal, but not an acceptance either. Just… nothing.
Before Sir Mandon could vent the frustration visibly simmering beneath his skin, a deafening roar erupted from the arena. The crowd’s cheers, like the sound of crashing waves, swept into the dressing tent, vibrating through the canvas walls and rattling every breath Owen took.
Dennis’ familiar, high-pitched voice echoed from inside the stadium, piercing through the noise as he prepared to announce the next fight. 'Well, what an opening we’ve had to the day, ladies and gentlemen! A fine display from His Grace, Prince Rickard!'
Owen felt the slightest smirk tug at his lips. Prince Rickard’s victory had been predictable, but it had stirred the crowd into a frenzy, nonetheless.
'But now, we have a very special treat for you coming up! This will surely be a spectacle!' The crowd hushed in anticipation. 'Our first fighter is the brother of our own Princess Mirielle! Please welcome The Coast Knight, Sir Mandon Jubilee!'
A chorus of applause and cheers greeted the name, and Sir Mandon, ever the showman, seized the moment. With a smug grin plastered across his face, he thrust himself into the daylight. His black armour gleamed under the midday sun as he strode out onto the sand, his chest puffed with arrogance. Sir Mandon raised his sword high into the air, savouring the crowd’s adoration, each cheer feeding his inflated sense of self-worth.
Owen glanced at Sir Theon, who stood beside him with an expression of calm, almost disinterest. They exchanged a look, and the same unspoken thought passed between them, one that carried a mixture of pity and amusement.
He’s learned nothing.
The crowd’s cheers faded momentarily as Dennis’s voice rang out again. 'And now, please welcome his opponent! He has been the captain of the royal guard for over thirty years! He has won the record number of tournaments with twenty-five tournament victories! Please welcome The Silver Knight, Sir Theon Balogun!'
The roar of the crowd erupted like thunder, shaking the very ground beneath Owen’s feet. The ground itself seemed to tremble, rattling through his armour and settling deep within his bones. This was not just noise; this was reverence.
'Wish me luck, old friend,' Sir Theon said, nodding his head.
Owen smiled. 'You don’t need it, sir.'
As Sir Theon strolled toward the fighting pit, the crowd burst into a frenzy, their voices blending into a storm of cheers and roars. People leapt from their seats, fists pumping the air, their admiration for The Silver Knight untameable. It was a feverish spectacle, the kind of energy that made the very air thrum with excitement. Owen stood on the edge of it, his breath catching in his throat. In that moment, he wasn’t a seasoned knight with old scars; he was a young man again, watching the legend he’d idolised for so many years stride toward yet another test of his skill.
As Sir Theon reached the centre of the pit, he turned, locking eyes with Sir Mandon across the sand. His gaze was steely, cutting through the younger knight like a blade honed over decades. The sunlight hit his silver hair, turning him almost ethereal, like a myth brought to life, the living embodiment of knighthood itself.
'On my mark… Fight!'
In a flash, The Coast Knight lunged forward, his sword a blur of steel aimed at Sir Theon’s face. Owen’s stomach tightened, instinctively bracing for the impact. Sir Theon parried effortlessly, his sword moving as though it weighed nothing, a natural extension of his hand. Every movement was deliberate, precise, like a painter stroking the final touches of a masterpiece onto a canvas.
Sir Mandon, on the other hand, was all raw aggression. His strikes were fast but sloppy, fuelled more by pride than precision. His teeth gritted in frustration, the veins bulging in his neck as he swung wildly, only for Sir Theon to sidestep with a fluid ease that brought the crowd to a collective gasp. They saw it now—the difference between a knight like Sir Mandon, young and brash, and a legend like Sir Theon, who had long since mastered the fine balance between power and patience.
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The moment came as swift as a storm. Sir Theon dodged a particularly clumsy swing, his body twisting with an elegance that seemed impossible for a man of his age. And then, with one swift motion, he delivered a kick to the back of Sir Mandon’s knee. The younger knight collapsed, his legs buckling beneath him, his sword clattering uselessly into the sand.
The crowd, momentarily breathless, exploded into applause. Owen shook underneath their thunderous cheers, a wave of disbelief and admiration crashing against the walls. Sir Theon bowed graciously to the royal box as Dennis sprinted into the pit, a beaming but confused smile on his face.
'We have our second victor!' he called out, his voice almost drowned out by the sheer volume of the crowd. 'Please put your hands together for Sir Theon Balogun!'
Sir Theon extended his hand to help Sir Mandon to his feet, a gesture of sportsmanship, of dignity, the kind of behaviour Owen had come to expect from him. But Sir Mandon, his face flushed with rage and embarrassment, slapped the hand away and pushed himself up, his jaw clenched tight. Without a word, he stormed toward the entrance to the arena, his pride clearly wounded more than his body.
Sir Theon followed him calmly back into the dressing tent, the gleaming sunlight bouncing off his polished armour like a halo of light around him. Owen’s gaze shifted to the other side of the tent, where Sir Mandon was being tended to by Sir Edrick Combermere, The Ivy Knight. Sir Edrick dabbed at Sir Mandon’s face with a stained cloth, wiping away a thin line of blood that had trickled from a split lip.
Owen allowed himself a quiet chuckle, the tension in his body easing. He didn’t expect the lad to be opening his mouth anytime soon.
'Very well fought, sir,' Owen said as Sir Theon drew closer.
'Not bad for an old man, was it?' Sir Theon replied, letting a grin escape.
Owen couldn’t help but smile, though his mind still raced from the spectacle he had just witnessed. The echoes of the crowd outside rippled through the air, their cheers and excited voices bouncing around the arena, swelling the energy to a fever pitch.
In these fleeting moments, people could forget the weight of their troubles. The farmers, merchants, and labourers all gathered to cheer, as for once, they could revel in the stories of knights and valour. Owen liked to believe that the tournament was as much for the people as it was for the king, a chance to immerse themselves in the pageantry, to witness something bigger than themselves. It was a time when their heroes, men of flesh and blood, could remind them of the values of courage and honour, even if only for a short while.
As Owen stood there, watching Sir Theon clean the sweat from his brow with the back of his gloved hand, he felt a strange sense of kinship with the crowd. Here, the only thing that mattered was a knight’s sword and their ability to wield it. The simplicity of it all—the clarity of combat—offered a reprieve from the unrelenting thoughts that had haunted him these past fifteen years.
'Sir Theon!'
Owen turned just in time to see a young boy, no more than thirteen or fourteen, with gleaming golden hair, darting toward them, his lean frame cutting through the bustling tent like a flash. Two guards, red-faced and puffing from the chase, hurried after him. The boy’s wide blue eyes and flushed cheeks suggested he had sprinted the whole way.
'Please, sir, can I have a signature?' he gasped, barely managing the words before one of the guards grabbed his arm, pulling him back with an apologetic look.
'Sorry, sir,' the guard said hastily, keeping a firm grip on the boy. 'He snuck through. It won’t happen again.'
Owen saw the boy’s shoulders sag in disappointment, his youthful face already bracing for rejection. Sir Theon raised his hand, stopping the guards in their tracks. 'It’s fine,' he said, his voice calm but authoritative. 'Leave him be.'
The guards instantly released the boy, who stood there blinking up at Sir Theon, as if he couldn’t believe his luck.
'What’s your name, son?' Sir Theon asked, his tone softening.
The boy took a breath out, relaxing his shoulders. 'Rickard, sir.'
Another Rickard, Owen thought, his chest tightening with an uncomfortable pang. In Galia, naming boys after the king had become a common practice, especially in the capital. A reminder of loyalty, perhaps, he mused. In Owen’s father’s day, most boys were named Jacob, after the old king. But after the rebellion and King Jacob’s fall, those names were quickly shed. Too much danger in bearing the name of a madman.
'And how old are you?' Sir Theon asked.
'Fourteen.'
Owen cringed at the boy’s reply. Fourteen. Not much younger than his own children would be. The thought lodged itself like a thorn in his mind, and he had to look away for a moment, trying to force the memories back into their dark corner.
'I’ve wanted to meet you for so long, sir,' the boy continued, excitement bursting through his words. 'You came to my orphanage once. You saved it, kept it from closing. It inspired me to want to help people, just like you.'
Sir Theon’s face softened at the boy’s confession, a quiet smile spreading across his lips. 'That means a great deal to me, young man,' he said, his voice rich with warmth. 'Thank you.'
The boy stood there, shifting nervously on his feet, looking as if he wanted to say more but didn’t know how. His eyes darted to the ground, embarrassed at his own enthusiasm.
'You know,' Sir Theon added, his voice taking on a thoughtful edge, 'I shall do you one better.' He reached down to the crimson cloak that hung from his shoulders, pulling a small blade from his belt. Owen watched in surprise as his captain carefully sliced a strip from the cloak. He handed the piece of the cloak to the boy, who stared at it as though he had just been gifted a blessing from the Gods.
'Take this,' Sir Theon said, his towering frame casting a shadow over the boy, making him seem even smaller. 'As a reminder.'
The boy’s face lit up with awe, his eyes wide and shimmering, his lips trembling as if he were on the verge of tears. The strip of crimson cloth trembled in his hands like something sacred. For a moment, Owen thought the lad might break down entirely.
'Now, you two,' Sir Theon pointed at the two guards. 'Make sure he gets home safely.'
'Yes, sir,' the guards replied in unison, their heads bowing in respect as they moved to escort the boy out of the tent. The boy didn’t say a word, still completely frozen by the enormity of what had just happened. His hands clutched the strip of cloak as though he feared it might disappear if he let go.
As they led him away, Owen watched the boy go, still wide-eyed and overwhelmed by the encounter. Owen’s stomach swirled with a strange mixture of admiration and unease. Sir Theon had a way of seeing people, of understanding what they needed. But still…
'Was that wise, sir?' Owen asked, turning to his captain as the echoes of the crowd outside filled the air. 'Giving him that part of your cloak? Do you know how much that would sell for?'
Sir Theon smirked, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 'Owen,' he began, 'there lies the next generation. Not the high lords and their sons, but soldiers like him.' He glanced toward the entrance of the tent, where the boy had disappeared moments before. 'I was a boy on the street once as well, don’t forget.'
The crowd’s noise swelled again, the clamour and excitement rippling through the tent, growing louder with every passing second. The tournament was far from over, and now the focus was shifting to the next bout. Owen felt the familiar tension return, winding tight in his chest as the energy of the moment overtook him.
'I believe it’s you next,' Sir Theon said, his smirk widening into a knowing grin.
Owen’s pulse quickened. He nodded, rolling his shoulders to release the tension. The past would have to wait. For now, there was only his duty.
'Well, that’s another record broken for Sir Theon with the fastest tournament victory!' Dennis' voice reverberated through the arena, the crowd still buzzing from the spectacle they had just witnessed. Owen could hear the excitement in the steward's voice, but his mind was already beginning to drift as Dennis’ next words rang out. 'But now, here to fight for your entertainment, we have the Pride of Diame. Please welcome Sir Aurelio Diae!'
Owen's pulse quickened. His heart pounded against his ribs, each beat louder than the last. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and glanced out toward the arena. Sir Aurelio Diae was already making his grand entrance, riding in on a mighty black stallion, its sleek coat shimmering under the sun like polished onyx. The crowd roared in appreciation, their cheers growing as Aurelio urged the horse into a gallop, kicking up orange clouds of sand with every powerful stride.
Aurelio waved to the audience, his shoulder-length hair, dark and flowing, glistening under the harsh sunlight. He moved with a grace that Owen couldn’t help but admire—his confidence infectious, his presence commanding. When Aurelio jumped off the saddle, landing on his feet with perfect ease, the crowd roared a ground-shaking cheer. Owen’s stomach twisted in response.
And now it’s my turn.
'And his opponent, we have The Northern Knight, the former Lord of Flagmere. I give you Sir Owen Flagg!'
The crowd’s roar hit Owen like a physical force, rattling his armour. His mouth went dry, and his hands instinctively clenched around the hilt of his father’s sword.
'Just do your best, Owen, understood?' Sir Theon said.
Owen nodded. 'I will, sir.'
(Scene 2)
Owen took his first step toward the arena, and the roar of the crowd hit him like a fist to the head. Thousands of voices clambered over one another, cheers and shouts reverberating in his chest and rattling his bones. The noise seemed to pour from every corner of the arena, funnelling down towards him as if the sheer weight of all those eyes were pressing him into the hot, unforgiving sand.
Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead, stinging his eyes, but he forced himself to focus. The heat was too overwhelming, a far cry from the crisp, biting air of Flagmere, where the chill always lingered in the mornings, and the wind cut sharp and clean. He longed for that cold now, hoping the memories of home could cool his nerves and offer some respite from the suffocating waves of heat assaulting him.
His breath caught in his throat as he glanced upward. From their elevated positions, the royal families of Galia and Eastamere sat watching, their gazes filled with anticipation. They were still as statues, their attention glued to the two knights standing at the centre of the pit. Princess Sofia shifted uncomfortably in her seat, shivering despite the warmth. Owen thought about how unbearable it must be in Eastamere, where the heat was said to be relentless. He doubted he could survive a day in that inferno, yet here he was, his skin baking under the weight of the sun. Dennis waded back into the arena, standing between Owen and Sir Aurelio with his arm sticking out towards the royal box.
'On my mark… Fight!'
Dennis' voice rang out, and in an instant, he was gone, sprinting out of the way as Owen shuffled forward, his eyes locked on Sir Aurelio. The sound of the crowd, thousands strong, fell to a whisper, their anticipation palpable as they held their collective breath. The sand beneath Owen's feet shifted slightly with each step, its warmth contrasting with the sudden gust of cool wind that swept across the arena. Overhead, dark clouds blotted out the once-blazing sun, casting a shadow over the pit as if the gods themselves bore witness.
Owen blinked, the temperature drop sending a shiver up his spine. And for just a moment, the arena, the crowd, even Aurelio standing poised to fight—all of it disappeared. In their place stood a dead man.
Owen’s breath caught in his throat. His older brother Lyndon stood before him, tall and broad, a thick ram’s skin cloak draped over his shoulders, his auburn hair curling like fire in the wind. His eyes, the same deep maple as Owen’s, burned with an intensity that made Owen feel like a boy again, facing his elder brother in the cold courtyard of Flagmere. Snow crunched underfoot, and a deep chill bit at his skin.
Lyndon raised his sword, the same blade that had struck Owen down in practice a thousand times before. His snarl was fierce, his swing brutal, coming down with all his strength.
The world snapped back. The crowd exploded into view, a thousand voices crashing into his senses as Sir Aurelio's blade tore through the air toward him. Steel gleamed, blurring with speed as it closed in.
Owen threw Ramshorn up in time to block the strike, the loud clang of metal on metal echoing around the arena. The vibrations rattled up his arm, and for a moment, Lyndon’s voice cut through the chaos like a whisper in his ear.
Keep your feet flat, Owen!
Owen’s body moved before his mind caught up. His right foot slid back into the sand, sinking slightly as he steadied himself. The wind tugged at his cloak as Aurelio recoiled, his blade flashing past Owen’s eye in a narrow miss. Aurelio was relentless, drawing his sword back for another strike, the crowd’s tension swelling with every passing second.
You’re moving too predictably, Lyndon’s voice again, sharp and critical. You need to be faster!
Aurelio’s sword lashed out like a striking snake, fast and precise. Owen twisted, pivoting on his left foot and narrowly avoiding the swing. His heart hammered in his chest, the sound of the crowd a distant hum now as his mind focused on the fight. As Aurelio’s momentum carried him forward, Owen saw his opening. He slashed Ramshorn forward; the blade cutting through the space between them.
A sharp nick on Aurelio’s arm, the briefest touch, but enough. Blood welled where the blade had grazed him, dark against the golden sheen of his armour.
The crowd erupted, roaring as if they had been struck themselves, the sound thunderous in Owen’s ears. His muscles burned, his breath came fast, but for the first time since stepping into the arena, he felt the clarity of battle take hold.
Blood trickled down Aurelio’s arm, his teeth gritted in pain as he forced his gaze away from Owen. Owen wasn’t about to give him a moment’s reprieve. He struck again and again, his blade a blur as it crashed against Aurelio’s weakened defences. The crowd’s wild applause swelled with each blow, the echo of steel-on-steel reverberating through the arena. Owen’s mind narrowed to a single point—his opponent. He was relentless, barely pausing to breathe as he pressed the attack.
Aurelio’s face twisted in agony, his arm struggling to keep up as he parried each strike. He grimaced, straightening up in desperation, his black hair gleaming under the unforgiving sun. Then, with a fierce growl, he stepped into Owen, lunging with sharp, deliberate strikes aimed low and high. Owen stumbled back, his feet sliding awkwardly in the sand as he fought to maintain his balance.
The crowd roared, the noise rising to a deafening level as Aurelio forced Owen onto the defensive. Sunlight flickered off Aurelio’s sweat-drenched brow, his snake-like eyes narrowed into slits, brows pressed together in grim concentration. Owen fought back, gritting his teeth as he brought his sword down with all his might, but Aurelio met him, their blades clashing with a jarring clang.
For a moment, time seemed to stop.
The two knights stood locked together, face to face in the centre of the fighting pit, their muscles straining, puffing out their cheeks as they struggled against each other. The sun burned overhead, casting long shadows across the sand as they strained to overpower one another. The crowd, so loud only moments before, fell into an eerie silence, their collective breath held as the spectacle unfolded. Aurelio bellowed in frustration, his face contorted with effort as he pushed harder, his sword pressing against Owen’s with brute strength.
But Owen wasn’t there anymore.
The arena, the crowd, even Aurelio—all of it vanished in a red mist, consumed by the nightmare. He could see Lyndon again, the older brother who had once stood tall before him, now lifeless on the ground, blood pooling around him. Owen’s heart pounded in his ears, and a searing anger flooded his veins, blurring his vision with rage.
Owen threw his head back and then slammed it forward with brutal force, smashing his skull against Aurelio’s. The sickening sound of bone meeting bone rang out as Aurelio crumpled, collapsing into the sand. The crowd gasped. A cloud of orange dust rose into the air as Aurelio’s body hit the ground, motionless, leaving him sprawled beneath the weight of the blow.
Owen stood there, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling like a war drum. His grip on Ramshorn was so tight his knuckles had turned white, the blade trembling slightly in his hand. He raised it, pointing the tip directly at Aurelio’s motionless form. The cheers of the crowd had faded into nothingness; all Owen could hear now was the pulsating rhythm of his own heartbeat.
Yield, his mind screamed. But Aurelio didn’t move. He lay still, the deep orange of the sand staining his golden armour.
And then reality came crashing back.
No. Not again.
Owen’s breath hitched in his throat as the red mist slowly receded, his vision clearing to the sight of Sir Aurelio lying at his feet. His heart twisted painfully in his chest, and for a terrifying moment, it was Lyndon’s face he saw staring back at him, bloodied and broken in the northern snows. Owen’s hand dropped to his side, the sword feeling impossibly heavy now, guilt flooding his veins.
Not again. Please, not again.
'Sir,' Owen said, his heart thumping, 'Sir, are you alright?'
'Arghhh,' Aurelio groaned, carefully lifting his head from the sand, his expression a mixture of pain and confusion. Relief flooded Owen’s body, a wave of gratitude washing over him as he realised his recklessness hadn’t cost him. Not again. Thank the Gods.
Before he could voice his relief, Dennis’s booming voice echoed through the arena. 'We have our third victor!' The crowd erupted in a deafening roar of applause, the sound enveloping Owen like a warm blanket but simultaneously igniting a simmering pressure in his chest. 'Please show your appreciation for Sir Owen Flagg!'
Cheers cascaded over him, a tide of excitement sending shivers down his spine. They clapped and screamed, a sharp contrast to the chaos still lingering in Owen’s mind. He raised his sword high; the blade gleaming brilliantly in the sunlight, and spun in a complete circle, the motion feeling both triumphant and surreal. For a brief moment, he felt like a hero.
His gaze flickered toward the dressing tent, where Sir Theon stood, his hands clapping together with a prideful smile stretched across his face. In that moment, Owen’s chest swelled with pride. It was Theon’s years of training that had brought him to this moment. He offered him a muted nod, a silent acknowledgement of the lessons learned and the bond forged over countless hours of practice.
But as he turned back to Aurelio, Owen’s stomach twisted, the elation of victory battling against the dark undercurrents of his thoughts. 'You fought well,' Owen said, his voice steadier than he felt, attempting to mask the turmoil churning within. He patted Aurelio on the back, but the gesture felt hollow in the face of the memories threatening to weigh him down.
He led Aurelio back toward the dressing tent, but his gaze drew to the crimson patch where Aurelio’s head had struck the sand. The vibrant red was stark against the pale colour of the ground, and it sent a jolt of ice through Owen’s veins. The sight ignited the nightmare, dragging him back to that fateful day fifteen years ago when his own brother lay lifeless, blood staining the snow.
Fifteen years, Owen thought. Not long enough.