Aldric stood behind the registration table with a stack of blank parchment and no applications. He'd rented the hall for three days. The tournament needed fighters who could prove they belonged here, not nobles buying their way into something that demanded more than gold. Outside, the city carried on like his project didn't exist. He straightened the parchment again and waited. The door opened an hour before sunset. The woman who entered wore a cloak that didn't hide the scars running down her neck or the way she moved like someone who expected violence from any direction. She dropped a leather satchel on the table without greeting him. Inside were three sealed letters from men Aldric had researched for weeks, fighters whose judgment he'd hoped to earn over months of careful outreach. Each letter confirmed the same fact in different words: she'd beaten them, and it wasn't close. She met his eyes and said nothing while he read. When he looked up, she was already filling out the first line of the application. Aldric realized he'd been building his tournament for someone exactly like this, and now she was here, and he had no idea if his structure would survive what she represented.