The Guarding Knight Enters the Arena
Salt Castle rose in majestic splendor. Beyond the walls, an ivory banner emblazoned with white salt fluttered from the watchtower, while unfamiliar crests lined the battlements below, snapping in the wind. They were clearly the marks left by other noble powers who had come to visit.
Green, red, blue, and tawny fabrics each displayed their house’s distinct character, yet the embroidery that adorned them was dominated by threads of gold and silver regardless of the base material. The army of banners danced brilliantly on the breeze, heightening the grand festive atmosphere.
The castle’s moat curved in a wide arc, fed directly by seawater. Everyone was trying to cross the drawbridge at once. The crowd moved like a swirling school of fish. Tichite and Sera had no choice but to flow with the human current and pass through the gates together.
Tichite glanced up at the ceiling as they entered. The spiked tips of the raised portcullis glinted like sharpened fangs. A visceral chill ran through her at the thought that those iron teeth might come crashing down on her skull at any moment.
The festival had been running for days, and the atmosphere inside the castle was no calmer than outside. Stalls had sprung up everywhere, their owners shouting to attract customers. Even though trading without permission could get a person dragged away, the desperate attempts to sell one more item never ceased. The peddlers could be so bold only because the castle guards were entirely occupied with protecting the distinguished guests.
Tichite ignored everything around her and headed straight for her goal. Before long she reached a place overflowing with thunderous cheers. The mounted lance tournament she had been longing to see was underway in the courtyard before Salt Castle.
The match was in full swing and the stands were packed. All the good seats had already been claimed.
Am I too late?
At least the weaklings have been weeded out. That’s for the best.
Only the strong survived until a single final victor remained. That merciless, irreversible rule was the true allure of the tournament.
While Tichite was still straining to see past the crowd, a roar erupted from the stands. One knight’s lance had shattered; the other’s remained intact. Since neither rider had been unhorsed, the broken lance awarded the point.
“Two-two. They’ll have to decide the final point right here.”
Someone was relaying the commentary to the person beside them. Tichite burned with the need to witness it with her own eyes. She kept craning her neck, trying to peer over the spectators, when Sera called out and waved.
“Tichite! Over here, over here!”
The two women finally claimed an empty corner in a quiet, out-of-the-way spot. A large tent blocked half the arena from view, but it was still far better than staring at the backs of heads. Just then the final lance snapped, ending the previous match. A short, deep blast from the trumpet signaled both the conclusion and the next beginning.
I won’t miss a single moment of the next match. I’ll watch it properly from start to finish.
Tichite pressed herself close to the wooden rail that reached her chin and waited for the next bout with a pounding heart.
From the far side of the arena, a knight appeared astride a chestnut horse fitted with pure white enamel armor and white tack.
The booming introduction triggered an enormous wave of cheers from the stands—half scream, half adulation.
“Zylas! Zylas!”
“Kyaaah, Zylas!”
The women’s voices were especially loud and piercing. Then the pure-white knight drew closer, and his face made it clear their excitement was no exaggeration.
“Oh my, Tichite…”
Sera covered her mouth and murmured.
“Now I understand why you wanted to see this so badly.”
The knight had removed his visor and was waving to the crowd. Sera’s rapt gaze was glued to his face. He clearly belonged to the type who savored attention; otherwise he would have no reason to ride into the center of the arena without covering his head.
And the man was worth looking at. Flawless white skin, white hair, and a perfect smile that revealed equally white teeth—his face outshone every ornament surrounding him.
“Too beautiful a man to waste away as a monk,” Sera muttered with genuine regret. “Maybe that’s exactly why he had to be offered to the goddess.”
A Guarding Knight. A warrior sworn to the Moon Mother, the deity revered by followers of the Sunset Religion. These men were the goddess’s soldiers who guarded the peace of sunlit hours after the moon had set. Their dazzling white armor symbolized sacred duty and untainted purity.
Tichite found the whole thing strangely fascinating. People in Bigland seemed to carry both longing and envy for beautiful men in the same breath. They worshipped them, yet feared them. That was why any second or third son who grew too handsome was hastily packed off to a monastery. It also conveniently prevented non-heir sons from claiming a larger share of the family fortune.
Tichite rested her chin on the rail, wondering whose decision had sent this seemingly noble man into the clergy. At that moment someone shoved her elbow and snarled.
“Don’t you dare stare at the sacred star with those filthy black eyes!”
“Blasphemous pagan wench…”
The insult was hissed under the woman’s breath.
Tichite snapped back to herself and straightened. An Endel woman with sagging cheeks and a face full of spite was glaring at her. Apparently the sight of the beautiful Guarding Knight had ignited a sudden burst of religious fervor that needed an outlet.
Tichite’s mood plummeted in an instant, but she refused to show it. She simply stepped away from the spot.
“Come over here, Tichite.”
Sera, who had noticed the confrontation, tugged her toward the left.
“What was that? Why did she suddenly start trouble…”
When her friend asked if she was all right, Tichite answered with a shrug.
At least my hair is still attached today.
She truly wasn’t bothered. Such incidents were far too common to let them linger in her heart.
She preferred to focus on something else—namely, the opponent of that beautiful Guarding Knight.
The master of ceremonies shouted in his characteristically booming voice.
He thrust the standard in his right hand high into the air. His left already held a white flag; the newly raised one was ash-gray.
This time the roar that answered carried far more male voices. Especially loud shouts and applause rolled out from the nearby tent.
“Go on and give him a taste of iron!”
“If you lose to that slick pretty-boy, we won’t let you hear the end of it!”
The rider received a resounding smack on the backside.
“A-ah, I understand…”
The young man fumbled awkwardly with the reins.
His name was Caironeia. A rookie knight who had only recently completed his ordination, he was just eighteen years old. Unlike the other knights, he had no battlefield experience and this was his first mounted tournament—yet he had produced surprisingly strong results.
“It’s already the semifinals. Commander, won’t you offer the boy a word of encouragement?”
The man who had slapped Caironeia’s rear turned toward the interior of the tent.
In a place thick with shadow, a man sat watching. He was someone who wore jet-black armor like a second skin, a man who ignored sunlight and fed on darkness.
Nyx Farrow, his face a map of scars. He was the lord of Loudhill, commander of the Iron Horse Knights, and to some simply the young master of the Farrow family. Yet no matter what title one used, he remained the undisputed lord of them all.
“Encouragement?”
Beyond his rigid visor, Nyx regarded the world with indifference. To him the entire affair looked like nothing more than childish playacting, but he understood that for a young knight like Caironeia this clumsy event carried profound meaning.
Talented young knights could leave their mark on high society through the joust. Even those from lesser houses could use it as a stepping stone to rise. Therefore the prize awaiting the champion included not only wealth and fame, but the chance to step into the ruling class itself.
Young men with bright futures usually faced the lists either swollen with anticipation, crushed by nerves, or both. Caironeia leaned toward the latter.