Tristan left a deep mark in the sand with each step, and around his large boot, a cloud of dust rose, reaching almost to his bare knees. He walked slowly and heavily. The sword he dragged behind him left a furrow as thick as the wheel of a wooden cart. His greasy, thick hair had started to fall across his face. The large scar, starting near his temple, running past his nose, and ending above his upper lip, had absorbed the sweat from his face and gleamed as if it were still a fresh wound.

  Tristan stared straight ahead, his gaze devoid of any desire. His furrowed brows and lowered head made everyone around the arena watch him with anticipation. One of the squires from Volkar approached him—a boy about thirteen years old. In his hands, he held a shield almost as large as his entire body. With all his strength and using both hands, he lifted the shield, blocking Tristan’s path and tried to hand it to him. Tristan swung his massive hand and, without even looking at the boy, sent him flying a few steps back, the large shield falling on top of the defenseless boy. Two of the other squires quickly ran to him, removed the shield, lifted him, and carried him out of the arena. The boy was crying.

  Only when he entered the training arena did Tristan lift his head and stretch his neck. He raised the sword from the ground, planted it vertically into the ground, and rested his heavy hands on the weapon, whose blade was so polished that it reflected the sun, sending its light into the eyes of various people in the crowd gathered around the arena.

  Finally, Tristan turned his attention to his opponent. He was just as large as Tristan, wielding two swords instead of one. Both were impressive, but compared to Curse, they were nothing special.

  He missed Curse. He couldn’t wait to hold it again. It was tradition to give it to the warrior before the battle. Just as it was tradition for the warrior to return it afterward. Or for him to take it back himself if the warrior had died.

  Something Severin certainly didn’t want to even imagine.

  Tristan stood still. He was waiting for Tiberius’s command. Tristan looked for Tiberius but instead found Severin’s gaze. This made him lower his head slightly and greet him. Severin responded by briefly raising his hand and then lowering it again.

  “Tristan looks prepared, Tiberius.”

  “The only regret I have, my king, is that we have to wait nearly two years until the battle. Tristan has long been ready.”

  “Less than two years, but let that not stop him from training. He needs to be more than ready if we are to send him into the battle. I have big plans for Shilan, Tiberius. And Tristan seems like a warrior who can help me realize them. And naturally, you will also receive a rich reward.” Severin looked around. The training grounds were already starting to fill with people. Everyone knew there would be a fight today. The locals craved such events, which sometimes provided a welcome distraction from their otherwise dull lives. “Do you have any news from the other kingdoms? How are their warriors faring? I hear rumors about Chernoval.”

  “Chernoval has chosen someone similar to Tristan—slow but very powerful. But this time, they’re not using the two-hammer technique. They’re likely betting on one, but a stronger one.”

  “Do you think Tristan stands a chance against him?”

  “No hammer can stand against Curse.”

  “Meihar?”

  “Do you remember Astrid, my lord?”

  Red face, red hair, and a red spear. He remembered her. It was as if he was transported back twenty-eight years, watching her fly across the arena. He was a child then, unsure of who should continue. All the warriors fascinated him. He also recalled how, when Valrak fell defeated, his father stood up, called him, and they simply left. He didn’t even want Valrak’s body back. And he had died from a simple leg wound.

  “It’s as if they’ve found her twin,” Tiberius interrupted his memories. “The spear, the hair, the face. Everything is the same.”

  “Does that surprise you? Meihar’s women have strong blood. No matter how few men there are, not a drop of their blood passes on to their heirs. Everything is passed down through the women.”

  “That’s true. But there are also rumors that the kingdom’s first lady isn’t very pleased with their warrior.”

  “Their first lady? Aren’t there three?”

  “There are, but this one is the most battle-hardened. Perhaps you don’t know her. Selen took her under her wing last. She was a candidate for a warrior, but the current one injured her. That’s what I heard.”

  “To be honest, I’m not particularly interested, Tiberius. People usually know how to invent and enjoy doing so.”

  Tristan and his opponent were looking at them, waiting for a signal. Severin noticed their anticipation but wasn’t in a hurry. And when he was with Tiberius, he expected him to give the signal. He was the one who trained them. Tiberius looked at him, the question clear in his eyes. Severin nodded.

  Tiberius stood up, and the two men below knelt. The commander of his army raised his hand, and the two warriors assumed their combat stances. The blond opponent let his arms drop to his sides. His massive forearms slowly filled with blood, the veins in his arms becoming more prominent, and the tips of both swords slowly rose upward instead of falling down. He was enormous as well. Severin didn’t want him to die. He could easily pass for a warrior himself.

  On the other hand, Tristan grabbed his sword with both hands. As large as Curse was, it looked like a toy in his grip. The two diamonds near the hilt glowed red, their color deepening as Tristan grew more tense, but the sword itself was a deep blue. It was beautiful. To Severin, it was the most beautiful of all the great swords, even though he had only seen two of them in his life. There were rumors that the white Gleam was just as beautiful, if not more so, but Severin didn’t believe it.

  Tiberius’s hand hovered in the air. Both warriors watched him with one eye, while the other awaited their opponent’s attack.

  “King, when you’re here, you should give the signal to begin.”

  “I know, Tiberius.” Severin watched both men’s eyes, testing their patience. The blond giant was the first to show weakness, squinting slightly. “Actually, you do it. Let’s see if they listen to you.”

  Severin remained seated while Tiberius swiftly lowered his hand.

  Tristan charged forward and almost instantly delivered a devastating blow that knocked one of the swords out of the blond giant’s hands.

  A deafening roar erupted from the crowd around the arena, and the clash of the two swords created a vibration that reached Severin and his chief general and military commander—Tiberius.

  Tiberius was bald, with a large black beard that didn’t have a single white hair despite his age. His face was swarthy, always looking dirty and unkempt. He had once been a knight, always first in battles and skirmishes, but issues with his leg had prevented him from becoming a kingdom warrior. He had become a guard, and such a good one that Severin’s father rewarded him by making him general and military commander. Besides, he also took care of what he called his ears. It often happened that he sent people to other kingdoms to spy. Most of the time, these were young children, but lately, he had been using loose women to charm sunburned soldiers or even the gullible royal princes. Severin knew almost all of his secrets, but Tiberius always managed to surprise him. He trusted him with the kingdom’s army but not his secrets. He believed that if Tiberius was so skilled at the secrets of quiet diplomacy and controlled so many spies, nothing would stop him from using them against his own king. He wasn’t ready to pay that price. That’s why he trusted Yorick more than Tiberius. And Tristan eavesdropped as well, but only within the kingdom.

  The blond opponent had regained his composure and was now pressing Tristan, trying to wear him down with relentless blows before finally felling him.

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  “What will happen if Tristan loses?”

  “King Severin? Don’t you believe in your warrior?” Tiberius looked at him, almost incredulously.

  “On the battlefield, anything is possible. You should know that better than anyone, Tiberius.”

  “If he loses, he will perish. And we’ll train a new one.”

  The very thought of training a new warrior in less than two years made Severin sweat. Tiberius continued:

  “I know this is your first time, but if you want someone to win you a place in Shilan, it’s important to know that this person can’t lose to someone like his opponent today. And if he’s going to lose, it’s better he does so today rather than in Shilan.”

  “The opponent? That blond warrior seems as good as Tristan. Wouldn’t it be better for him to train with weaker ones?”

  “Please,” Tiberius’s voice changed, “leave that to me. You just watch, breathe deeply, fill your lungs with air, and try to nourish your soul with something more pleasant. Imagine yourself standing on the high steps in Shilan, with Tristan by your side. His gleaming sword Curse, freshly stained with the blood of the other four warriors, whose statues will now stand around the arena as honorary participants in the greatest battle. But losers nonetheless.”

  “I’d prefer Curse to be back in my hands, Tiberius,” Severin replied, and did just that.

  He closed his eyes and imagined himself there, on the most important throne. The crowd roared again, pulling him from his reverie.

  Tristan had struck, leaving a long gash in the thigh of the knight opposite him. Blood flowed onto the sand. Tristan’s sword was clean again.

  “I’ve always admired Curse, my lord. It’s so sharp that blood can’t stay on its blade. Tristan sometimes calls it Bloodthirsty. According to him, the sword is constantly thirsty for blood and never gets enough.”

  Severin watched the blond warrior’s attempts to rejoin the fight. On the one hand, he was pleased that Tristan was going to win; on the other, he regretted that such a powerful warrior would have to die.

  “Can we spare the blond one?”

  “You can. You’re the king. But I don’t know how that would look.”

  “How would it look? I don’t understand. Tristan is a serious warrior, but we can’t easily kill such strength.”

  “Oh, there are many like him.”

  “Many? Besides Tristan, I’ve never seen anyone so large and skilled. You have to admit there were moments when he put Tristan under pressure.”

  “Yes, but Tristan quickly regained control of the fight. Look, there’s a god of death. He decides who to take. Neither I nor you have the power to match his.”

  Severin believed in the gods, but he had never given them such significance and didn’t understand those who constantly used them as excuses.

  The crowd around the arena grew larger. Everyone wanted to see Tristan fight, and this duel was like an early gift for all the peasants, merchants, or ordinary people passing through the village. Each heavy step of either man stirred up dust, drawing cheers.

  Tristan advanced with large strides, while his opponent now moved backward, more limping than walking. Every swing of Tristan’s heavy sword made his opponent’s knees buckle under the weight of his weapon. The end seemed near. And just when everyone expected the fatal blow, the blond warrior planted his good leg firmly, bent slightly, and drove his sword into Tristan’s arm. The warrior of Volkar was lucky. His opponent’s sword hit the iron forearm guard but was so strong that it managed to bend it, likely breaking a bone in Tristan’s arm. Tristan didn’t even have time to cry out in pain, which he surely felt. He lifted his leg and slammed his boot into the blond warrior.

  Severin began to sweat again. Not only was it hot, but he was also worried about Tristan. And about the other warrior.

  “Where is the other one from?” he leaned toward Tiberius.

  “He’s from Solis. Look at his blond hair. He said Ajax personally expelled him.”

  “Expelled such a warrior?”

  “You know Ajax. But we shouldn’t trust this one’s words either. We don’t know how true they are. He said he killed four of Solis’s guards while leaving the kingdom.”

  “But that’s punishable by imprisonment in Thorn. And if what he says is true, we can send him there too.”

  “I’m telling you, these are his words. The truth could be very different.”

  “Then let the God of Death judge him.”

  “We have nothing from Ishold, my lord,” Tiberius abruptly changed the subject.

  “Nothing? Well, it’s normal for them to be cautious. What’s not normal is that you couldn’t sneak in somewhere,” Severin tried to joke.

  “Their borders are well-guarded. They only allow kings of other kingdoms or their sons. Nothing more.”

  “What about envoys?”

  “Envoys? They’d likely take everything from them at the kingdom’s entrance and make them wait for days before asking the king.”

  “That’s not good and goes against the Pact, Tiberius.”

  “Well, tell them that yourself. I’m doing what I can. But the colder it gets there, the more their hollow brains seem to freeze, making them more stubborn.”

  “We’ll soon be marrying Bromir to his fiancée. We must invite every kingdom. That’s the custom. Are you telling me I have to go personally to invite their king?”

  “Or send them a pigeon,” Tiberius laughed.

  Severin didn’t find it funny. Especially as he saw that the blond warrior had recovered and was attacking Tristan again. And Tristan was seizing every opportunity to clutch his injured arm.

  “And still, Tiberius, what’s this blond one’s name?”

  “I’m not sure. I think it was Keltur. That’s how he was introduced to me some time ago. It took me quite a while to shape him into a worthy opponent for Tristan.”

  “Well, as I see it, you’ve done well. Tristan is struggling enough.”

  “He’s wounded. I hope they can heal him quickly after the battle.”

  “If that’s even possible.”

  “King Severin, I’m surprised by your lack of faith in Tristan and, most of all, in me. If something happens to your warrior, take it as a sign from the gods that he wasn’t the chosen one. We have time to train another.”

  Severin knew Tiberius was right. It was better for Tristan to lose today than to die disgracefully in the great battle. And Keltur was also showing skills that could be developed. But perhaps Tiberius didn’t like him. The two semi-giants had become engrossed in their fight, exchanging blow after blow. Neither was attacking with the same strength anymore. Fatigue had overtaken them.

  “And Solis? What’s Ajax up to?”

  “Getting fatter,” Tiberius smiled broadly. “There’s no trace of the last victor in the great battle. Soren took his throne in Shilan and left Ajax to play king in Solis. And that filled not only his pocket but also his belly. His cheeks are fatter than his backside. At least that’s what they say.”

  “Interesting. We’ll have to invite him to Bromir’s wedding as well.”

  “It would be disrespectful not to.”

  “And their warrior?”

  “A thin, tall boy, resembling the young Ajax. And with a whip, just like Ajax had.”

  “Ajax disgraced himself with the whip. He won unworthily.”

  “Everyone thinks that, sir, but no one says it. In the end, the winner is the winner. He was the last one standing. And that means victory.”

  In the arena, Tristan had regained the upper hand, and the crowd seemed even larger. In the distance, someone was taking bets. Severin had banned betting on such fights, but now he let it go. He was too tired to monitor everything. What certainly displeased him, however, was Sofia, one of his daughters. He spotted her in the crowd. She was watching the warriors and trying to mimic their movements. She would never become a princess if she continued like this. And none of the lords would take her if she was stronger than them all. He soon lost sight of her.

  Severin raised his hand to one of his guards standing nearby. It was a young man.

  “See to it that Lady Mirena finds out where Sofia is. She’ll know what to do.”

  Severin placed a silver coin in his hand, and the young guard nodded and ran off to carry out the task.

  Cheers and applause erupted. Two ladies danced off to the side. Everyone was happy. Only now did Severin see why.

  Tristan was standing tall, holding his sword above his head. At his feet, kneeling, was the blond giant warrior—Keltur, awaiting his death. Through his closed eyelids, plunged into darkness, perhaps already journeying toward it. It almost seemed like there was a smile on his face. Blood trickled down his forehead, dripping onto the sand. Tristan stood like that, waiting.

  “What’s he waiting for?”

  “A signal.”

  “A signal? This is his training fight. Once a year. Either he kills or is killed. Since when has this been the rule?”

  “Since you’ve been here, my lord. Kings don’t often come to the training arena. No offense, but your father was a more frequent guest. But he loved blood and spectacles more,” Tiberius spoke firmly, emphasizing the end of each sentence.

  Severin stood up. Tiberius’s words didn’t hurt him. Instead, he was more afraid of comparisons to his father. He didn’t want to appear weaker to the people. And he didn’t want the blond to die, even though he looked as if he was taking his last breaths.

  “Enough,” Severin called out loudly. “Let him live.”

  His words surprised not only Tiberius but also Tristan. The crowd around the arena was the most dissatisfied.

  “Death,” someone shouted, and everyone joined in.

  The blond opponent of Tristan opened his eyes, perhaps sensing his salvation. He wasn’t pleased. Severin drew his sword and demonstratively placed it in front of him. He expected Tristan to do the same. Tristan first looked at him, then at Tiberius, and finally back at King Severin. He lowered his sword from the air and plunged it into the ground. Keltur raised his head, looked at Severin, and shook his head in disbelief. Even from a distance, Severin could swear he saw tears in his eyes. It was rare to see such a large and strong man cry. But was he crying from happiness or was his ego wounded?

  Keltur knelt once again at Tristan’s feet and offered his neck. His blond hair was filled with sand and much of his own blood.

  First, the reflection of Curse was seen in the sun, and then the slicing sound that only occurs when the blade touches flesh was heard. There wasn’t a drop of blood on Tristan’s sword.

  But blood flowed from Keltur’s beheaded body.

  Both had disobeyed Severin’s order. One killed without permission; the other had sought death even though it had been denied to him.

  Severin saw the satisfied look on Tristan’s face. He heard the crowd’s cheers. Both he and Tristan knew there was nothing he could do to him.

  But Severin thought of something else. He thought of Ozek, the god of death. Had the god decided Keltur should die or Tristan? Because Severin certainly hadn’t given his permission.

  Tiberius looked at him with a condemning gaze and descended. The celebration continued below in the crowd. The people had come for death and they had seen it.

  The only one who wasn’t happy was Severin. Even Keltur’s severed head was smiling.