Dromos 36, Imperial Year 1645
The Tournament Grounds, Luminara – Evening
The crowd pressed close to the edge of the field, a rough ring of bodies and torchlight. Smoke drifted low in the damp air. The rain had stopped, but the ground remembered—soft, slick, treacherous. A dozen knights had already bled into that mud. Now the field waited.
On one side stood Sir Aldric of Verdon. Broad-shouldered, unremarkable at a glance. His plate was scarred, practical, maintained rather than polished. No crests worth remembering. No legend trailing behind him. Just a man who had survived long enough to become dangerous.
Opposite him, Knight-Captain Sseth of the Blackscale Tribe. Seven feet of lean muscle wrapped in overlapping crocodilian scales. His snout was long, teeth interlocking, eyes yellow with vertical slits. His limbs were longer than a human's, his arms reaching nearly to his knees, his legs digitigrade, his thick tail dragging a slow arc through the mud behind him. Bronze scale-mail hugged his body where it mattered, left him free where it didn't. In his grip, a falchion curved like a predator's claw. The crowd called him the Crocodile. He had a reputation for a move they called the Crocodile's Grasp—a tail hook into a feigned bite that left opponents sprawling.
The herald lifted a hand.
"Begin."
Sseth moved first. Not a charge—something quieter. A glide. Three long strides and he was already inside measure, body low, tail shifting to keep him balanced. The falchion came across in a clean horizontal cut.
Aldric met it with his shield. Edge, not flat. The impact snapped through his arm—sharp, testing. Not meant to break him. Meant to feel him.
Aldric gave ground half a step, boots sliding in the mud, then set his weight again. He answered immediately. A thrust, straight down the centerline, aimed at the throat.
Sseth bent. Not back—aside. His spine curved unnaturally, torso folding just enough for the blade to whisper past his scales. His tail came low. Aldric saw it this time—but the ground betrayed him. His heel sank, weight shifting too slow. The tail clipped his back foot. Not enough to drop him. Enough to break his rhythm.
Sseth advanced. The falchion rose and fell in the same motion—an overhead cut that should have been slow. It wasn't. Aldric caught it on his shield, angled, letting the blade glance off instead of meeting it head-on. Steel screamed against steel. He stepped into the deflection, closed distance, thrust again—short, tight, aimed for the belly where the armor parted.
The tail struck his hip. Not a sweep—a shove. It displaced him just enough. The blade slid past air. His foot caught in uneven ground. He lurched, recovered, forced himself back two steps before the lizardman could capitalize.
Sseth did not follow. He stood still, tail swaying slowly, his yellow eyes fixed on his opponent. He had seized the initiative. Now he watched.
First blood to nothing. The dance had begun.
The rhythm shifted. Aldric rolled his shoulder once. Pain flared, then settled into something dull and manageable. His back foot was a fist of mud. He adjusted his grip. Too long. Too fast. Too many angles. His problem was reach. The lizardman's arms were longer. His tail added a third weapon. Aldric needed to close again, but closing meant eating another strike.
He feinted left. Sseth's buckler twitched. Aldric cut right.
The tail came again, low and fast. This time Aldric was ready. He jumped—not a separate action; his foot left the mud as the tail passed beneath, and the upward motion became the wind‑up for a vertical chop. The jump became the attack. He was committed.
Sseth's eyes widened. He brought his falchion up to parry, but the angle was wrong. The blade bit into his shoulder—not deep, but enough. Green blood welled.
The crowd hissed.
Aldric tried to press. He raised his sword for another cut—but Sseth's tail was already moving. It slammed into Aldric's side, not hard enough to break ribs, hard enough to shove him sideways. His feet tangled. He fell to one knee.
Sseth stepped back, giving himself room. He touched his shoulder, looked at the green blood on his claws, and hissed softly. Then he reset his stance.
Second blood to Aldric. The music changed.
The lizardman began to circle. His tail traced a slow arc through the mud, never still. Aldric rose, his knee aching but holding. He circled left, forcing Sseth to turn, forcing the injured shoulder toward him.
Sseth let him. He was waiting.
Aldric attacked. A quick combination—cut, thrust, cut again. Sseth parried each one, his long arms absorbing the impacts, his body swaying like a reed in a current. He was not trying to counter. He was watching.
Aldric saw the opening. Sseth's guard drifted—just a fraction. He lunged.
The lizardman twisted, but not fast enough. Aldric's blade drove into the gap at Sseth's thigh, where scale met armor. It hit. Bit deep. Green blood sprayed across the mud.
Sseth roared—a sound that was half hiss, half bellow—and slammed his tail into Aldric's chest. The force threw Aldric backward. He landed hard, rolled, came up on one knee.
Third blood to Aldric. The crowd roared with him.
But Sseth did not fall.
He stood over Aldric, bleeding from shoulder and thigh, his chest heaving. His tail no longer swept; it dragged. The wounds soaked his scale-mail. He tried to raise his falchion, but his arm trembled. His first strikes had been crisp. Now each swing was a negotiation with his own exhaustion.
Aldric saw it. He did not rush. He planted his feet—one good, one aching—and raised his sword in a low guard.
"Yield," he said. Not loud. Not a command. An offer, edged with warning.
Sseth's eyes narrowed. He tested his weight on the wounded leg. The leg held. He took a slow step forward.
The crowd leaned in as one.
Sseth attacked. Not fast—he could not be fast now. But deliberate. Each strike was a hammer blow, meant to break through Aldric's guard through sheer force. Aldric parried, retreated, parried again. His arm shook. His knee threatened to give with every pivot.
He let his guard dip—just slightly. An invitation.
Sseth saw it. Committed.
The falchion drove in.
Aldric turned with it instead of against it. Let it slide past his side, close enough to feel the wind of it—and stepped inside. Too close for the falchion. His sword came up under Sseth's guard, point finding the hollow at his throat.
Neither moved. The torchlight flickered across steel and scale. Sseth's chest rose once. Fell. His tail, which had begun to lift for one last sweep, dropped back to the mud.
"Yield," he said. The word came without strain.
Aldric held the point there a moment longer. Then lowered it.
The crowd broke into noise—shouting, cheering—but it felt distant, irrelevant. Sseth lowered his weapon fully this time. Aldric let his arm fall.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Sseth extended his hand. Clawed. Steady.
"You learn fast," he said.
Aldric took it. "You hit hard."
A pause. Something like approval passed between them—wordless, earned.
They released and left the field together, limping in different ways, leaving blood and churned earth behind them.
The torches guttered. The crowd dispersed. The mud remembered.
End of Chapter One Hundred Thirty