The peasantry stamped their feet, roaring from the stands as another knight was pummeled to the ground. The victor raised his mace and spread his arms to welcome their cheers, before backing away as a fretting marshal and two assistants rushed forth to tend to his defeated opponent.

The tournament was just warming up, opening with a few sparring matches on foot before the jousting and the main event. Few warriors bothered competing in these rounds, preferring instead to seek glory on horseback with blunted lances. Even in plate armor, fighting with real weapons often led to death or injury, and the risk seemed hardly worth the renown.

So both nobles and peasants alike could hardly contain their surprise when the fair-haired Sir Favian Procell stepped out onto the grassy field, decked out in full plate armor with a steel longsword in hand and a rondel dagger sheathed beside his right hip. The handsome knight was a renowned warrior, and one of the favorites to win the upcoming joust—so what was he doing here? Surely there was nothing to be gained from participating in such a minor scuffle, especially not for a man of such great repute as he?

The knight's cold blue eyes offered no answer as he pulled his visor down and lowered the tip of his blade to the earth, calmly awaiting his opponent's arrival. A growing murmur swept through the crowds in the stands, a thrum of anticipation for what promised to be the most interesting match yet.