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Dot watched the crowd split with a grimace. The lowborns were hurried up to the arena while the noble boys sat behind, socializing; of course, it wouldn’t do to have any of their prospective knighthoods actually [i]challenged[/i]. For most of them, she guessed, the addition of a ‘Sir’ to their name was more a matter of elevating their station than anything, and for the rest, well, maybe they just wanted the prestige. A fancy title to go with their fancy swords and armor, to flaunt to their friends at parties, while the peasant soldiery went off to die in border skirmishes for them. 

She felt herself getting mad, fast. Verite had warned her about this, but it still got to her—and he’d warned her about that, too. Now wasn’t the time to let anger throw off her balance. She’d come here to knock noble shitheads on their asses. Her eyes wandered up to the western wall, to the spectator’s box that she would have sworn [i]glittered[/i]. She tried to make out the people there, but they were a blurry amalgam of coiffed hair and jewelry.

[i][color=92278f]You up there, you bastard? You one of them?[/color][/i] she thought bitterly. [color=92278f][i]Just you fucking wait.[/i][/color]

Dot spit wallward and made her way to the stage when her alias was called, stopping by the quartermaster’s table. The selection was unsurprisingly slim; most of the nobles had likely brought their own blunted weapons, and who gave a shit what the rest used? She picked up a wooden straight sword, shocked by how poorly it was balanced, even for a waster. Would these even hold up to a metal weapon without snapping in half?

“[color=92278f]You got anything bigger?[/color]” she asked. The knight attending looked her up and down, cocked a brow, and shrugged. 

She settled for a wooden longsword, which would have been appropriately-sized for most of the participants, but for her it was practically head-height. Smaller than what she was used to, but, oh well. It was on the lighter side, but she could feel it was denser than the smaller options, and might take a couple harder hits before it snapped. Would they count it a loss if she broke her weapon on someone’s back? Depending on who her opponent was, it might have been worth finding out. 

Resting it against her shoulder, she marched up onto the stage, waiting. Who [i]was[/i] she fighting, anyway? With how the group had split, it seemed likely she’d be squaring off with some lowborn before she got a shot at the real prizes. That didn’t sit right with her. Some of these kids had no place fighting anyone, but others truly deserved knighthood; they’d trained for it, fought for it, probably sacrificed all they had just to get this far. It wouldn’t be fair at all for someone like her to squash that hope, when at the end of the day Grayle was going to take her anyway. 

Fuckers. 

Maybe she was worrying for nothing, though. She’d dueled plenty of people back in the Tower, and Dot was proudly certain there was no one in Grandor who was Verite’s match, legends be damned—but all the same, this was a test. Could be that the first dirt-faced boy with a sword put her on ground in half a second. Could be she’d waited all these years just to embarrass herself in front of the people she despised. 

Her grip on the waster tightened. She glanced over at the arena beside her, at some blond kid getting ready for his own fight. They were about the same height, but he was stick-thin and seemed jumpy as anything; the nobles likely smelled blood in the water just looking at him. Their ranks were rife with haughty whispers and infuriating grins. 

She nodded to the boy, not that she could offer him much support. But if he got through, it’d be exactly what this country deserved.