Chapter 4: Blood in the Lists
The Tourney of the Nine opened with great fanfare and trumpet calls that echoed through the Whispering Weald. Banners of every house and tower snapped smartly in the morning breeze as competitors from across the realms gathered to prove their worth in trials of flame, flight, and riddle.
At Lord Vesper's insistent counsel, a fourth and far deadlier trial was added — the Trial of Honour, a brutal melee fought in the Citadel's ancient lists where blunted arms too often drew real blood and shattered bones.
Among the new arrivals that morning was a striking figure who turned many heads Lady Faelira Lumessë Haphira. She was tall and slender as a silver birch, moving with the effortless grace of falling starlight. Her hair was the colour of moonlit frost, braided with threads of living vine and tiny sapphire blossoms that shimmered with an inner light of their own. Her eyes were a deep, piercing violet, carrying both quiet wisdom and a hidden melancholy. She wore light mithril plate over leaf-green leather and carried a longbow carved from ancient heartwood that hummed faintly whenever her fingers brushed its string.
Lady Elowyn Starveil greeted her with warm familiarity, for they were distant kin. "Faelira, it gladdens my heart to see you here," Elowyn said. "The Silverwood has sent one of its finest."
Faelira offered a gentle smile and inclined her head. "I came because the winds carried troubling tidings, cousin. I wished only to lend my bow and my knowledge where they might be needed." She spoke little of herself, revealing nothing of her true station. To everyone — even to Elowyn — she appeared simply as a skilled envoy and archer from the elven courts.
She was quickly introduced to the rest of the Company. Perkin Goodbarrow teased her lightly about "elves who look too pretty to fight," drawing a soft, musical laugh from her. Thurgrim Stonefist gave her a respectful grunt of approval after watching her handle her bow with effortless precision. Sigrid Quill studied her with quiet curiosity, sensing old and powerful magic woven into the stranger. Eadric, still shy around high-born elves, managed only a respectful bow and a quiet greeting.
Faelira's violet eyes lingered on the boy a moment longer than on the others. She saw the faint glow of destiny upon him and the lightning-shaped scar on his wrist. Softly, almost to herself, she murmured, "The road ahead will demand much of you, young one."
During the trials, Faelira proved her worth without seeking glory. In the Trial of Flight, her arrows flew with impossible precision, helping the Company secure victory. In the riddle contest, her deep knowledge of forgotten lore guided them through a particularly cruel enigma. She fought beside them as an equal — quiet, graceful, and deadly accurate — never boasting or revealing more than necessary.
Then came the bloody Trial of Honour.
The lists ran red as steel clashed and spells flared. Eadric was forced into the final combat against a far larger and more experienced knight — Sir Garrick Blackthorn, a hulking brute handpicked by Lord Vesper himself.
The bout was fierce and exhausting. Eadric fought with raw honour, his scar burning like living fire. When victory was within his grasp and he might have delivered a killing blow, he stayed his hand and spared his opponent. The crowd roared in thunderous acclaim for the boy's mercy.
But in that moment of triumph, disaster struck.
A group of masked raiders bearing the eye of Mordren suddenly burst from the stands, launching a surprise assault. Poisoned arrows and shadow spells rained down. One black shaft flew straight toward Eadric's unprotected back as he lowered his guard.
No one was close enough to reach him in time.
Except Faelira.
With blinding speed she threw herself between Eadric and the deadly arrow. The poisoned shaft struck her squarely in the chest, just above the heart. She gasped sharply, violet eyes widening in pain, but she remained standing for a few precious seconds.
"Eadric…!" she cried out, her voice already breaking.
Chaos erupted. Elowyn screamed her name. Thurgrim roared and charged the attackers. Perkin and Sigrid desperately cast protective wards.
Faelira staggered, blood — dark and shimmering like liquid starlight — soaking her silver mail. She still managed to loose three final arrows, each one finding its mark in the raiders closest to Eadric. Only then did her legs buckle.
Eadric caught her as she collapsed, cradling her head in his lap. Tears already streamed down his face.
"Faelira… why? You didn't have to…" he choked, his voice raw with shock and grief.
She looked up at him, her piercing violet eyes growing dim and unfocused. Her breathing was shallow and laboured. With a trembling, blood-stained hand she reached out and gently touched the lightning scar on his wrist. Her fingers were ice-cold, yet her touch carried the faint warmth of ancient forests.
"Because… you must live," she whispered, each word costing her dearly. "The prophecy… needs you. The realms… need you. Do not let the Crown break you… as it broke so many before."
Elowyn dropped to her knees beside them, tears pouring down her face. "Faelira! Stay with us, cousin! Please!"
Faelira's lips curved into a faint, peaceful smile despite the pain. "I am glad… I could protect the light… even for a moment. Tell the trees… I fell with honour."
A soft, ethereal glow began to envelop her body — the final farewell of her ancient elven blood. The air filled with the delicate scent of night-blooming jasmine and the distant echo of mournful elven laments. For one heartbreaking moment, it felt as though the entire Weald itself was weeping for her.
Then the light faded.
Lady Faelira Lumessë Haphira lay still in Eadric's arms, her violet eyes closed forever.
Yet even in death, Faelira had become a hero. Her selfless act had not only saved Eadric but had also bought the Company precious seconds to rally. Her final three arrows had felled key raiders, breaking the momentum of the assault and allowing Thurgrim and the others to drive the rest back. The raiders retreated in disarray, their surprise attack thwarted by one elf's courage.
A heavy, stunned silence fell over the lists. Many in the crowd — students, lords, and smallfolk alike — wept openly. The graceful elf who had fought so beautifully only moments ago was gone. Her sacrifice had been sudden, selfless, and utterly heroic. Elowyn bowed her head against her fallen kin's chest and sobbed without shame. Perkin turned away, his small shoulders shaking. Thurgrim's massive fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Sigrid clutched her scrolls, tears silently falling onto the parchment.
Eadric remained frozen, holding the dead elf, the weight of her sacrifice crushing him more than any wound or burden ever could. But deep inside, a spark of resolve kindled. Faelira had not died in vain — she had died a hero, giving her life so that the light of the prophecy might endure.
Only later — after the immediate chaos had passed and the Company gathered in mourning — did the truth emerge. A sealed letter, hidden within Faelira's belongings and marked with the royal seal of the Silverwood, was brought forward. It revealed what she had never told anyone during her short time at the Citadel:
Faelira Lumessë Haphira was no mere envoy.
She was the youngest daughter of the High King of the Silverwood, an elven princess of the ancient bloodline, sent in secret because the Oracle's prophecy had reached even the deepest groves. She had chosen to conceal her royal title, wishing to stand among the Company not as a princess, but as a true companion bound by heart and blade.
Her sacrifice — giving her life for a boy she had known only a few days — now carried even greater weight. She had known the danger, yet she had come anyway. And in the end, she had died protecting the one person the realms needed most, cementing her place as a true hero of the Company and the realms.
That very night, as celebrations turned to mourning, more raiders bearing the eye of Mordren assaulted the outer walls in force. In the chaos of steel and spellfire, the Grand Maester was mortally wounded...
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Post-Credit Scene:
As the Citadel bells tolled mournfully for the dying Grand Maester and the fallen elven princess, Lord Vesper stood alone in the darkness of his chambers and smiled coldly.
"The elf princess's death was… most unfortunate for them. The boy is broken with grief. Now the Ember Crown is mine to claim… and this shattered Company shall be hunted across every road and realm like the traitors they have become. Yet one hero has fallen, and heroes have a way of inspiring legends that even I may struggle to extinguish."
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