Duke Jorvan Olsandre sat at the arena’s place of honor while accompanied by a few of his family members and attendants. Dressed in opulent clothing, as befitting of someone of his rank, he saw the gates open and a large group of contestants walk into the field.

Most of them had little to no experience with magic. Those eventually accepted would never come out on top against the most promising noble children. After graduating, their worth would lie only as men-at-arms, the bulk of an army, rather than the truly elite warriors.

While the duke found little worth in this mock tourney, he still made sure to show up every year so that he may be seen by his subjects. These displays helped them remember who was in charge. Left unattended, the peasants had the nasty habit of getting ideas, which then could be exploited by power-hungry nobles. Keeping control over the population was an essential task for any ruler hoping to remain as such.

His uncle Lanard, on the other hand, had no subjects to keep control over, so no one would care if he didn't show up. In fact, Jorvan was well aware that his uncle loathed such occasions. That’s why it came as a surprise that Lanard decided to watch this year’s proceedings.

To his right, dressed in a simple blue jacket under a wool coat, Lanard intently watched the participants as they poured into the field. Three thousand and ninety-four participants to be exact, all fighting for only two hundred and fifty spots.

Jorvan shifted in his seat, leaning slightly to the right. “Would you mind telling me why the sudden interest in this tourney?” he whispered, more out of habit than anything else. A man in his position needed to always be wary of prying eyes and ears.

Lanard’s gaze remained in the field, his green eyes traveling from one contestant to the other as if trying to identify someone. “I met a boy a few years ago and he struck me as a promising kid. From what I gathered, he should be participating in this year’s tourney.”

Jorvan wasn’t sure if he should believe it or not. On one hand, his uncle was rarely one to make jokes. On the other, he was similarly not one to mingle with kids, let alone lowborn ones. “Why—” he began to ask but was interrupted by his uncle signaling to someone on the other side of the platform.

The herald, a man so old that he seemed to have forgotten to die, approached at hurried steps. “Your Grace,” he first greeted Jorvan before addressing Lanard. “Yes, my lord?”

“Before the event starts, ask the contestants to remove their helmets. Say that it’s in respect to the duke or something. Just get them to show their faces.”

The herald first glanced at Jorvan, who simply nodded, before answering, “Yes my lord. I shall get it done.”

“Why would you even meet with a lowborn kid?” Jorvan resumed his question as soon as the herald was out of ear range.

“I didn’t actually plan on it. Do you remember Vasilis?”

Just hearing the name was enough to irritate Jorvan. A few years ago, he ordered the man’s arrest but Vasilis went into hiding first. Jorvan then rallied a portion of his troops and ordered them to scour the region after the man. Vasilis ambushed his troops instead, inflicting casualties and causing Jorvan to lose face with his vassals.

It was supposed to be a trivial affair. Seventeen Ashen, Jorvan’s elite soldiers, lost their lives that day. Not only that, Vasilis managed to escape once again, which only added to Jorvan’s discredit. It took his forces an additional day to finally capture the man and give him the end he deserved.

“I do remember him.”

The last of the contestants walked into the field and the gates were finally closed. The herald walked to the edge of the platform before starting his speech.

“That eunuch and his followers used the old tongue to encrypt their letters,” Lanard continued. “Well, this kid somehow knew the old tongue and translated the letters. It was thanks to him that we discovered Vasilis’ hiding place along with the Olsen’s involvement.”

Like with Vasilis, the simple mention of the Olsens already annoyed Jorvan. Unlike with the eunuch, though, this was a distaste imprinted deep into his bones throughout his whole life. The Olsens and Olsandres mixed as well as cats and dogs. It started centuries before Jorvan was born and would continue for centuries after his death.

“It’s been more than two years. Did you at least find out why they chose to get involved?” Jorvan whispered even lower this time. While the Olsens didn’t rally their troops, they did supply Vasilis with mana stones and coin for mercenaries. The Olsens and Olsandres hated each other, sure, but neither of the two Dukes would be stupid enough to spend resources over just that.

“You know how those flying serpents are. They’ll only show their intentions when it’s time to attack.”

The contestants all began removing their helmets. Lanard leaned forward in his seat as he looked at each of their faces in search of that kid he mentioned.

Jorvan couldn’t help but laugh at his uncle. There were three thousand faces down there. Trying to find a single one would be like searching for a needle in a hay—

“Found him, by the eastern wall,” Lanard declared.

Jorvan’s laugh got stuck in his throat. That happened way too quickly to be an accident. His gaze traveled to the eastern wall and he immediately found out the reason. Dirty, scruffy, in need of a comb; Jorvan could think of a list of ways to describe the kid, though one word surpassed all the rest. “That’s what you meant by a promising kid? A half-bred?”

Lanard simply shrugged. “You already have a southerner working for you. A half-bred seems like the next logical step.”

Jorvan had indeed taken a southerner under his employ, mostly as a way to insult the Olsens. The church of the Holy Flame, The Great Plains’ official religion, believed southerners to be the spawn of demons. As such, he created for her the official title of Chief Diplomat to the Great Plains, tasked with greeting any of their emissaries.

Dandara understood what her job was, did it well, and never caused any trouble. Besides, his daughter Vivienne seemed to have grown attached to her, so Jorvan decided to keep the black woman. And as an added bonus, he later found out she was the sister to one Dene Yao, a southerner woman who had an affair and attempted to elope with Jonathan, the Olsen’s heir. This made Dandara’s value as a tool to slight the Olsens shoot through the roof.

Having Dene instead of Dandara would be even better. In the best-case scenario, she would also be heavy with Jonathan’s child. A little bastard child would be more than just an insult, but an actual threat to the Olsens’ power.

But alas, Dene disappeared shortly after the news broke out and Jonathan was captured. While Jonathan remained imprisoned to this day, the woman had most certainly been executed and buried in some unmarked grave. The Olsens even tried to invent that she, singlehandedly, had managed to massacre a squad of Paladins and Warlocks. Complete lunacy.

Jorvan focused his gaze on the half-bred’s armor, his enhanced vision allowing him to make out the brand burned into the metal. A hammer and pick behind a sword pointing down, the sigil of House Westbrook. “So I take it that Hagen is okay with this.”

“Somewhat. I tried to ask him more about the kid, but he always changed the subject. Same for his wife. It felt like the half-bred had some sort of falling out with the couple. Regardless, at no instance did they try to rescind his participation into the tourney.”

“Fine,” Jorvan said. “Let’s entertain the idea of him getting a spot in the academy. We both know what people say about half-breds.”

Lanard nodded. “Indeed. If he manages to pass, then we shall find out if there’s any validity to the stories.”

“And if there are?”

“Then we have more than a few ways to get rid of a troublesome kid.”