Chapter 17 – Tournament Finale

The sun was already high in the sky when the Greystone carriage came to a halt in front of the tournament grounds, and the air was filled with the smell of roasted meat, sweat, horses and the excited anticipation of thousands of people.

“Finally, the last day,” sighed Duchess Rosalind as they stepped out of the carriage and made their way through the crowd toward the grandstand.

“Oh, I think it’s a shame it’s already over,” said Beatrice. “But I can’t wait to see who triumphs in the final. The last few fights were so nerve-wracking!”

The duchess smiled indulgently. “Personally, I’m more interested in the Essence Weaver’s display afterwards. I don’t understand what you find so fascinating about the clash of these unwashed brawlers.”

“It’s art, Ro-… Your Grace. Brutal, sweat-drenched art, but it’s art.”

Valentina followed the two women up the steps to the Greystones’ seats, trying to rein in her excitement a little. It was ridiculous how nervous she was just because a knight was so damn…

She forced her thoughts in another direction.

Duke Cosimo was already there, standing a little apart and once again engaging the Earl of Redpool in intense conversation with two other lords. Even from a distance, Valentina could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyebrows were drawn together. Whatever was going on in Parliament was obviously worrying him.

Lorenzo, on the other hand, sat relaxed in his seat, chatting with a young lord from the Crowley clan and laughing at some joke. He seemed more relaxed than in recent days, as if the tension of the engagement announcement had finally eased.

The royal family sat enthroned in the center of the grandstand as usual. King Edmund seemed to be in excellent spirits, leaning back and exchanging cheerful words with Queen Beatrice, while the younger princes excitedly discussed the upcoming battles.

Valentina’s gaze wandered involuntarily to the Ashbourne section.

There was Innogen, radiantly beautiful as always, but today wearing a dress in muted grey with silver accents. The Greystone colors. It didn’t quite suit her fair complexion and blonde hair.

“The grey definitely suits you better,” Vyxara purred.

Their eyes met across the distance.

Innogen smiled a tiny smile, barely more than a twitch of the corners of her mouth, and Valentina returned it just as reservedly. Then they both looked away as if nothing had happened.

The first battles of the day took their course, and Valentina tried to focus her attention on the action. The quality of the remaining knights was significantly higher than in the preliminary rounds. Those who had made it this far possessed real skill.

“Sir Melbert’s posture is far too side-heavy,” Lady Beatrice commented quietly as two knights rode toward each other. “See how his center…” There was a crash, and Sir Melbert flew sideways out of the saddle. “…exactly like that.”

“You should bet,” Valentina murmured.

“I do sometimes,” Beatrice admitted bluntly. “Through middlemen, of course. A lady does not bet publicly.”

The Duchess gave her first lady-in-waiting an amused look but said nothing.

Round after round passed. The crowd cheered every spectacular fall, expressed their displeasure at the more boring duels, and the tension rose with every fight that brought the grand finale closer.

Valentina watched everything with half-hearted interest, but her gaze kept wandering to the fighters’ waiting area, searching for a certain massive figure.

Then he finally came:

“Sir Gulbert Woundsworth of the Western Marches!”

The common people in the lower ranks exploded and their voices united in a single, rhythmic chant: “Tower! Tower! Tower!”

He rode onto the field like a force of nature while his mighty warhorse, even though it was gigantic itself, snorted under his weight.

His opponent was a slender knight wearing the colors of House Greenwood. Sir John Greenwood, if Valentina remembered correctly, a talented lance rider from the Golden Fields region who had fought his way into the semifinals through genuine skill.

The two took their positions at opposite ends of the barrier.

The signal sounded.

The horses thundered toward each other, and Sir John attempted to be clever. He did not ride directly at the Tower, but tried to avoid the full force of the impact by drifting slightly sideways. His lance grazed the Tower’s shield, but the massive knight did not even waver, simply absorbing the blow.

In the second round, Sir John changed his approach again, moving sideways at the last moment and aiming for a supposed gap in the defense. It was a clever move that would certainly have worked against most opponents, but the Tower did not simply stoically accept the blow, no, instead, he managed to hit Sir John so skillfully that it almost knocked him out of the saddle.

Valentina saw the slight adjustment in his angle as he shifted his weight, as if he had anticipated his opponent’s trick long before and was just waiting to exploit it.

In the third round, Sir John’s next evasive maneuver proved to be useless. The Tower’s lance struck him with such precisely placed force that it violently knocked him out of the saddle.

The crowd went wild. Even some of the nobles applauded openly. And Valentina pressed her thighs together.

“Such a huge guy, and yet he’s capable of such delicate movements. Just imagine the possibilities,” Vyxara purred amusedly.

“You’re not helping, Vyxara,” Valentina thought back.

Then finally came the final.

The Tower against Lord Gregory Sparksend, a young knight from a prominent family who had won the other half of the tournament. He was undoubtedly talented, as his path to the final proved, but as he took his position at the other end of the barrier, the fear in his posture was unmistakable. The way he kept adjusting his helmet, the way his horse pranced nervously beneath him.

In the first round, both lances broke, and neither fell. The crowd gasped, hopeful that someone could challenge the Tower. Lord Gregory himself seemed surprised to still be in the saddle.

“He’s still leaning too far forward,” Beatrice murmured.

In the second round, the Tower adjusted his angle slightly, using his height to aim at Lord Gregory’s forward-leaning shoulder from above, with devastating results.

The impact threw Lord Gregory sideways out of the saddle, briefly trapping him under his own horse’s hind legs, then crashing him so hard to the ground that the spectators gasped as one. For a long, anxious moment, he did not move.

Then he moved, groaning audibly, and helpers rushed to lift him up. He was alive, but Valentina was pretty sure he had broken at least a few ribs and suffered some nasty bruises.

The Tower completed his victory lap around the field, raised his lance to the sky, simply turned his horse, and rode off the field as if nothing had happened.

The crowd loved it. They loved his disregard for convention and his raw indifference to the rituals that everyone else so eagerly followed. And demonstrative disregard for the nobility always won over the commoners. “Tower! Tower! Tower!” echoed across the square.

Valentina watched as he dismounted in the waiting area and took off his helmet. That face! The nose broken multiple times, the ugly scar running from his eyebrow to his jaw, the grey-blue eyes that looked out over the crowd with bored calm, without really seeing anyone, as he loosened the leather straps of his armor.

How would those hands feel on her skin? Those huge, scarred hands that could throw a fully armored knight through the air like a toy? What would it be like to lie beneath that weight, to feel that controlled force, that…

Valentina caught herself and quickly looked away. Her cheeks burned.

“You want him,” Vyxara stated, without any malice, just as a simple observation of an obvious fact. “Why don’t you just take him?”

“It’s… it would be too risky. I don’t want a scandal.”

“Risky?” Vyxara’s tone became thoughtful. “Why exactly? Who would find out?”

“The Duke might-“

“The Duke has already shared you. And after all, it was he who put you in touch with Madame Dolorosa.”

“Yes, but that was his idea. You know how jealous he can be when he fears losing control.”

“Do you really think it’s harder to secretly hook up with a knight than to break into a dungeon of the Illumination unseen?”

“But if someone sees me, my reputation-“

“What reputation exactly? Everyone with eyes in their head already knows that you’re the Duke’s mistress.”

Valentina tried to focus her attention on the preparations for the announced Essence Weaving display. The last traces of the tournament were being cleared from the field, servants were raking the churned-up sand smooth, and figures in magnificent robes were already gathering at the edge of the field.

But her thoughts kept wandering back to the Tower.

“What exactly are you afraid of?” Vyxara finally asked directly, without the usual playful teasing.

“That the Duke will become jealous and cast me out when he finds out.”

“Oh really?” Vyxara interrupted her gently but firmly. “Remind me again, did you have such concerns when you were lying under the chestnut tree with his son?”

“That was different.”

“And what exactly was so different about shagging Lorenzo?”

Valentina was silent because she didn’t have a good answer.

“Discretion exists,” Vyxara continued. “That’s the easiest thing for us to do. I’m repeating myself, but you snuck into a dungeon guarded by the Illumination and got out undetected. The year before, we broke into the Distilled Essence storage. Compared to that, visiting a knight in his quarters is child’s play.”

Valentina sighed inwardly. “But he’s a… a brute. An uncouth Marcher Knight with no manners or education.”

“So?” Vyxara’s mental voice dripped with amusement. “I thought that was precisely his appeal. Are you planning to discuss planar geometry with him? Explain the intricacies of Zît-Schate interactions?”

“Of course not.”

“Then I don’t see the problem. Two adults having a little fun together. That’s all this is about. Not everything in your life has to be complicated, little Weaver.”

The sun beat down on the grandstand, and Valentina fanned herself with her hand as she tried to organize her racing thoughts. Around her, the nobles chatted about the upcoming performance, speculating about what the Orders would show and exchanging anecdotes about past demonstrations.

“But even if I wanted to,” she finally thought, “how would I even find him? Where does a traveling knight stay during a tournament?”

“Ask the servants,” Vyxara suggested pragmatically. “They’re always gossiping. A few casual questions and maybe you’ll have to shell out a few coins, but it’s easy enough to find out, I reckon. I bet half the stable boys here could tell you where the Tower has his quarters.”

Valentina thought of the talkative Alice, the younger maid, who had gushed out tons of gossip on the first day until the older Margaret told her to keep her loose tongue in check. That was one possibility.

“Or you could just ask Beatrice,” Vyxara added. “The woman loves the tournament, and she secretly bets on the fights. I’d be surprised if she didn’t know exactly where to find every single important knight in this city.”

That was probably true. Besides, Lady Beatrice had a knack for knowing things she shouldn’t know anyway.

“Okay, fine, finding them isn’t the problem,” Valentina reluctantly admitted.

“Then what is?”

Valentina felt a flutter in her stomach.

“What if he rejects me?” That was harder to get out than she would have thought. “What if he laughs at me? Why would he even want me? I’m not a noble lady with titles and lands. I’m a peasant girl from Palewood who just happens to-“

“Have you looked in a mirror lately?” Vyxara interrupted her, and this time there was genuine warmth alongside the mockery. “You’re beautiful, Valentina. Of course, you’re also witty and smart and so on, but the duke isn’t sleeping with you because he has his eye on your father’s farm.”

Valentina was silent.

“And did you see how the Tower paid attention to the noble ladies? All the countesses and ladies who devoured him with their eyes?”

“What? He… he didn’t really pay attention to anyone.”

“Exactly. He doesn’t play all those courtly games. He doesn’t bow to the royal box, he doesn’t dedicate his victories to any of these ladies, he doesn’t do any of the things these peacocks do to attract attention. Don’t you think a man like that is annoyed by women who expect him to woo and court them?”

Vyxara let the words sink in for a moment before the demon continued.

“But a woman who approaches him directly? Who honestly says what she wants, without games and hide-and-seek? That might be exactly what appeals to a man like him.”

“Or not.”

“Or not,” Vyxara agreed. “But you’ll never know if you don’t try. And isn’t uncertainty much worse than rejection?”

A breeze blew across the stands and the crowd slowly quieted as movement stirred on the field.

Valentina felt the pull of the impending decision in her chest. The desire that had been with her for days. The curiosity she couldn’t shake. The idea of what it would be like if…

“You deserve pleasure for its own sake sometimes,” Vyxara whispered softly in her head. “Not as a means to an end, but simply because you want it and because it would feel good. When was the last time you allowed yourself that?”

The question struck deeper than Vyxara had probably intended. When was the last time she had done something just because she wanted to? Not to save her family, not to secure her position, not to gain information or make allies. Simply out of pure, selfish desire.

“Good. I’ll find out where he lives,” Valentina thought, and the decision felt right, like a key sliding into a lock and fitting perfectly. “I’ll go to him. Soon.”

“Excellent,” Vyxara purred contentedly. “Now look ahead. The performance is about to begin, and I’m honestly curious to see what these so-called masters have to show.”

The fanfare cut through the murmur of the crowd and the herald stepped forward.

“Noble lords and ladies! The Order of the Primrose and the Order of the Poppy, the pride of the Essence Weavers of this realm, will now demonstrate their mastery of the scholarly art!”