"His Majesty returns from the hunt!" Lord Commander Hebrith Crowsbert announced, slamming his fist against his chest. Everyone in the immediate surrounding kneeled.

"Thank you, Hebrith." A man in his prime: tall as a tree with limbs, chest broad like a bear, eyes the color of obsidian, and tar-black hair, removed his calloused hand from the Lord Commander's shoulder.

"Sir Careridan," The king rested his eyes on the knight, "I entrusted you with my son's care. Yet, he speaks of me in such disrespect. Why?"

"The prince is weary, he is not himself your grace."

"We are old friends, Careridan, you may address me in familiar terms."

"As you wish, Highness."

The king let out a harsh guttural laugh. "Always so serious, Careridan, never change." He finally turned to the son. "So brat, how goes the training?"

Alaric glared, rubbing his cheek. "All is well, father. How went the hunt? I see no prize in your possession."

King Leoffric Audramn bellowed, delighted in his son's resilience. "You've a mouth on you like your mother. But also inherited my strength and stubbornness. For that, I am grateful." He tousled his son's hair until Alaric could stay mad no longer. The prince tenderly hugged his father as if he might hurt the colossal man.

"I'm no flower," he pounded his fur-covered chest, souvenirs from previous hunts, "Try all you want, my ribs won't crack like your mothers."

"Fool, I'm checking for wounds." Alaric's voice came muffled. Leoffric gently removed his son, frowning.

"You fret too much." The king rose, mildly irritated. "Brat, you're an Audramn, not a fisherman's wife." He motioned to the men still kneeling. "Rise, all of you! My presence is no excuse to stop training!"

"You heard His Majesty, up." Sir Brandt said, instructing men nearest to him. His actions echoed by Sir Accalon, who opted for a more physical approach by kicking one poor soul in the ribs.

"The next man I find kneeling gets a boot to the loins." A predatory grin played upon his thin lips —guards, trainees, and instructors rushed to their feet. Shouts, scuffles, swords clanging, and footsteps, quickly resumed. The knights returned to their king's side, following them his entourage of hunters, attendants, and loyal vassals:

Uncle Hareld, King Leoffric's brother and head of the cadet branch, House Audreich. A soft spoken bookish man, nowhere near the stature or height of his older sibling. Alaric viewed him as the brains, while father was the brawn. No wonder he's the Lord Treasurer.

Marris Wolffram, a vassal house, and one of Father's closest friends. A shaggy beard, tied in a knot, covered his rough face. Left exposed were old scars, a crooked nose, and a greasy ponytail of grey hair. Kayden and Geralt, two clean-shaven and younger versions of Lord Marris, hovered beside him. The eldest sons of House Wolffram; former being seventeen, and latter sixteen.

Then the king's huntsmen, Sir Owen, a former soldier knighted by the king. Peter, an ex-poacher pardoned for his crimes. Big John, King Leoffric's silent guardian. And Wes, an enigma of sorts.

Faces with names Alaric remembered, unlike the rest. As they passed, one by one, he waved. Sir Accalon returned a wink whilst Sir Brandt simply nodded. His spirits lifted when Uncle Hareld smiled, he had always been kind.

Lord Marris was distracted, along with the king, reminiscing of battles past.

"The glory, Leoffric! Last proper battle we had was Farendale." He spat to the side, "My boys are eager, ready to prove themselves."

"Farendale?" The king scoffed, "We fought peasants, farmers armed with pitchforks and sickles. Half-starved and barely trained. Your sons would find no glory, let them fight in the tournament."

Lord Marris snarled, pointing at the gold plates beside them. "Surely you jest? Some cannot afford a full set of bloody armor! Let alone bestow knighthoods! My boys ain't knights, they can't participate."

King Leoffric held out a hand. "Peace friend, you know me too well to insult you." His tone was gentle, but eyes flamed dangerously. "It's an open tourney. Welcome to all comers, high and low born, knighted or not."

"Right ..." Lord Marris said reluctantly. There was more, Alaric craned his head.

"... Is coming, we need a show of strength." Their voices grew distant, he edged closer. " ... Alaric might win, if not then one of the oathsworn." The conversation ended, they were too far away for him to hear anything else.

Who is coming?

Someone tapped his shoulder. "Snooping is unbecoming of a prince." Alaric froze, heart skipping a beat. There was no denying it. But a wave of relief washed over, he recognized that voice, rough as bark, from anywhere.

"It is, Sir Careridan." He admitted.

"You sought answers, were they found?"

"No, not quite." Alaric shoulders sagged, "I know why this tournament so important. Someone is coming — a rival by the looks, and it has father worried.

"Pity."

"Still, why have me participate? I've never fought in tournment, and the minimum age is fourteen." Alaric paced back and forth, mind swirling. There were more ways than one for a show of strength. A thousand boots marching the streets, en mass parade. Touring the battlements, gazing upon your bastion of walls and siege defenses. So why a tournament?

"Three months' time we train, you shall be ready." Sir Careridan said.

Suddenly, he stopped and looked at the knight. "My birthday, I'll fourteen then. That's not a coincidence ..." Alaric trailed off, a piece of the puzzle fell in place. "This was planned — you knew?" Of course, he did, Oathwsworn; loyalty first to the king.

The old fox remained steadfast, saying nothing, betraying nothing, unwavering like stone. He simply lifted a finger, pointed at the field. "Six laps, begin."

Alaric crossed his arms in open defiance. "No, this is foolish. Tell me what I'm training for, who it is that's attending the tournament."

"Seven laps."

"They're not a knight, landed, or wandering, else my father won't have bothered allowing anyone to compete."

"Eight laps."

"Father spoke of this person with Wulffram, so he knows them too. A lord then, and not a minor lord. One of the Highborn House's? Like ourselves or mother's?" Alaric cupped his chin, stroking the non-existent hair "No. Jordan would have met with them, and he'd be sobered up months prior to the tournament."

"Nine laps."

"A few houses come to mind, freelords mostly. Those nobles Father did not make bend the knee ... Intimidation then?" Alaric muttered, "Use the tournament, show the prowess of are knights against their own warriors? At this point, he was beyond listening.

His guardian stifled a yawn, a remarkably patient man. He'd dealt with stubbornness, the likes of a king. A prince, intelligent as he was, no different. In the end, still a boy; young and restless. "You are your father's son. Stubborn, perhaps smarter. Yet overthinking it entirely."

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"Please, do correct me," Alaric remarked, rolling his eyes.

The knight raised a calloused hand over his brows and gazed upon the sky above. The endless ocean of blue was devoid of clouds, only the sun remained. A whistle, then a breeze of cool air brushed Sir Careridan's face. "Nice outside, is it not?" He nodded, letting his arm rest. "Certainly a fine day to run."

Alaric inhaled deeply. Several responses came to mind, none any kind. Patience thinning, he stepped forward, directly facing the man—or rather his waist. "Hear this, Sir Careridan. Speak now and I'll run, I'll train, happily for this tournament without complaint. Or, we remain here. Enjoy the "nice" weather."

Humor, a rare emotion, flared in the foxes' ever-vigilant gaze. "On your word?" He mused.

"Yes, on my word." Alaric held his chin up to meet the old man's eye.

"Think carefully prince, ought to wait than speak foolhardily." Sir Careridan said.

Anger like venom, ran hot through the prince's veins. "Waiting is what warriors not fallen in battle do at your age. Wait as your blood runs dry and your skin wrinkles. Wait as your bones become frail, and muscles wither. Come the day they lie in bed, unable to swing a sword. Now," Alaric barked, "I gave you my word. Out with it."

The old knight leaned close. A thin line formed, barely a smile, more a slash across his gaunt face. "Dorath Weymer, self-proclaimed King of the Grey Mountain Freelords, journeys the tournament."

Alaric shook his head. "Impossible, journeying toward certain death more accurate. Dorath's head would be on a stake, rotting atop the gatehouse by day's end. I've listened to Theldore and read the books, why father did not make the freelords fall in line. The soil there is poor, predators; the man-eating kind, roam the wilds. And those mountains are barren." Slowly, he took a breath and concluded with confidence. "Fighting a war on two fronts wasn't worth the reward."

Sir Careridan merely shrugged, indifferent than astounded by his knowledge. "Bards sing tales and chroniclers write books about history. In stories, they are enemies; in life, friends. Quite the unsuspecting ally, are they not? Old news, of course. Shame your presence is never at court."

Alaric stood agape, jaw hanging. Cunning as he may be, the old fox never lied. A year's worth, reading, and enduring Theodore's long lectures, suddenly, became meaningless. Sir Careridan patted his head, as grandfather might comfort his grandchild.

"The tournament?" He asked, slightly dazed.

"A simple wager amongst friends. Nothing more." Nothing more, yet Alaric staggered as if someone fell a mighty blow to his gut.

"A wager." The prince swayed.

"Yes, a wager. Of whom shall win the tournament. Lord Doraths son, Abram, is competing. A lad, few years older than you. Not a knight, but said to already be a gifted swordsman.

"What ... " Alaric faltered, searching for the words. "What, um, of the show of strength?"

"Quite obvious, prince." Sir Careridan poked him in the chest. "You."

Laughter bubbled from Alaric's' lips. The hassle, giving his word, getting this information. Careridan offered the bait, and he fell for it. "Outwitted by the fox, how typical." No use complaining, not for the next three months.

"You have what you wanted, Sir Careridan. Should I begin running?" He looked out the field, deserted now. The sun was nowhere to be seen. Gray clouds swirled above, angry and brewing. Trainees were towing weapons, pushing racks inside the guardhouse. Guards filed past, begrudgingly going back to their shifts.

"It looks as though it may rain. Tomorrow, then?" A futile attempt, yet never hurt to try. He braced, waiting for the inevitable command to start running.

But the unexpected happened. A bell rang, clear as day, from the chapel. Three chimes followed, hurried and urgent than the last.

"Training is over." Sir Careridan spoke, yet eyes focused elsewhere. His sword hand hovered dangerously close to the side.

Yes! God's yes! On the inside, Alaric shouted joyfully. Outside, he nodded and took off before the Oathsworn changed his mind. An unseen hand seized him by the collar.

"Wren, Reaves!"

Two guards with plumed helms, older, and distinctively dressed than the rest, appeared. Veterans, they saluted in unison, thumping fists to chest. "We serve, lord."

Careridan visibly relaxed, he knew them well. Both had fought in the war those years ago. When the Barren King died, and Leoffric fought three other claimants for the throne.

"Escort the prince to his chambers."

Alaric opened his mouth to protest, Sir Careridan fixed a stare that quickly shut it. One need not be a genius to realize something was wrong. "The bells—what did they sound?" One toll meant noon, four signaled the evening. It had not been that long, an hour or two at most.

He glanced at the knight then the escort.

"Midday, your grace. Bit early, I reckon. God's know how them priests tell time." The veteran, Reaves, offered a crooked smile. His companion behind silently shook his head.

Alaric looked between them and asked incredulously, "They are to escort me?"

"Yes." Sir Careridan nodded, he turned to Wren and Reaves "Go now, I'll trail behind."

"Sir." They spun around, about-face, and marched to the keep. The prince reluctantly followed.

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First, a drizzle, light taps sliding off the enameled metal. The drizzle became rain, droplets pounding against armor like drums. Under a helmet, the sound was maddening. Enough to make a man deaf. One of the reasons why he forgoed a helmet.

Sir Careridan unceremoniously unclasped his cloak, draping the white cloth over him. He continued his slow ascent to the keep. The rain made the smooth pathway perilously easy to slip. Footpaths ran along but were just as worse. The stone steps ancient and cracked, on the verge of crumbling.

There was a brief respite from the rain as he reached Anwar's Gatehouse. Men and wolf alike stood guard atop the battlements. The portcullis had been lowered, barring entry.

"Oathsworn, open the gate!" He shouted to the man-at-arms above. They recognized the gold and white easy enough. Someone shouted and one of the men-at-arms disappeared. Moments later, the ground shook, and a moan erupted. Jagged metal tips rose from the ground up.

A vast emptiness awaited, pitch-black like the void. Rain silenced his footsteps, pouring away, drowning all sound. He stepped in a large puddle, ignoring the cold, and aching of his feet. The granite slabs contained plenty.

"Careridan!" A stocky young man with dashing looks, auburn hair, and gold plated in armor, cheerfully greeted. He observed the rain-soaked knight, "You know, with the cloak wrapped over your head. Lose the armor, add holy robes. And ..." His colleague pushed past, the Great Hall's doors slamming behind him.

"We have a sister of cloth, a matron ..." Sir Accalon finished quietly.