Only a single combat, he had said. That had been the agreement. Yet this was now his third. One bout bled into the next, and before he could even sheath his blade from the last, another knight stepped forward to challenge him.

“Come on, Thallan, just one more,” Sebastian chuckled, the sound of his armor clinking faintly as he nudged him with a forearm.

Thallan exhaled through his nose, low. “This is why elves never turn up to these,” he muttered, stepping away from the railing, blade drawn in one fluid motion. He rolled his shoulders, stretching muscle still coiled from the last match.

It was always like this—humans saw elves as a prize to conquer. A victory over an elf, especially one of service, earned more glory than any pennant or ribbon. As if that alone meant something. As if a well-trained human couldn’t best an elf with enough discipline and craft. But it wasn’t about skill. It was about spectacle.

The first duel had ended too quickly to bring him any satisfaction. The second—he barely counted it as a fight. The man had danced backwards the entire time, more concerned with avoiding humiliation than earning any merit. Thallan had advanced; the knight had retreated. A slow, tedious game that left him sweating beneath layers of steel with no patience and even less pride.

He was hot. He was bored. He wanted a drink. A woman. Anything to distract him from the familiarity of this place and the tension winding its way back into his bones.

Now he stood again, sword raised, facing the next challenger. The knight across from him was smaller, their armor cut closer to the body, helm obscuring the face. They held their ground well enough, not a tremor in their stance. At least they didn’t seem afraid.

They waited, both of them still as statues, until the marshal stepped forward.

The staff struck the ground, and Thallan moved.

Their blades met with a sharp ring of steel, the first clash fast and heavy. Thallan pushed forward, testing the knight’s guard with a feint to the shoulder and a low cut toward the thigh, but they pivoted, deflecting both with practiced ease. The crowd cheered, but it was a distant sound to him, muffled by the rush of blood and the rise of heat beneath his armor.

This one didn’t dance away. They met him strike for strike.

A glimmer of satisfaction stirred in his chest, a rare thrill igniting beneath the tedium. His sword swept out again—arched for their ribs—but the knight blocked it with the flat of their blade and responded with a riposte that had Thallan shifting his weight to avoid a direct hit.

That technique—

He knew that one.

He pressed harder, falling into a rhythm. Slash, pivot, shoulder feint, counter. Each time he adapted, the knight met him. And then he began to notice. Their footing. The particular angle of their blade when they deflected. The subtle way their off-hand hovered near their hilt to stabilize a hard blow. He knew that form. 

It was his.

That was his parry. His stance. Even the placement of their steps—measured and efficient—was familiar. Too familiar.

His breath caught, just slightly, and his blade faltered for a half-second.

The knight struck, quick as lightning. Steel glanced off his pauldron as he twisted away at the last second, the scrape ringing in his ear like a curse. He reset his stance, narrowed his gaze, blocking out the noise, the crowd, even the suspicion growing in his chest.

They were favoring their left. He hadn’t seen it until now—but the strain was there in how the knight turned too wide in one direction, tightened too abruptly in the other. He capitalized on it. Pivoted fast and closed the gap, blade aimed low then sweeping high. The knight moved to parry—but too slow. Thallan turned his grip, twisted their weapon out of line, and brought his sword clean to their throat, just beneath the curve of the helm.

Stillness.

And then—a sigh. The knight dropped their blade in surrender.

Cheers erupted around them, but Thallan barely heard it. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm as he stared down at them, his blade still resting lightly at the juncture of helm and gorget.

“Yielded,” the marshal called.

He stepped back, sword lowering at last.

But his thoughts didn’t. Not as the knight bowed and turned away, not as the helm still shielded the face, not as the echo of that duel lingered in his limbs like deja vu.

“Thallan!”

Sebastian’s voice cut through the din of the ring, pulling Thallan’s gaze from the retreating figure of the knight. He blinked once, then sheathed his sword and made his way to the fence where Sebastian still waited with an easy smile.

“I feared, for a moment, you had met your match,” Sebastian said with faux concern, before letting out a short chuckle. “You did well. Come—let’s have a drink before the archery bouts begin.”

Balen, another Blue Rose knight groaned from behind him. “Aren’t those mostly squires? Can’t we indulge ourselves with drinks this time, my lord?”

“We are the Crown’s honored guests,” Sebastian replied smoothly. “We’re expected to make an appearance, not stagger in after the last arrow’s flown.”

Thallan had already begun to unfasten his breastplate, his fingers working the clasps with practiced ease. “Go on without me,” he muttered. “I want this off.” He peeled away from them, heading toward the rows of tents set up just off the tournament green. As he neared the Blue Rose encampment, his hand went to part the tent flap—only to pause.

Across the field, not far from where the royal retinue’s tents stood, he caught sight of a familiar set of armor. The knight from before. The one whose movements had mirrored his own. They slipped inside one of the larger tents bearing the king’s crest.

Thallan’s steps veered before he’d thought it through, drawn by a pull he didn’t fully understand. But as he passed between tents, rounding a corner, a shoulder clipped his.

“Excuse me,” came a soft voice. Apologetic. Brief. Then it shifted. “Ah, great. The walking wall again. Still running from Lady Olivia?”

Thallan stopped. His mouth flattened into a hard line as he turned his head, already knowing who it was. “I was not hiding from Lady Olivia.” His arms crossed over his chest as his gaze met golden hair and an all-too-familiar smirk.

The boy didn’t even flinch. Instead, his eyes flicked to Thallan’s pauldron and he reached out, tapping the polished surface. “A Blue Rose knight,” he mused. “Didn’t expect that.”

Thallan’s hand shot out, fingers curling around the boy’s wrist before flicking it away.

The reaction only seemed to amuse him. He grinned. “I have to get back to the tourney grounds,” he said, taking a few steps backward. “Hopefully we won’t meet like this again, Sir Knight.”

Thallan watched him go, his expression unreadable. But his thoughts were already drifting back to the other knight—to familiar stances and mirrored strikes.

Thallan made his way to his tent, doffing his armor piece by piece until only the linen remained against his skin. He set each plate aside with care, the rhythm of it familiar, almost meditative. His hand rubbed at the back of his neck, fingers kneading into tense muscle before he stretched his arm across his chest, loosening the strain from the bout.

He felt lighter. But something else lingered beneath the surface, like a bruise pressed too deep to fade.

“I’ve told you before—one must take advantage of what they have. What they are given. If you are granted an edge, you use it to strike down the barriers.” 

Her voice came unbidden, curling like smoke through his thoughts. The memory froze him mid-motion, his breath catching somewhere between his ribs. He shouldn’t have seen her again after that day—should have walked away when he still could. But he hadn’t. Again and again, he returned.

Perhaps he wanted to be used. Perhaps it was better than being forgotten.

“You were made to serve. To please.”

Those words were carved into him now, branded somewhere deeper than flesh. His bloodline had been forged to serve—this was the role of his kind. Knights in function, relics in title. That was what the court saw—apparently what everyone saw. So he embraced it. If he was to be used, then he would ensure he was invaluable. Unreplaceable. The edge others wielded.

He reached for the leather costrel resting on the table, uncorking the plug with a twist of his wrist before taking a long swallow of bitter ale. The sharp burn chased down the taste of memory. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tossed the flask aside, stepping back out into the golden warmth of late afternoon.