The tourney field had transformed since he last stood there. The ring once cleared for melee had been reshaped into a wide, open crescent. Hay bales and polished wooden stands now lined its edge, marking off targets at increasing distances. Banners fluttered from every corner—heraldry from every vassal present. The scent of trampled grass, sun-warmed leather, and fresh pitch hung thick in the air.

Archers stood at attention, fletching checked, bows strung taut across their backs or held loosely at their sides. Some stretched, others whispered prayers or boasts. The crowd had swelled—families, knights, and commoners alike filling the stands, chattering and placing bets, awaiting the first shot.

Lord Wright would be somewhere in the crowd. Thallan moved forward, his gaze sweeping over the sea of faces until it landed on a familiar figure leaning against one of the wooden rails. Sebastian’s smile was soft, measured, yet carried the weight of command. It always struck Thallan as a quiet marvel—that a man so poised, so seemingly born for courts and velvet and wine, had willingly thrown himself into the fray time and again. He had the look of an aristocrat, but there was steel beneath that charismatic smile. And Thallan had seen it firsthand.

It was that very steel, the way Sebastian moved and led, that had convinced him to swear fealty. Not with grand speeches, but through action. Precision. Honor without showmanship. The way he treated his men—as a unit, not as tools—had earned Thallan’s loyalty more than any oath could.

His lips curled faintly the moment he noticed who stood opposite Sebastian, just across the fence. That wiry frame, that infuriating posture—that boy. Thallan considered veering toward the Blue Rose knights, but then Sebastian’s gaze found his, and with one look—calm, expectant—he was summoned.

He approached with slow, even steps, his hand rising to the back of his neck, then to his jaw, as if to smooth the irritation from his features. He didn’t know what the little shite had said to Lord Wright, but something about that glint in his eyes made him suspect it had been too much.

“Thallan, this is my cousin, Lord Adius Dunne, son of Alastair Dunne, the Duke of Velmire,” Sebastian introduced, his tone as light as ever. “Adius, this is Thallan Quinrel, son of Baron Aniarn Quinrel of Eilador. Lead knight of my vanguard.”

Adius smiled, polite and pleased. “Ah, not just a knight, but a Quinrel. A pleasure to meet you, Thallan.”

Thallan extended his hand without a word, the cold in his grasp intentional. His fingers closed too tightly around Adius’s, but the boy said nothing. Just smiled, thin-lipped, and pulled back.

“Adius will be swearing fealty tomorrow before the banquet,” Sebastian continued. “He’ll be joining us on the campaign.”

Thallan blinked, his expression unmoving, though the words landed heavy. That kind of information wasn’t often shared freely, especially not with someone of his station. Fealty, when it came to titled squires, was a political currency. Lords rarely revealed their hand until the ink was dry. The trust implicit in that admission did not go unnoticed.

He nodded once, slowly. “Is it wise to bring someone newly knighted into a campaign like this? The Descents are no test—they’re bloodsport. Even seasoned knights don’t always return.” His eyes flicked toward Adius, who stood quietly by, more observant than petulant now, as if recalibrating his view of Thallan altogether.

“That’s why he’ll be in the rearguard, not the vanguard,” Sebastian replied. “He’s an excellent archer. You’ll see soon enough.” A pause, then a glance between them. “Until we reach Mirelen, I’d like him to stay close to you. Watch you, learn from you. You’re one of the best swordsmen I have. Arguably the finest.”

Thallan kept his face unreadable, but the words did something to him. He’d known he held value in Sebastian’s ranks—his position, his advancement, the way the men looked to him—it all spoke for itself. But hearing it aloud, from someone he respected, someone who had seen him rise from a place of near ruin… It settled in his chest like warmth, reluctant but welcome.

He gave a small nod, the closest he would give to agreement.

“This will give you practice for when you eventually take up a squire,” Sebastian said with a smile, one that bordered between genuine and knowing.

Adius tilted his head, mock offense playing across his features. “Are you saying my swordsmanship needs work, and you’re using me as a stand-in squire?”

Sebastian looked as though he might answer, lips parting—but instead, he paused, the smile remaining as his gaze shifted to Thallan instead. “Get acquainted,” he said, clapping Thallan’s shoulder once before stepping away. “It’s a long journey to Mirelen.”

As soon as Sebastian was out of earshot, the shift in Adius was immediate. His spine straightened, the playful mask slipping into something far more aristocratic—measured, deliberate. “I am not a squire,” he said, voice crisp. “So you will not treat me as such.” Hazel eyes met Thallan’s without flinching, his tone now laced with a kind of cool arrogance. “And I do not plan to stay in the rearguard for long. But if Sebastian finds your guidance valuable…” A pause, thin-lipped. “Then I’ll allow it.”

Thallan said nothing at first. His arms folded across his chest, brow lifting slightly at the boy’s bravado. There was no malice in his expression, only that practiced detachment that had come to settle on him over the years. “You’re an archer,” he said simply. “Your place is in the rearguard.”

Adius leaned against the wooden rail, fingers tapping once. “Mm. But I’m a damned good archer.” His voice dropped, a quiet confidence threading through it as he turned to go. “Just watch and see.”

Thallan leaned forward, his forearms resting against the wooden fencing as he watched Adius walk away. The marshal’s voice carried across the grounds, announcing the start of the archery bouts.

A hip quiver was secured at the younger man’s side, and he slid on a three-fingered glove with the practiced ease of someone who took his craft seriously. Focused, precise—he dismissed two of the bows offered by a waiting servant before selecting the one nestled between short and long. A hybrid, closer to the latter. Risky for a timed accuracy round, given the mid-range of the targets.

But Thallan understood the strategy. Speed and accuracy were often at odds, but if you could wield both? That was mastery.

The bout began with the sharp tap of the marshal’s staff. Five archers raised their bows, loosing arrow after arrow in quick succession. Dust stirred at their heels, the snap of bowstrings echoing like a rhythm. Adius moved cleanly—fluid, unhesitating. Each arrow struck with force, embedding near the center, his pace relentless. Calculated. Impressive.

When the marshal called the end, Adius lowered his bow—but didn’t step away. Instead, his gaze slid across the field, seeking Thallan’s. And when it found him, his face betrayed little, save for the glint of satisfaction that sharpened his otherwise cool expression.

Thallan’s lips curved, just slightly. He’d be a liar if he claimed he wasn’t impressed.

The field shifted again as servants hauled the targets further down the range. This round was for long-distance precision—no room for error, no margin for haste. Adius readied himself once more, and Thallan watched, arms folded across his chest now, his gaze following the way each shot landed clean, powerful. Steady hands. Keen eye.

Top scores again.

So the brat wasn’t all talk.

Thallan had expected Adius to switch bows for that round. A longbow would have been the natural choice for the distance required. But he didn’t. He kept the same weapon.

The grounds changed again. A large wooden frame was wheeled into place at the far end of the field, suspending a single swinging target. A moving mark, set to test timing, focus, and control. Thallan leaned forward slightly, gaze narrowing. Still no change in weapon. No hesitation. Adius stood poised, eyes on the target.

The signal was given, and the bout began. Arrows loosed one after another—but Thallan’s gaze remained fixed on Adius alone. He told himself it was strategy—assessing the newest addition to the campaign. Like studying the movements of a beast before plunging in the blade. But the truth was simpler: he was curious. Curious if the boy’s bravado had any substance to it.

And so far… it did.

Until the final few shots, when something shifted.

Thallan’s brows lowered. He glanced across the watching crowd, wondering if anyone else had noticed. The arrow Adius had loosed—Thallan could tell it was going to miss. Barely. Off by a hair. It would’ve landed, but not where one would boast about. Then, almost imperceptibly, it veered. The arc curved—subtle, far too subtle for most eyes—but it adjusted course. It struck the bullseye dead center.

It was so subtle, one could easily blame it on the wind—if they noticed it at all. But when it happened a second time, Thallan narrowed his focus. He stilled, honing in, sharpening his senses the way one might in the hush before a kill.

Something stirred.

Affinity.

It rippled faintly around Adius, shifting with the air itself. Thallan watched as the wind caught hold of the arrow—not by chance, not by nature—and guided it. Nudged it, just enough to strike true.

There were no utterances. No incantations. Nothing overt. Had there been, the bout would’ve ended immediately—magic was forbidden in the lists. But this wasn’t something most would notice. The humans around him were blind to subtleties of magic unless it shouted. And this—this was a whisper.

But Thallan felt it. The tug of something ancient. Controlled.

And in that moment, he knew with quiet certainty: Adius Dunne was a siphon.