Alaric Goldwyn's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Alaric Goldwyn had crossed three borders to fight for glory, and now he stood lost in a forest, hunting a tournament nobody would name. He came to Levendra for one prize: the title of finest fighter in all the land. But the grand tournament left no map. A wandering fighter earned a place, men said, though none told him how. His whip hung at his belt, older than any relic he had dug from the dirt. His money pouch felt lighter each day. He had fame in his blood and dirt in his boots, and no idea where to go. He followed a rumor to a stone altar deep in the trees. A soft silver beam fell on its worn surface. Old carvings covered the stone, half swallowed by moss. Alaric knelt, more from tired knees than faith. He did not pray. He studied the marks, hunting a sign of where fighters gathered. A voice cut the quiet. "You kneel like a man who wants something." Alaric turned. A young man stepped from the trees, dressed like a prince in fitted leather and a blue cloak. He carried himself like a soldier, careful and squared. This was Marcus Reid, Alaric had heard the name in every tavern from the coast. The finest young blade in Levendra. His rival, though they had never crossed steel. "I want the tournament," Alaric said. He rose slowly. "You know where it runs." Marcus smiled, easy and sure. "Everyone wants it. Few find it." He walked closer, eyes on the whip. "The champions gather at the sanctuary in the great trees. Glowing windows, white clouds above it. You cannot miss it. But they do not let strangers fight." "Then how does a stranger earn a place?" "You beat someone already inside." Marcus spread his hands. "I am inside." Alaric understood the offer. His hand found the whip. "Name the stakes." "Beat me here," Marcus said, "and I speak your name to the masters. Lose, and you leave Levendra and never come back." Alaric did not like the second half. He liked the first too much to refuse. He uncoiled the whip. They fought quick and hard beside the altar. Marcus was fast, a real blade, better than the taverns claimed. He cut Alaric's arm. But Alaric had fought men in a hundred rings, and Marcus fought like a man who had never lost. Alaric read the pattern, snapped the whip, and tore the sword from his hand. It rang against the stone. Marcus stared at his empty fingers. Then he laughed, breathless. "You have your place, Goldwyn. The sanctuary in the trees. Come at the next full moon." Alaric coiled his whip and bound his bleeding arm. He knew the way now. He had a name to speak at the gate. But Marcus watched him with a new, cold interest, and Alaric understood he had just made his rival study him.