Caereth | The Queen’s Tournament
The Queen’s Tournament
A year after the incident that nearly claimed his life, Agernath was summoned back to the Order’s temple.
The High Marshal did not waste time.
“Queen Edeline has asked for you,” Macharius said. “She has heard of the Blade of Light.”
The title still did not sit cleanly, but Agernath gave no sign of it.
“There is to be a tournament,” the Marshal continued. “You will attend as a representative of the Order. You will fight, you will be seen, and you will remind those present what the Order of Light stands for.”
Agernath inclined his head. That alone would not have required a summons.
Macharius studied him for a moment longer before continuing.
“The Queen’s court has changed,” he said. “Not in any way we could name. I have seen rot before. Rot reveals itself, given time.”
He exhaled slowly.
“This does not.”
The words settled between them.
“This is something that knows it is being watched.”
A brief pause followed.
“Consider this more than a display.”
Agernath understood.
Arrival
The road to the capital should have been familiar. It was not.
Travelers filled it as he got closer to the city. Nobles with their banners. Mercenaries in loose companies. Performers and hopefuls drawn by the promise of recognition.
All moving toward the same place.
The capital rose ahead in white stone and color, banners catching the light as though nothing beneath them had ever been out of place.
It should have felt welcoming.
It did not.
There were no signs of decay. No unrest. Nothing that could be named or pointed to.
No one lingered along the road. No voices called out for coin. No children moved between travelers with open hands.
In a city this size, there should have been.
As Agernath passed through the gates, the Light within him drew tight beneath his skin.
Not with warmth.
Not with warning.
With certainty.
Registration Grounds
The tournament grounds lay just beyond the inner walls, set across a wide stretch of leveled stone.
Pavilions stood in ordered rows, marked by noble colors and sigils. Practice rings lined the grounds, bordered in low iron, and long tables sat beneath shaded awnings where scribes worked through a steady line of entrants.
The place was crowded, as it should have been.
Voices carried. Steel rang from the practice rings. Movement filled the space from end to end.
But nothing pressed.
There were no arguments over position. No disputes over rank or recognition. Even the mercenaries kept themselves in check, their usual edge dulled into something quieter.
Agernath slowed as he approached the registration tables, watching.
A man ahead of him gave his name with the kind of expectation that usually demanded acknowledgment.
The scribe dipped his pen before the man had finished speaking.
“Accepted.”
No question followed. No request for proof. The name was already being written.
The man hesitated, as if waiting for something more, but nothing came. After a moment, he moved on.
The next stepped forward.
The same exchange followed. Name given. Ink set to parchment. Acceptance granted before the moment had fully formed.
A few in line shifted, noticing.
Most did not.
It settled into a rhythm that was too clean to be chance.
When Agernath reached the table, the scribe continued writing for a moment longer, finishing the previous entry before the pen came to a stop.
Then he looked up.
It was the first time since entering the grounds that anyone had held Agernath’s gaze.
“Name,” the man said.
