Draculeus, perched on the cliff, narrowed his slit blue eyes, watching every feint, parry, and thrust. Already, he could see which of these warriors might survive his scrutiny and which would crumble under the weight of a true Dragonborn's expectations.
The ground shook as Percieval's Wyrmwing finally slammed onto the landing pad. The shockwave was so sudden that the Citrineclaw noble and the Asulfang warrior stumbled back, their lethal dance interrupted. Percieval jumped from the saddle, his cape billowing as he marched toward the center of the arena.
The hundred candidates from the seven houses froze. The air in the Training Grounds, previously thick with the heat of battle, turned ice cold.
"LORD PERCIEVAL!"
To these noble house warriors, unlike Draculeus, who saw Percieval as an old fart and a prankable relic… Percieval was a living legend.
