The sudden thud of an impact on wood and a crack like a tree coming down made Logan glance up from the ground. On the practise field, another knight was riding at a quintain – a target of sorts that jousters used to practise their technique for tourneys. His grey plate and plum-coloured heraldry raced across the open field on the back of a beige courser, his lance erupting into a shower of splinters as he struck the target.

The moment the impact jarred the air, other end of the quintain whirled around, the padded sack of rocks swinging with the force of a mace. It crashed down on the back of the rider's helm, making him cry out and topple forward so fast that for half a moment, it seemed like his dangling frame was going to drop from his horse's back into the dirt.

He had ridden too slowly.

A quintain was not just a tool to aim against, Logan knew from experience, unlike an archery target or a wooden post. It also taught you the need to split your attention between striking your foe with your lance, avoiding his attack against you, and riding fast enough so that the impact of your hit would be likely enough to knock him from his saddle, provided your aim was true.

Logan had ridden at many a quintain back home in Cormyr, and as he gazed around the tourney grounds, the surrounding forest of tents and tilting grounds brought on a faint glimmer of nostalgia amidst the gloom of his mood. Colourful banners and pavilions beyond counting stretched as far as the eye could see all around him, the largest ones silhouetted against the fiery glow in the west forming a strange sort of mountain range as the light of the sun darkened their colours to black. The main tilting ground, visible nearby, was flanked on all sides by wooden stands that echoed with the rhythm of carpenter's hammers as they finished being put together, the field running from north to south so that, during the tournament, neither contestant would risk having the sun in his eyes.

Meanwhile, tantalizingly close to that field of honour and glory, he and Romain were busy pitching their tents and he was driving the last peg into the grass with a mallet after pulling the navy-coloured linen of his tent taut across the ground. Just next to his, Romain's own pavilion was going up – a cone of red silk big enough to hold four, its exterior patterned with the knight-and-charger that was his dynastic sigil. Nearby, laid on his back with a clump of long grass as his pillow, Finnan was having a deep conversation with a butterfly that was resting on his nose.

But aside from them, the carpenters, and a few other knights getting in some evening practise, however, there were few other people about... at least for now. No doubt tomorrow, this place would be overrun with people, packed shoulder-to-shoulder like sardines as they came to watch the Tourney of the Lake, as he'd overheard the common folk calling it on the way down here.

'They'll be even further witnesses to my shame...' Logan thought miserably as he delivered the last strike on the stake.

Logan was feeling sour – even he had to admit it. He had already felt inadequate compared to the other knights he had seen when it came to arms and armour, and his failure to lift the Hammer of Taureau showed him that he was no better than any of them, not even the scumbags like Milton du Vertlac, when it came to the measure of his soul.

Also, where he had deeply admired and looked up to the statues of the various Knights of the Platinum Dragon that marked the entrance to each district of Thalmont, both figuratively and literally... now when he looked at them, he felt the tip of an ice-cold blade scrape up his spine.

Though the statues never moved, he could never shake the notion they were watching him, judging him, condemning him for his failures...

Even Romain was starting to overshadow him. His tent was more noble and grand, as a knight's pavilion should be. It was a small thing, and Logan didn't intend to be petty about it, but these things did matter.

It's just that Logan couldn't afford such a thing, nor did he live in a set location where he could have it made. And it wasn't just the price of living the life he did – his uncle's armour had always been of the finest quality, and his tent in the Cormyrean army camps was the model of-

"Logan?"

The sound of a gentle voice made Logan jolt up in alarm again, his thoughts interrupted as it felt like his heart shot up through his throat and smashed into his brain. Twisting to his right, where the voice had come from, he saw Finnan standing beside him, his big innocent eyes looking up into Logan's, his bare feet clearly having made such little noise that no-one could have heard him coming.

Panting aloud, Logan exclaimed "Gods above, Finnan! You made me jump!"

"Sorry..." Finnan replied. "I didn't mean to make you more cross..." He spoke like a child who had been scolded, looking down at the floor – a sight that made Logan smile with endearment.

Reaching out to tousle the druid's hair, he said "I was startled, not cross, Finnan. And I'm sorry if I've upset you. I've just... got a lot on my mind about tomorrow."

Hearing this, the halfling druid cocked his head, almost like a puppy. "Aren't you excited?" he asked, holding his hands up beneath his chin. "I'm excited!"

"I am..." Logan said, though his face didn't make it seem so to any onlookers. "But I'm also nervous."

"Why are you nervous?" Finnan asked.

Logan turned Finnan's way

"You see, Finnan..." he began to say, before a sudden twinge of worry got the better of him. Glancing around, he saw Romain was still nearby, and the occasional pair of knights chatting while they walked or rode also still passed by from time to time. And some of them did still deign to look his way.

Rolling his shoulders, Logan cut himself off. "You know what? Never mind."

Finnan looked surprised, and then that surprise gave way to worry. "Don't you wanna talk about it?" the halfling asked him, raising a hand as if to place it on Logan's shoulder. "Arabella says that talking about your feelings can help you feel better."

The statement was so heartfelt and innocent that Logan couldn't help but smile. Even when she wasn't here, Arabella was having an impact.

"I appreciate your compassion and Arabella's sentiment, Finnan... but sometimes, a man has to stand on his own two feet," he explained. He was trying to demonstrate stoicism – continuing with his sworn duty, even despite the difficulties that lay both without and within his person. And he didn't want to seem unsure of himself and their chances of winning in front of everybody – that would affect morale.

Still, the pressure was building. No-one could deny that.

Logan assumed his conversation with Finnan was done as the halfling gave him a small smile and then turned to leave... but he then heard his the halfling's voice suddenly call out "Yes, fight! Fight for my amusement!"

Looking up, he looked right at the little druid and asked "What are you talking about now, Finnan?"

All he got from Finnan was a look of bewilderment and childish response of "That wasn't me."

Logan might have assumed this was some kind of prank on the halfling's part... if it wasn't for the fact that the words "Yes, fight! Fight for my amusement!" suddenly sounded again... and Finnan's mouth didn't move, despite it very clearly being his voice. Logan then briefly recalled hearing those words from the halfling back at the Cockatrice, when he and Ren had first encountered Finnan.

It was if an echo of the past was speaking to him. Romain and Finnan heard these words too, and as they listened, it now sounded like the words were coming from somewhere more distant from where Finnan was standing right now. Somewhere amidst the other tents of the tourney grounds.

Then, the three of them all turned their heads to look upon a familiar sight - emerging as if from nowhere from behind a nearby pavilion of white and purple silk came a certain black-clad kenku with his beak pulled into a wry smirk.

"Stalk!" Finnan declared joyously, immediately running over to the avian figure and throwing his little arms around him. "You're back!"

Stalk chuckled, tentatively returning the hug as the leaf-clad halfling nearly bowled him over. "Yeah yeah, I'm back. You can roll out the red carpet..." he said sarcastically as Logan and Romain stopped what they were doing and came over.

"Welcome back, Stalk," Romain said in greeting. "Good to have you back."

"How is your family doing?" Finnan asked, eager and excitable as a puppy. "Did you play tag with your nephews and nieces?"

Stalk chuckled as he moved to lift the little guy off him. "No, sadly," the kenku replied. "I didn't have the time. This was just a quick pit stop, though I'm sure they would have wanted to if I stuck around."

"Aw..." Finnan looked heartbroken, hanging his head for a moment – a gesture which seemed to melt even Stalk's heart. The bloodhunter placed a clawed hand on Finnan's shoulder and gave him a playful shake.

"Hey, don't be sad, mate..." Stalk said. "I still got to see some of them, and they were having a great time. And those I didn't see were off spending time with their dad, my brother-in-law."

It was a surprisingly tender gesture from someone as sardonic as Logan had known Stalk to be. He recalled that the kenku and Finnan had talked about playing tag on the rooftops of Chateau Toussaint that very morning and wondered if the two of them had bonded.

Besides, it wasn't hard to become fond of Finnan – the halfling was the smallest of the party, yet his heart was as big as a house and as gold as Logan's eyes.

It was also interesting to overhear what Stalk mentioned about his flock, the Seekers of Flight – Logan himself didn't know a huge amount about the kenku outside of their infamous mimicry and the backstory of their race that Stalk had told them, as he understood the ravenfolk to be a secretive people who usually kept to themselves.

He envisioned a small, close-knit community living somewhere out-of-the-way in Thalmont, though he didn't have a clue exactly where – probably in an abandoned building or something of that ilk.

Beside him, Romain then asked, "Do you have children of your own, Stalk?" and the kenku responded by looking at him and quickly lifting his clawed index finger.

"Mate, don't even make me fucking think about that!" he told their Milisevran companion. "Part of the reason I only stayed there for so long was because my mother's been badgering me about potential mates from other flocks ever since I came of age!"

That made Romain laugh. "Is your mother eager for grandchildren?"

Stalk's eyes widened. "You have no idea, mate..." he said, shaking his head. "My sister gave her four, you think she'd be content!"

Hearing that made Logan chuckle. On a level, he sympathized with Stalk not wanting to get married despite maternal behest.

He'd endured the same thing... and at least Stalk's actual mother was the one he got to deal with, instead of some amoral harridan who had wormed her way into his family.

Logan's felt his right arm and shoulder start to seize up, and as he glanced down, realized his hand was making a fist at his side, his fingers curving in like griffin claws as if he were about to blow and smash someone in the face.

There was a face forming in his mind that he would like to drive his fist through; that of Lady Margret Extaminos, his stepmother. But she wasn't here, and hard as it was to admit, no amount of stewing and brooding on the injustices of the past could do anything to change them.

'Cool off, Logan...' he told himself in his head, fighting against his own mind as the pressure of tomorrow seemed to claw into every part of his body, gnawing away at his inhibitors and making his anxiety, his fear, his anger bleed out into his being. Their chance to win the right to quest for the Lake was creeping ever closer, and that knowledge was making his heart rate rise and the sinews in his neck seem to twist and tighten.

He would not let this slip through his fingers, no matter how tight he had to grip in order to seize it.

It was only the sight of Romain looking his way that brought him out of this stupor, and as the Milisevran opened his mouth, Logan's nerves jolted to anticipate what he had to say.

"I'm fine," he said, his voice snapping more than he intended it to.

The look of compassion on his friend's face never left him, but Romain seemed to back off

Thankfully, for once, Stalk's mouth and apathetic streak served a purpose as he asked around, his orange eyes barely flickering as he registered the looks between Romain and Logan.

"So now that we're all here, what needs doin'?"

"Well..." Romain replied, his voice still bearing a wary lilt. "... as Gamesmaster Phillipe said, we need to choose amongst ourselves who'll be taking part in each competition of the tournament tomorrow..."

Logan gave a nod, remembering what the master of the games had told them about each of the competitions – there were four; a horse race, an archery contest, a joust and a melee.

"So I guess we'll just need to decide which of us is best-suited to which competition..." Logan said, only realizing just then that he'd been quiet for almost the entirety of Stalk's arrival.

Appropriately enough, Stalk was the first one to reply to his statement, offering a suggestion. "Well, I ain't seen anyone amongst us use any kind of ranged weapon 'cept me. I can use longbows and crossbows both, though I prefer the latter, so I'm thinkin' I should be our archer."

"And I wanna race the horses!" Finnan declared immediately after, bouncing up and down like a small child as his yellow beard flopped like a circus seal. Romain laughed as he watched, and after thinking for a moment, remembering his companion's skill sets, Logan gave an answer of "I concur."

Stalk had fought with precision and dexterity in both the battles he'd seen him in, and had good aim against moving targets in the gnolls and the chimera. Plus, if nothing else, Finnan would be light in the saddle, though his ability to speak to animals might also be of use.

Looking at the halfling, Logan made a point to quickly add, "You won't be able to ride Dapple, though Finnan. You'll have to ride one of the proper horses, like Elodie or Ruby."

At that, Finnan pouted. "Why, though? Dapple's a good donkey."

Logan sighed a little. "That may be so, but a donkey cannot outrun a horse..." he said.

"I can make him faster!" Finnan replied. "I know a spell, Longstrider, that can make things move really really quic-"

The moment he heard the name of a spell, Logan cut him off. "I'm afraid that's not an option, Finnan."

"But why?"

"Because it isn't." Logan stated what he thought to be obvious, teeth grinding as his temper started to fray again.

From his side, Romain stepped forward and placed a calming hand on the halfling's shoulder. "Because, Finnan, we can't use magic in the tournament. That would be cheating and dishonourable, since while we can use magic as two paladins, a druid and a bloodhunter, most of the others knights won't be able to."

Finnan looked up at him, his head cocked. "Aren't they paladins too?"

The Milisevran shook his head. "Some of them might still be – if there are any, I've yet to see them here..." he said. There was sour tint in his voice as he said that, the light in his eyes dimming a little. "Most of them are just fighters, and to keep things on an even playing field, we'll have to refrain from using any of our arcane or divine talents."

Finnan listened intently, being still and quiet for the longest Logan had possibly seen him. He turned to glance at the tourney grounds, mouth open as if in despair, before looking back up to Romain.

"And... will they know if we do use magic?" he asked. His tone was completely innocent, belying no intention to secretly try and get away with using magic.

"I would imagine so," Romain replied. "At every tournament I've been to, they usually have one or two of the king's court wizards in the tourney grounds, casting Detect Magic on a regular basis to make sure none of the competitors or the audience are using magic to influence the competition."

Hearing this, Stalk arched an eyebrow. "Has that ever actually happened, though?" he asked, seeming incredulous.

"Not during my lifetime," Romain replied. "However, my grandfather once told me of an incident were a wizard named Quirrell was caught influencing Telekinesis to influence the results of a match by trying to throw people off their mounts. Thankfully, he was caught in the act and his shenanigans put to an end."

Finnan's eyes widened to the sizes of small plates. "Was he arrested?"

Romain was silent for a while before replying. "There was a battle between the wizards... and he was disintegrated. Accidentally, but still..."

Stalk's mocking look immediately grew as he asked aloud "How the fuck do you disintegrate someone accidentally?!" However, the knowledge that might happen seemed to have scared Finnan straight, and even as his shoulders slumped in disappointed, he acquiesced with a small, childish mumble of "Alright."

A clawed hand then tousled Finnan's hair as Stalk said, "Sorry little guy – the ass will have to stay seated for now." The kenku looked very pleased with himself as he said that, barely holding back a snicker.

Logan rolled his eyes. 'Yeah, real original, Stalk...'

Nodding as two of their choices were made, Romain then asked, "What about the mounted joust?"

That made Logan's mood brighten a little. The mounted joust was always the highlight of any tournament no matter where it was held in Faerun. The knights who could demonstrate the unity of the three classic skills of knighthood - horsemanship, skill-at-arms, and the courage to ride at a foe head-on without flinching – could cover themselves in glory before the adoring crowds and have their names known far and wide. And in a place like Milisevre, which seemed to be the very birthplace of chivalry in Faerun, he had no doubt that the fame that could be won through winning a competition would be even greater.

Plus, to prove himself against fellow warriors who may still follow Bahamut's creed? He could think of no greater way to prove himself here and now.

"I'd be happy to volunteer myself for that." Logan said aloud.

Finnan and Stalk both looked his way... but it wasn't them who gave any objections.

"I'm afraid I must disagree, Sir Logan. I should be the one to take part in the joust."

Logan turned his head to see Romain looking at him with an expression of concern that bordered on pity – an action that made Logan's shoulders tense again.

"Why?" Logan asked, forcing down his frustration so it didn't become apparent in his voice.

"I've ridden in many a tournament here in Milisevre for the past three years of my knighthood..." Romain replied. "Truth be told, they're the only combat experience I have, save for almost being killed by the chimera. Besides, you're bigger, more muscular, and have a longer reach than I do – traits that serve a knight well in a melee, but not so much in a joust."

He then gave a small laugh and said, "After all, broad shoulders make for a big target!"

The statement was japery, but in that moment, Logan felt a prickling sensation ripple across his skin, the needles jabbing every inch of his face and chest... and as it did, it seemed like Romain's joke became more and more like an insult.

He couldn't tell if Romain was trying to protect him... or was trying to belittle him.

Fighting the urge to step to Romain in response to this, Logan held himself back and replied stiffly with "Forgive me, Sir Romain, but you don't exactly have the best track record yourself with combat. After all, we had to save you from the chimera."

Romain gave him a nod. "True enough, Logan. True enough..." As he said that, his eyes suddenly began glittering with playful mischief. "Then it seems there's only one way we can settle this! We will face each other in the tilting yard, Sir Logan, and the winner will represent our team in the mounted joust!" As he declared that, he held out a hand. "Deal?"

Logan looked at the hand before him – the proverbial thrown gauntlet. And he grabbed it shook it without hesitation.

~~~

Some time later, he and Romain were in the tilting yard, fully outfitted in their armour with their shields strapped to their arms. Their sigils of the rampant griffin and the knight on horseback seeming to face each other down, eying each other like the foes in some great story. Meanwhile, rising high into the sky from each of them, twelve feet long, was a long, tapering beam of wood tipped in a small, round iron sphere that gleamed like a crystal ball in the light of the setting sun.

A tourney lance. Longer and lighter than a war lance – chiefly because it wasn't a true weapon. The wood wasn't banded or turned, since it was designed to break upon impact instead, and the spheres on the end of these lances replaced the cruel, sharpened points from their battlefield counterparts, which could go through solid plate armour like it was made of paper.

With his right hand gripping his lance, Logan had to rely on his left hand to guide Thunder. With practised movements, he clicked his tongue and eased the reins about until he and the horse were standing at one end of the long wooden barrier that divided the arena. The barrier was on Logan's left, and at its other end and on the other side, was Romain, who already had his visor down, his plate armour of silvered steel and red plume making him look like a celestial spirit on horseback, come to ride down all the enemies of good and virtue. To both his and Logan's rear stood a squire whom they'd paid to assist with their little sparring match – both were teenage boys too young for knighthood, standing at the ready to pass them new lances after the old ones were used.

They were not much older than Romain, and even Logan tried not to admit that his comrade, with whom he'd spoken so fondly about the heroes they admired just this morning, looked like the placard boy for young chivalric knights everywhere. Even this far from Romain, he felt overshadowed and pathetic, no better than the squires.

He didn't even have his own steed. Romain's Elodie was truly his own, while Thunder was merely borrowed. From Romain.

Below him, Thunder snorted like a bull and pawed the ground. The sight gave Logan a small spurt of confidence, and he reached down to pat the stallion on the neck. "Ride straight and true, boy..." he whispered encouragingly. "Straight and true."

Horses were among the most noble of creatures, he knew from long experience. More noble than men like himself, for sure.

The hammering of the carpenter's mallets had now stopped, and in the tail of his eye, Logan saw people moving around in the now-completed stands. Stalk and Finnan were taking their own seats, and turning his head to the west, his visor shading his eyes from the blinding glare of the sun, he saw a gaggle of Milisevran knights also strolling along the benches, some of them laying cushions down on the hard, splintery wooden surface before they sat down. They had eager grins on their faces, though as he looked closer, and heard the words passing between them as they discussed what was going on in the tilting yard.

"Ah, so Sir Romain did find a team!" one of their number said in surprise. He was a pudgy knight with a goitre on his neck, clad in white and silver.

"Not with me he didn't!" Another figure spoke up – a lean and comely man with a long, thin face and a sardonic smile. He then tossed his thick flop of strawberry blonde hair, preening and straightening his black surcoat before he turned in Logan's direction and asked, "What house does the other one belong to?"

That question that made Logan's heart seize up. They all sat to his left while he and Thunder faced north, so his shield was on full display to them, illuminated by the sunset. As he felt their eyes upon him, a scraping sound filled Logan's jaw as his teeth ground together.

A third knight with a mop of blue-black locks, his slightly pointed ears framed by ragged sideburns, then piped up. From his ears, slighter build and narrow face, Logan took him for a half-elf, but that did nothing to prevent the figure from hurling a few mocking words of his own in Logan's direction.

"None that I recognise. Must be from outside Milisevre..." he remarked through his gapped teeth. "Knowing Sir Romain, he'd be desperate enough to look out for lesser warriors. Might not even be a knight – just some mercenary, judging by that shoddy gear of his."

Logan's fist clenched so tight around the handle of his lance that his palm and fingers burned, squeezing the wood so tight that for half a moment, he thought it might shatter.

"Well, we may as well watch them while they're here..." he heard the half-elf say aloud. "After all, these green boys aren't going to even make it to the joust, if you ask me!"

Guffaws of laughter followed from the crowd, making Logan's face burn and his breath come out his nose like white-hot steam. Snorting as hard as Thunder, he turned away from the gaggle of bellends as their chortling echoed across the yard and slammed down the visor of his helm in the hopes of shutting it out.

"I am Sir Logan Galehaut..." he said aloud, his deep voice reverberating in his ears, surrounding him with trembling words even as he tried to steady them. "... nephew and protégé of Sir Oren Galehaut and paladin of the Platinum Dragon. I have earned my knighthood, by dubbing at my uncle's hand and in battle against the Chimera of Toussaint. I am no green boy... and I will not be a failure!"

With that, staring across the field at Romain, he tugged on Thunder's reins and pressed his spurs into the stallion's flanks. Immediately, the grey beast reared up and whinnied, and then came a sound like an oncoming army as hooves drummed on the ground below him. Lowering his fist and instinctively pulling his elbow inward to cradle the bottom of the lance, Logan roared a battle cry of "GALEHAUT!" and brandished his weapon right at Romain.

All he got from Romain was a whooping laugh and Elodie rearing up as he also charged forwards, his lance lowering until the rounded tip was level with Logan's chest. The gleaming sphere came closer and closer with unnerving speed, propelled by the thundering of hooves closer and closer to him.

All Logan could do about it was bring his shield arm forward to intercept the blow – he didn't have the time to focus only on defence. He had to deliver his own strike as well. Muscles straining as he steered the unwieldy length of wood about, Logan focused all his remaining attention on aiming his lance while sparing just enough to ensure his shield didn't drop out of its guarding position. His first target became Romain's brightly-patterned shield, but he quickly remembered that was a rookie mistake.

However, said mistake cost his precious milliseconds, and soon Romain was so close that Logan could see the gleam in his eyes. Clenching his teeth and willing his bicep to curve, Logan lifted his lance upwards and further left, aiming to strike Romain's head.

The two of them slammed together like a pair of charging rams, and Logan's field of vision suddenly went skyward as an impact like the thousand sword strikes slammed into his arm. His left hand and shield crushed in against his chest, yanking Thunder's reins to one side, and then his tendons tore back so hard he thought his limb would pop clean from his shoulder. For a while, he could only feel pain, hear an echoing din of white noise, and see the sky above him through the slit in his visor.

Logan didn't know how he did it, but not only did he come back to full consciousness – he remained in his saddle! Joy flickered through him then, soothing some of the agony, and with a grunt he pulled himself back upright in the saddle.

However, as he turned back around, his joy and hope dissolved in his mouth – Romain had corrected himself just the same, and now stood ready for another bout. Both their lances had been smashed, and Logan saw a dent in the plate of his foe's shoulder, revealing that he had missed his target when he aimed to hit Romain's head.

Logan gritted his teeth. That would not do. And within moments, he had dropped his lance and one of the squires had handed him a fresh one.

In an actual match, they could only have three lances and would score points – one for a strike to the body, two for a strike to the head, and an instant win for knocking your foe from his mount. He and Romain broke eight lances, and neither of them could get further than one point per lance. Soon, the tilting yard was so torn up by hooves and covered in beige splinters that it looked like a bad attempt at ploughing and sowing a field of grain... and yet the two competitors were still tied.

"Right, boys, I think this is enough!" Stalk shouted, vaulting from the stands where he and Finnan were watching the whole match. "You're clearly evenly matched, so I think we should cut this out and try something else..."

Logan shook his head, heart shaking in his chest. He was in so much pain, it was all he could do to just see and hear clearly. Lance blow after lance blow had left his arm numb and his hand seemingly locked into a fist – he couldn't feel his fingers enough to uncurl them from around the reins. His shoulders had both been shoved violently back so many times that he felt as through his spine would be ripped clean from his back if so much as one more strike came his way.

But he wouldn't let that stop him. He couldn't. Not now.

"We need to sort this out now, Stalk!" he shouted, shoving his visor up out of his face, briefly savouring the icy burn of the evening air on his sweat-covered skin. "The tournament is tomorrow, remember! We need to decide now!"

At the other end of the tilting yard, Romain's visor was now up as well, and Logan could see that the Milisevran was just as exhausted as he was - his youthful face glistening in the fading light and his voice barely audible through ragged panting.

"Stalk has a point, Sir Logan!" was what Logan heard him say. "Maybe one last run, before we lose the light?"

"One run is all I need..." Logan said with a grimace as he raised his right hand, lowered his visor and took one final lance from his squire. He glimpsed the knights in the stands watching with eager grins, though who they were wanting to fall was anyone's guess.

But then, Logan focused. Flexing the fingers of his right hand, feeling the handle of the lance, he resolved to make this final strike his best. To hit like a hammer, and withstand Romain's attack with the fortitude of a castle wall. Slamming his helmet's visor back down, he drove his spurs into Thunder's flank, and as his mount reared up and charged forward, Logan levelled his lance with Romain.

To his surprise, all Romain did was sigh before pushing his own visor down and urging Elodie into a charge with a kick of his own spurs. Determination burning within him, even as his arm was raw with exhaustion, Logan aimed his lance right for Romain centre – his solar plexus. He aimed to put the tip right there and shove with every ounce of strength he still had, forcing his foe from his horse if it was the last thing he did.

As the two horses hurtled closer and closer, the moment of impact came. Logan focused on delivering his strike, and at the last moment, once his aim was perfect, he flicked his eyes to see that Romain's lance was aimed in much the same way as his own.

He moved his shield to guard... but then suddenly, Romain's lance rose abruptly, and the round metal tip was driving straight for his face!

It was all Logan could do to throw his head back before a force crashed so hard against his face that for a moment, all went black. His body became weightless... only for a sudden, equally terrible force to slam into his back and tear every scrap of air clean from his lungs. Crying out in pain, he felt earthy specks cascade onto his eyes and heard a sound like falling rain all around him... only to peel his eyes open to find the sound was chunks of dirt landing upon his armour as he lay face-up on the ground. Unhorsed.

It was his first true joust, and the whoops of joy and excitement from his 'adoring crowd' were instead jeers of mockery. And as Logan lifted the bent remnants of his visor, desperate for a suck of cool air, he heard it.

"What in Bahamut's name did I just see?" he heard one of the knights in the stands remark mockingly. "Unhorsed by a teenager... what kind of warrior does he think he is?"

That did it.

Hurling his shattered lance from his grip, Logan shoved himself to his feet, wads of mud and tufts of grass sliding from his shoulders. He yanked his helm clean from his head and tossed that across the yard as well before he marched across to the knights in the stands, tore one of his gauntlets off and swung it to the floor so hard that a small explosion of mud splattered all around it.

"A duel!" he yelled to the knights in the stands. "Here and now!"

His shout was met with expressions of bemusement from the Milisevrans, all of whom looked older than him. He even heard a few snickers before the ball of pudge with the goitre spoke up.

"Come now, boy! It's just a bit of fun! No harm's befallen you from our taunts!"

Logan fixed the tubby man with his golden eyes. "You've insulted myself and family name, sirs! Now you'll pay the price!" he roared. "I'll take you all on at once if need be, but I will not suffer one more word of ridicule from any of you!"

More snickers came forth from the group, stoking Logan's anger so much that he briefly thought about vaulting into the stands, blade in hand. But then the lean, sardonic knight with the flop of light orange hair rose from his seat and gestured about to his fellow knights.

"Are you all ready to see me thrash another newcomer, amis?" he asked around, his mouth twisting into a smirk so brazen it seemed to reflect the sunlight just as much as his hair.

His friends nodded and gave him encouraging, playful shoves. "Go and get 'em, Amadis!" he heard one of them say. "There's scarcely a blade in Milisevre better than yours!"

The one they called 'Amadis' then hurdled the edge of the stands and stood about eight paces from Logan, straight as a dirk and his chin in the air. Reaching to twin scabbards hanging from his waist, he pulled an identical blade from each – a shortsword of 28 inches with a tapering blade that ran from a gilded hilt to a fine, razor-sharp point.

Logan then heard the sound of hooves behind him, and reluctantly turned in time to see Romain dismounting and hurrying up to him. "Logan, what are you-?" he asked, pulling his own helm from his head to reveal his golden locks.

"Defending my honour." Logan butted in, and that was all he had to say for his companion to go silent. He then turned back to see Amadis whirling his blades around with flair and abandon, showing off for his fellow knights before deigning to look Logan's way at last.

"Well, I heard you scream you are a Galehaut..." he remarked, his smirk stretching from ear to ear. "I take it you're the one they're leaving out of the history books."

Logan's fist tightened around Sacrifice's hilt. "Words are the weapon of weaklings, Sir Amadis. Either raise your blade or wimp away from mine – either will do."

The Milisevran chuckled. "I don't know – both are equally sharp! Far more so than yours!" he jeered, much to his friends' amusement.

It seemed like Logan's eyes were aflame in their sockets as he heard that, burning so hot they cast his features in iron. Bending his knees and raising both arms, he took on a fighting stance and roared "I'll see for myself when I rip that tongue from your wormy little mouth!" His rage was as black as night, and as the fight commenced, it only grew worse. The pain of the joust amplified his every emotion, stoking his blazing blood into a torrent of unfettered fury.

As if to taunt him further, Sir Amadis then started the sight not with a slash or a thrust, but with feints. He and Logan circled each other, but while Logan kept the same stance, his foe kept shifting about as they turned – he was darting forward or to either side, the mocking grin on his face making it clear he was trying to bait Logan into dropping his guard.

But as Logan's swordplay lessons flashed before his eyes, time seeming to slow as their blades gleamed in the evening light, one rang above all.

'Never look at a man's eyes in a fight, Logan.' His uncle's advice from years ago rang in his head. 'Look at his body and his weapons, focus on their movements. You only look a foe in the eyes when he is defeated, for the eyes are the window to his soul, not a tool toward victory.'

And so Logan did just that – as Amadis mocked him by ducking around, Logan's gaze tracked his every move. As he did so, his foe's two shortswords and four limbs became all that mattered, his foe now faceless and without identity.

Who he was fighting no longer sat at the forefront of his mind, and his rage dimmed a little, making the path to victory clearer. His eyes watched for patterns in Amadis' movements, for weaknesses in his guard. He noticed that the Milisevran held his right blade up near his cheek, the razor-sharp point fixed right at Logan, while his left blade was held low in front of his thighs and in a reverse grip.

A parrying position... or a distraction.

In an instant, through the fog of pain that still plagued him, his opponent's strategy seemed to materialize clear as day in his mind. And so, instead of watching the left-hand blade, he kept his eyes on the right.

Amadis continued to dance around for a while, but when he saw it wasn't working, his movements stilled and he seemed to coil up, like a serpent waiting to strike...

'Here it comes...' Logan thought.

And it did. Charging forward with a shrill war cry, Amadis lunged and raised his left hand high before swinging the reverse-gripped blade down like a reaper's scythe. His movements made it clear that he intended for Logan to parry that with his sword, keeping the weapon locked in place while his other blade went for the paladin's eye.

A trick Logan wouldn't fall for. 'I'll show you...' he thought.

And so as Amadis' left arm came down, Logan slipped backwards. Then, as the dual-wielder's other blade shot right for Logan's face, he swung Sacrifice upwards and outwards. Steel smashed against steel, and as Amadis attempted to pull his weapon back, the hilts of longsword and shortsword caught on each other for a split-second.

And not by accident. Logan had put it there deliberately. Now his opponent was exposed, and Logan's heart leapt as his arm surged forward and he drove the iron rim of his shield right into Amadis' face.

The man's jaw shattered like a pane of glass, blood and broken teeth spurting from his lips to foam down onto the floor. But as Logan heard the crunch of steel rupturing bone and felt the impact through his arm, the joy of victory immediately gave way to an unyielding tide of regret.

As Amadis went sprawling, clutching as his jaw and squealing like a pig, he got no satisfaction from putting one who had called him a disgrace squirming and kicking in the dirt, screaming through the hands that were clutching his face. Instead, the young paladin staggered back as Amadis' fellow knights rushed into the arena and hoisted him out of the mud, slinging an arm over two of their numbers' shoulders.

"You're alright, Amadis..." he heard the one with the goitre say. "You'll be fine."

"Quick, let's get him to a cleric in the Cathedral!" Another knight who hadn't said much until now, garbed in light green and orange, yelled as they carried him away. As they did so, Amadis continued to groan and gasp in sheer agony, leaving a trail of crimson on the floor as he was hauled off the tourney grounds.

Logan had never felt such a change of emotions tear through his soul so quickly. The pride and sense of justice he felt at having upheld his family's honour seemed to turn to ash in his mouth as he saw what his anger had made him do, even to such a cad as Amadis.

And it didn't go down all to well with his comrades either; as he turned around, Stalk bellowed "Dude! What the hells?!" in the first time Logan had seen him truly appalled by anything.

Straightening up, Logan tried to justify what he had just done, both to himself and his comrades. "He insulted my honour... I had to do something." His voice didn't sound as strong as he hoped, as he struggled to put his faith behind them. The looks that Finnan and Stalk were giving him shook him to his core – especially Finnan, who was pale-faced and clutching himself with shock.

Most harrowing of all, even Romain looked scared of him, if only for a brief moment before the knight seemed to steel himself.

"I understand your motives, Sir Logan..." he said "... but you could have ignored his taunts. Words are wind, after all..."

Logan struggled to believe what Romain said, even as the guilt of breaking a man's jaw so brutally stuck with him. What kind of knight would he be if he let others insult him to his face? What kind of man would be didn't stand up for himself? Emotions whirled within him, his sense of right and wrong suddenly turned on its head with the force of an avalanche.

His arms began to tremble, and at the same time, so did his heart.

"I'm sorry..." he said shakily as he sheathed his family blade, its weight seeming immense as it hung at his side. "I went too far, I know. But I couldn't stand by and let him get away with that." When he said that, he glanced down at his shield, still strapped to his arm and still showing the Galehaut sigil.

Even the white griffin, which had had always been a source of pride for him, seemed to look upon him with disdain.

After a pause, Stalk seemed to calm down, and said aloud "Well, I think we've decided who's gonna being fightin' in the melee..."

And his statement booked no argument from Logan, who didn't even open his mouth to respond. The sight of the blood on the ground and where he had crashed from Thunder's back on the tilting grounds made the sensation of incompetence, of weakness weigh all the more heavily upon him.

In more ways than one, he had failed. And he would now pay the price.