Faywyn, 3rd Moon, 22nd Day, 1624 Symfora Telos

  Sparks flew, a cascade of fleeting stars born from steel meeting steel. The clash rang out across the yard, loud as a smith's hammer on the anvil, as Levi’s blade caught Lancelot’s in a shrieking embrace. The viscount pressed forward, his weight bearing down, driving Levi back a step, then another. His breath came hard and fast, sweat stinging his eyes as he gritted his teeth.

  But Levi did not yield.

  With a sudden lunge, his free hand shot out, fingers curling around the leather strap of Lancelot’s pauldron. He pulled, dragging the larger man into a suffocating grip. The crowd roared its approval, a sea of jeers and cheers, but neither man heard them now, their world reduced to the ring of the fight and the struggle of the flesh.

  Lancelot, for his part, was not one to be seized lightly. He struck out with a gauntleted fist, driving it into Levi’s gut with brutal force. Once, twice, and a third time, the blows landed, each one a thunderous impact against the steel of Levi’s cuirass. Pain blossomed, hot and sharp, but Levi held firm, snarling through clenched teeth.

  With a sudden burst of fury, he wrenched his sword arm free, swinging wildly. The blade glanced off Lancelot’s helm with a resounding clang, sending sparks scattering like fireflies into the air. The viscount parried the next blow, but the third struck true, splitting the air with a sharp crack as it found the joint of Lancelot’s shoulder.

  Levi pressed the attack, advancing with the relentless focus of a predator scenting blood. His strikes came hard and fast, battering against Lancelot’s defenses. The older man stumbled, his boots kicking up clods of mud as he retreated, but he steadied himself, catching the next blow on his own blade. Sparks flew again, and for a moment, they were locked, their swords grinding together in a shriek of protesting metal.

  Then Lancelot roared—a sound like a wounded bull—and surged forward, shoulder lowered. The charge took Levi by surprise, the impact lifting him off his feet. He hit the ground hard, the breath driven from his lungs in a single, ragged gasp. Rolling to the side, he barely avoided the descending arc of Lancelot’s blade. The edge scraped against his helm, leaving a jagged groove in the polished steel and sending his vision swimming with stars.

  Pain thrummed in his skull, but Levi blinked it away, rising unsteadily. His hand found the wooden fence that encircled the pit, and he leaned against it, breathing hard. He had no time to recover. Lancelot was on him again, slamming into him with the force of a battering ram. Wood creaked and groaned beneath their weight, the fence bowing outward, threatening to give way.

  Levi snarled, raising his sword and raining blows upon the viscount’s helm with the pommel. The strikes came fast and furious, each one a note in a discordant symphony of violence. Lancelot answered in kind, his steel-clad fist hammering against Levi’s head. The rhythm of their exchange was brutal, primal, each blow echoing in the air like the tolling of a bell.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  The crowd roared louder with every strike, their voices a wild, bloodthirsty cacophony. Then, with a deafening crack, the fence gave way. The two combatants tumbled out of the ring, a tangled mass of armor and limbs. Levi hit the ground hard, the air knocked from his lungs once more. He lay there, staring up at the sky, his chest heaving, the taste of copper on his tongue.

  His back touched the ground. The battle was over. He had lost.

  For a long moment, neither man moved. Then Lancelot rose, his battered armor glinting dully in the sunlight. He extended a hand to Levi, who groaned as he took it, allowing the viscount to haul him to his feet. With a hiss, Levi unfastened his dented helm, pulling it free and tossing it aside. The cool air kissed his bruised, sweat-soaked face, and he exhaled in relief.

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  The two men regarded each other in silence, their bloodied faces painted with identical grins. Then, suddenly, they burst into laughter, the sound raw and unrestrained. They clasped hands, their grips firm despite the trembling of their battered arms.

  “Well fought, my lord,” Lancelot said, his voice rough but warm.

  “Aye,” Levi replied, clapping the older man on the shoulder. His grin widened as he turned to face the crowd, raising a hand in acknowledgment. The throng erupted into cheers, their approval a tide that swept over him. His gaze swept the stands, lingering on familiar faces—Ser Carter, Lady Junita, Madam Eliza. Then his eyes found Iris. She stood apart, her arms crossed, her expression irritated. Beside the Princess sat Miss Jin supervising her charge, Javi.

  Their gazes locked, and for a moment, the noise of the crowd faded away. Levi’s grin turned mischievous as he offered her a slight bow. The Governess responded by turning her head sharply, her cheeks flushing as she refused to meet his gaze again.

  Chuckling softly, Levi turned back to Lancelot. “Aye,” he said again. “Well fought.”

  The Next Morning.

  The chamber was bright with the pale light of dawn spilling through high-arched windows, yet it held a chill that clung to the skin. Levi stood at its center, clad only in a silk shirt and woolen hose, his feet bare against the cool stone beneath. His dark hair, usually a wild tangle, was bound back with a length of crimson yarn. Before him, the floor was covered by a great linen sheet, its surface adorned with an intricate map of Faywyn and the surrounding lands. Wooden blocks of various sizes and colors, each topped with slender handles, lay scattered across the map in a careful arrangement, mimicking armies in motion.

  The door creaked open, and Aden entered, his boots in hand. He paused, his sharp eyes sweeping over the array of blocks before landing on Levi’s face—still mottled with bruises from the day prior.

  "Levi," he said, his voice heavy with both greeting and question.

  "Good morrow, Father," Levi replied, his tone gruff as he leaned down to adjust one of the wooden pieces.

  "You’re awake early," Aden observed as he set his boots aside. He crossed the chamber, his steps soundless on the stone floor. "Something amiss?"

  Levi grunted, rolling his shoulder as though to ease some ache. "Couldn’t sleep. Everything hurts."

  Aden chuckled, his breath a low rumble. "You’ll grow used to it, boy. A sore body is a soldier’s companion." He clapped a hand on Levi’s shoulder, only to earn a sharp wince. "If the pain is too much, send for the apothecary. Poppy milk will see you through."

  Levi shook his head, his jaw set firm. "No. I must keep my mind clear. Eliza’s spies brought news this morning—ill tidings. The Lion has ordered his host to march at dawn tomorrow. We’ve less time than we’d hoped."

  Aden’s brow furrowed deeply. "Tomorrow?" he echoed. "That is swifter than we anticipated. The fortifications on the field will not be finished in time."

  "I know," Levi growled, his frustration evident. He straightened and crossed to another part of the map, his bare feet whispering against the linen. "Our foe might have grown impatient. He marches ahead of his baggage train, likely assured the rest will follow before his men run out of bread and salt beef. A bold gamble, but a gamble worth taking."

  Aden stroked his beard, his expression grim. "And what stratagem has my ever-clever son devised to counter this?"

  Levi turned to his father, the weariness in his eyes momentarily replaced by a flicker of amusement. He snorted softly, and Aden’s brow rose in response.

  "What is it you find so amusing?"

  "Nothing, Father," Levi replied, though the faint smile that lingered on his lips betrayed him. He glanced back at the map. "Still, there is but one road fit for an army to march with speed from Ricos to Faywyn, is there not?"

  "Aye," Aden said with a nod. "The rest are little more than goat paths and hunting trails."

  "And," Levi continued, his finger tracing a line on the map, "for several leagues both after leaving Ricos and before reaching Faywyn, this road runs parallel to the Strega River. How close to the riverbank will Tristan’s host march during those stretches?"

  Aden considered the question, his eyes narrowing in thought. "A few score paces, no more. Why do you ask?"

  Levi’s grin widened, sly and wolfish. "The Codfather is seaworthy again," he said, his tone almost light.

  Aden tilted his head, confusion flickering across his face. "What of it?"

  "What of it?" Levi echoed, his grin spreading. "The road will funnel the Lion’s forces into a neat little line, hemmed in by the Strega on one side and the wood on the other. A perfect trap." He tapped the map, his finger lingering on the Strega. "What say we take the Codfather upriver and shoot some fish in a barrel?"