Binky McFearsome could snap an iron bar with two fingers, but he had never once thrown a punch at a man who punched back. Tomorrow that changed. The grand tournament would name one warrior the greatest champion the realm had ever known, and Binky had signed his name on the roster in big, crooked letters. He wanted that crown more than anything. He also had no idea how to fight. He stood in a wide yard below the old stone tower, three stacked levels rising over him. A tiny fly wobbled through the air near his ear, looping and dipping like it had drunk too much. The little bug was his only friend. Binky held out a finger, and it landed there, swaying. "They're going to knock me flat," Binky told the fly. "Real fighters. In the first round." He flexed one huge arm. The muscle looked like a boulder. It had never helped him dodge, block, or read a swing. Strength alone would not save him. He needed practice, and he needed it now. Binky spotted a thick wooden post near the tower door, wrapped in old rope. He decided it would be his opponent. "You throw first," he said to the post. Then he waited, feeling foolish. The post did nothing. So Binky changed the plan. He would not learn to fight from a post. He would learn to take a hit. He set his feet, closed his eyes, and slammed his own fist against his jaw as hard as he could. The punch would have felled a horse. Binky's head snapped sideways. He staggered, blinked, and grinned. It hurt, but he stayed standing. He hit himself again, harder. Still standing. The fly zipped away in alarm. "I don't go down," Binky whispered. He understood now. He was immortal. No fighter could knock him out, because nothing could. He did not need to dodge or block. He only needed to keep swinging until the other man tired out. His stupid, simple strength was the whole plan. He threw a punch at the wooden post to test it. The post exploded. Splinters flew across the yard. The rope snapped loose and whipped through the air. A chunk of wood struck the tower's tall front door with a crack. Binky froze. Above him, a narrow window opened on the second level. A man in a hooded green cloak leaned out, a carved wooden mask hiding his face. He held a leather package under one arm, ready to ride. "You broke the training post," the masked man called down, voice flat and hard. "The tournament masters count every one. They'll want to see the dwarf who smashed it." Binky looked at the wreckage. He had solved one problem and made a worse one. He could survive any fight now. But before he could throw a single punch in the ring, the masters would be asking his name.

The masked man climbed down from the tower and walked straight at Binky. Binky's stomach dropped. This was the stranger who had seen him smash the post, the one who could tell the tournament masters everything. Binky raised both huge fists. "You gonna talk?" he asked. "Tell 'em what I did?" The man pulled off his carved wooden mask. Underneath was a young face, hard-eyed and calm. "I'm Davan Sole," he said. "I don't want to turn you in, dwarf. I want to ride with you." He tapped the leather package under his arm. "I deliver by day. At night I take back what corrupt guards steal. I've watched you. You can take any hit. Together we could do real good on the road." Binky blinked. Nobody had ever asked to stand beside him. His fists dropped. "You mean—like a hero partner?" His face split into a grin. "I always wanted one of them." Davan almost smiled. "Then we leave now, before the masters come sniffing. The tournament's a long ride. We help folks on the way." He held out a hand. Binky shook it and nearly lifted the smaller man off his boots. They traveled for two days. On the third morning, they heard a shriek in the woods. Binky and Davan crashed through the brush to a stream. A giant bunny crouched at the water's edge, soft brown fur trembling, drinking in slow, calm gulps. It was bigger than a horse. Two men circled it with ropes and long knives. One was tall and skinny, a mean grin on his face. The other was short and bald, gray beard swinging as he barked orders. "Get the rope on its neck, Silas!" the bald one snapped. "I'm trying, Griggs!" the tall one hissed back. Binky's kind heart lurched. The bunny had done nothing. "Leave it alone!" he shouted, stepping into the open. Griggs Skinner spun and threw his knife. It struck Binky square in the chest and bounced off like it had hit stone. Binky looked down, then up. "That tickled," he said. Silas Crowe lunged with his own blade. Binky caught the tall poacher's wrist and squeezed. The knife dropped. Davan darted in low, hooked Griggs's ankle, and dumped the bald man in the mud. The two poachers scrambled up and ran, leaving their ropes behind. Binky knelt by the giant bunny. It nosed his red hair and did not flinch. "You're safe now," he whispered. Davan picked up a dropped rope and frowned. A brass tag hung from it, stamped with a mark Binky didn't know. "These two work for someone," Davan said. "Poachers don't carry guild tags. Someone paid them to take this animal alive." He looked down the road toward the far mountains. "And whoever it is will send more." Binky had won his first fight as a hero. But now he had a creature to protect, two enemies who'd fled, and a hidden master he'd never met.

Binky and Davan reached the tournament grounds at dusk, the giant bunny plodding behind them. The Champion Grand Stadium rose ahead, its banners snapping in the wind, its stands still empty before tomorrow's fights. But Davan kept glancing back at the road. "They followed us," he muttered. "The rope had a tag. The guild tracks their gear." Binky patted the bunny's soft ear and grinned. "Then we'll thump 'em when they come." His pet fly, Tipsy, wobbled off his shoulder and drifted toward the tents, dizzy as ever. Inside the grounds, a stout old man in a purple robe met them. Gold stars stitched his sleeves, and a jeweled staff shone in his hand. This was Aldric Tournefield, the Grand Maester who ran the whole tournament. His eyes went wide at the giant bunny. "My pet!" he cried, hurrying forward. "You found her! She bolted from her pen days ago." Behind him trailed a sour young man in red robes, Aldric Quillsworth, the Maester's helper, arms crossed, lip curled. "You expect a reward, I suppose," Quillsworth sniffed. While the Maester fussed over his bunny, Tipsy the fly wandered outside past the tents. Binky chased after his pet. He rounded a wagon and froze. Griggs Skinner and Silas Crowe stood in the shadows. And Quillsworth stood with them, whispering. "The Maester never suspected me," Quillsworth hissed. "I hired you to snatch the beast. We ransom it back, and I take the coin." Griggs bared his teeth. "Then that fat dwarf ruined it." Silas gripped a rope with a brass tag, the same mark Davan had found. "We tracked him here by his own trail." Binky's kind heart went cold. The bunny wasn't runaway loot. Quillsworth had planned the whole theft. Binky stepped into the open. "You're the master!" he boomed. "You tried to rob your own boss!" Griggs threw his knife. It struck Binky's chest and clattered off like it hit stone. Silas swung the tagged rope. Binky caught it in one fist and yanked. Both poachers stumbled forward. Binky knocked their heads together with a hollow crack, and they dropped. Quillsworth spun to flee, but Davan slid from the dark and hooked his ankle. The helper sprawled in the dirt, screeching. The Grand Maester arrived with his guards, staff raised. Binky held up the brass tag. "Your helper hired 'em," he said. "He wanted to ransom your bunny." Quillsworth wailed his innocence, but Silas, groaning, spat the truth to save his own neck. The guards hauled all three away. Aldric Tournefield laid a hand on Binky's arm. "You saved my pet and unmasked a thief." His eyes narrowed with new interest. "A dwarf who shrugs off a knife. You've entered my tournament, haven't you?" Binky beamed. "I aim to be champion, sir." The Maester smiled, but it was not all warmth. "Then I'll be watching you closely, champion." Binky had made a powerful friend. He had also drawn the eyes of the one man who could expose everything.

The morning after Quillsworth's arrest, Binky stepped onto the sand of the Champion Grand Stadium. The stands roared. Banners snapped overhead. One hundred warriors waited to face him over three days, and Aldric Tournefield watched from his high seat, jeweled staff in hand, eyes fixed on the dwarf who shrugged off knives. The first warrior charged with a hammer. He swung at Binky's chest. The hammer bounced off like it struck stone. Binky blinked, then flicked the man in the shoulder. The warrior sailed backward and landed in the dirt. The crowd gasped, then cheered. Binky did not know how to fight. He only knew he could not be hurt. So he stood still and let each warrior tire himself out. Swords snapped. Spears bent. Fists cracked against his jaw and did nothing. When his enemy panted and staggered, Binky gave one gentle push, and down they went. By dusk the first day, twenty warriors lay beaten. Binky helped each one up and dusted them off. "Sorry, friend," he told them. "No hard feelings." The crowd loved him for it. They chanted his name. The second day passed the same way. Forty more warriors fell. Binky's red hair grew matted with sweat, but not a bruise marked him. High above, Aldric Tournefield leaned forward. He whispered to a tournament master beside him. He was counting something, watching for a trick. On the third day, the last warriors came in a rush, five at once. They pinned Binky's arms and drove blades into his back. The blades folded. Binky flexed and shook them loose. He tapped each man once. Five bodies tumbled to the sand. Silence. Then the whole stadium erupted. One hundred warriors, beaten. Binky stood alone in the center, arms raised, grinning like a boy. Aldric Tournefield descended the long stairs. His purple robe dragged the sand. He climbed onto a small platform and lifted the jeweled staff. "Warriors!" he called. "People of the realm! I name Binky McFearsome your champion!" He set a gold circlet on Binky's brow. The crowd threw flowers. But the Maester bent close, and his smile was thin. "No man wins a hundred fights untouched," he murmured. "Not by skill. You've hidden something from me, champion. Enjoy your crown today. Tomorrow I open an inquiry." He straightened and waved to the cheering stands, all warmth again. Binky's stomach dropped. He held the crown he had wanted his whole life. And the one man who could take it all away had just promised to dig for the truth.