Logan had polished his helm, mail and blade so much by the time the sun had fully risen that you could have eaten your dinner off them. His coat-of-arms on his shield was bold as could be, the white griffin bright as a star against the navy background. Each time he gazed down at one of the pieces of metalwork before him, he could see himself staring back in the reflective surface, golden eyes catching the light and shining with a thousand different emotions:

Excitement. Terror. Pride. Trepidation. Hope. Joy. And then many more he couldn't name.

This was his first ever tournament – he had watched many as a boy, but never competed until now. And while he had always longed to join the lists before, now he was in them for real, that longing shrivelled away and was replaced by an ocean's worth of pressure.

He recalled not only his desire to win and prove himself a knight, but also Elsa back at the Cockatrice Inn – the very reason he and the others, aside from Technus and maybe Stalk, had originally journeyed to Milisevre in the first place.

He hoped against hope that the genial innkeeper was still okay... and remembered his promise that he would offer her help by bringing the matter before King Charles. After all, if there was a potential horde of gnolls marching on the kingdom, he needed to know.

He could only hope that King Charles would pay heed to their words and believe what they had seen... and that was assuming they even got to speak to him in the first place.

Romain had mentioned that only the victors of the tourney would win an audience with the king, and much the same as Logan, the Milisevran youth was also eager to win this tournament so that he might have the honour of questing for the Lake of Virtue. And only them proving they were better than all the other competing knights would allow them to attain the chance for this quest.

Logan had a lot riding on his skills today, and he prayed to Bahamut that they were enough to carry him through.

'Speaking of riding...'

Logan then remembered he had an apology to make. After pulling on his gear, sheathing Sacrifice at his hip, strapping his shield to his arm and tying his yellow kerchief about his upper arm, he walked from his tent and around the back of Romain's, which was just nearby.

There, just where they'd left them, their steeds were grazing on the carpet of emerald grass that covered the earth around them. Elodie, Ruby, Dapple and all the others tore up the greenery with their front teeth, then chewed the cud until it finally went down, their jaws and stomachs both rumbling gently as they did so.

But the only animal he was looking for was Thunder. And it made Logan's heart sink when, as he found the dark grey stallion and approached him, the horse lifted his head and immediately started to back away, whickering softly in alarm.

Logan only had himself to blame for that, but he hoped to make it right. And so, instead of approaching, he remained where Thunder could see him and help up his hands in appeal.

"Woah, easy boy..." he said, not moving a muscle save for his lips. "I'm not here to ride you. Not today. I'm just... I'm sorry I pushed you so hard last night. It was stupid of me, and I wasn't thinking straight."

Logan felt a little silly in his gut, talking to a horse. But his sense of right and wrong meant he couldn't let this slip.

He had been, in no uncertain terms, a complete fucking idiot last night – it was only after Arabella's intervention and rejuvenating what common sense he had in his sleep that he had realized that. But Thunder had suffered his stupidity without good cause, and as a paladin, he couldn't let that stand.

Especially when the wrong was his own doing.

"Don't worry, though..." he continued to say. "I'm in the melee. So I won't need to ride you - you can stay rested after the opening ceremony." Logan had seen before how, at a tournament's start, all the knights would ride in and line up before the hosting lord or noble – in this case, the king – so that they and the crowd could see the competitors.

That was the only time he would need Thunder today.

Still, as he looked up at the stallion with a hopeful expression, he got little to no response. The big grey destrier was still as a statue, his snorting making it clear that whatever trust he had in his rider was long gone...

Logan had been expecting this, and in his head echoed the words 'Time for Plan B...'

This entire time, he had been holding one hand behind his back, concealed beneath his cloak. Keeping his head lowered, he looked up at Thunder, managing a smile at last while he pegged his hopes on his next move.

"Here – I have something for you..." he whispered. He then removed his hand from behind his back and produced what he had pinched from their breakfast – two ripe apples, glossy and crimson as rubies.

Thunder's head suddenly perked up and his dark eyes brightened with recognition. Immediately, he moved in, and Logan grinned as he let the stallion munch away.

"Just our secret, okay?" he whispered, ruffling the horse's mane.

Almost instantly, it became like last night never happened. The apples' flesh crunched in Thunder's teeth, and he consumed every bite, right down to where Logan had to lower his hand just in case the stallion accidentally nipped him.

Most importantly, when Thunder finished, he didn't pull away. Instead, he remained close to Logan's side, looking right at him without any sign of hesitance.

'If only all of my failings could be washed away so easily...' Logan thought before smiling and asking out loud, "So... am I forgiven?"

Silently, Thunder's ears twitched... and then the big grey equine leaned in even closer to him, pushing his snout into Logan's arms, which made the paladin break into a big smile despite himself. Reaching up, he stroked the stallion's mane with one hand and rubbed his snout with the other.

"I'll take that as a yes..." he said. "You're a noble steed, Thunder... even if you're not mine. There was a small measure of sadness in his voice when he finished that sentence. "All the same, I'll be bringing you on the quest for the Lake, should we find victory today."

At that, Thunder whinnied, tossing his head back a bit and nodding as his dark eyes met Logan's.

"He said it'd be an honour..." A voice said in that moment, and Logan turned to see Finnan walking towards him, beaming brightly. The halflings corn-yellow hair was as tangled as ever, and he still wore his usually mantle of leaves and other foliage... but with his own yellow kerchief tied about his thin left bicep, he stood as tall and proud as a king, his mess of dirty blonde locks like a crown as he grinned with joy and excitement.

The smile was infectious, and Logan soon found his own smile breaking into a grin.

"Morning, Finnan..." he said. "You seem more cheerful than usual this morning."

"I am!" Finnan replied. "Well, we're gonna get to compete in the tournament at last, and speak to the crowned mam who everybody's been talking about."

Logan nodded, figuring the halfling druid meant King Charles. "Indeed we are... if we win," he said, willing his smile not to fade too much at the thought they might not be the victors.

Walking closer, Finnan stood at Logan's very feet, his face suddenly turning to a firm stare that bore a fierce gleam of certainty in his eyes. "We will..." he said softly.

At this, Logan chuckled – not because he didn't believe or didn't trust Finnan, but more as an inditement of himself.

"I wish I had your confidence, Finnan..." he admitted, his voice shaking slightly as he looked to the floor. "How can you be so sure?"

"I know a lot of things..." Finnan said. "Like I know that Thunder said he forgives you." The halfling approached Thunder slowly and placed a calm hand on his flank - still moving with that unnerving confidence, seemingly without any fear of the warhorse spooking or kicking. "He was more worried about you than anything after last night... worried you were sick or scared."

The druid stared into the middle distance as he said that, his eyes seeming to darken as he seemed to look everywhere and nowhere all at once. And his words went just deep enough to make Logan feel alarmed.

Straightening his back, he replied with "I'm not afraid, Finnan. I'm just... aware of what might come to pass, and I want to be ready for it."

He wasn't being entirely honest, there... but image was everything.

"After all..." he then continued "... failing to prepare is preparing to fail."

However, Finnan then looked up at him and quickly changed the subject. "Are you sure I can't ride Dapple in the horse race?" he asked before sticking out his bottom lip. "He's a good donkey, and he wants to help us!"

Hearing this, Logan sighed and couldn't help rolling his eyes a little. "Yes, I'm sure..." he said. "A donkey won't keep up with a horse in a race. Not by a long shot."

Finnan clearly didn't take this well, and began to lift his foot as if to throw it down in a childish, stroppy stomp... when a small sound behind Logan made him freeze and look past the paladin's frame. Logan also recognized the sound as a soft clearing of the voice, and turned around to spy a welcome sight.

It was Arabella, and the moment she saw Finnan, walking towards her hanging his head, she leant down closer and gently cupped his cheek in one of her delicate hands.

"I know you want to ride Dapple, Finnan, but if you want to win the race, you'll have to ride something faster for now..." she said softly, her voice a comforting whisper.

Only her words finally seemed to get Finnan to relent. "Okay..." he said reluctantly, to which Arabella smiled warmly and gave a little giggle.

"How about this?" she said to him. "You can ride Ruby, the horse I rode on the way here. That way, I'll be with you when you take part in the race!"

Her tone was one of excitement and encouragement, and Finnan immediately responded by rushing in and throwing his arms around Arabella's snatched waist. She repaid his gesture in kind, and watched fondly as Finnan skipped off, humming to himself.

Logan watched just as fondly before his gaze refocused on Arabella. The Princess of Evermeet had donned a dress of a deep and brilliant blue with a square-cut top that bared her shoulders and a skirt that fell to midway down her calves. Over the top was a white sweetheart bodice trimmed and embroidered with gold, and pulled around her back was sun-yellow shawl with small tassels hanging around the edges. Black boots with a small wedge heel were visible below the hem of her dress, and around her neck still hung the golden heart symbol of her goddess, accompanied by her equally golden locks, pulled into a loose braid that was draped over her left shoulder.

It also didn't escape Logan's notice that the dress she just happened to be of the same shades of blue and white as his family sigil, or near enough to be conspicuous. Same as how her shawl was the same colour as their assigned team.

A gesture of encouragement for her friends. Logan knew it was customary for noble ladies to wear the same colours as the heraldry of the knights they supported at events like this. He didn't know if it was the same on Evermeet, but he appreciated it for what it was.

Even as he did so, though, his heart began to pump faster. He still had one thing left to do.

Getting ready for the tournament was the easiest part of his obligations this morning. Apologizing to Thunder was harder, but he felt was manageable.

The last one was the hardest one of all – he had to talk to a beautiful woman who was wearing his house colours in a gesture of support.

'Support for the whole team, Galehaut. Not just for you, you idiot...' the voice in his head told him. 'Don't make even more of a fool of yourself. You're not good enough for her...'

But even as he took those words to heart, he did his best to greet the princess properly – to repay the kindness she had shown him last night.

"Good morning, Arabella," Logan said, giving her a smile as he stood before her.

Arabella looked up at him, then took a few steps closer and dipped down into a curtsey she asked "How are you feeling, Logan? After last night, I mean..."

It was impressively straight-to-the-point for the high elf princess, which caught Logan off-guard. Still, he did his best to answer.

"I'm fine," he told her. "I woke up at daybreak, but between then and when you knocked some sense into me, I slept heavier than a suit of lead plate..." he joked briefly before looking into Arabella's eyes and saying, "Thank you for that, by the way."

His companion's turquoise irises sparkled a little as he said that, her smile modest and caring. "You don't need to thank me, Logan. I appreciate it, but I think your wellbeing takes priority here..."

As she spoke, she reached out and placed a hand upon his upper arm, her fingers brushing across his chainmail sleeve. "I know how much this tournament means to you, is all..." she said, her gaze flicking down shyly "... and I wanted you to be rested and ready for it."

Logan felt something inside him at her words – a warmth and a trust he seldom knew how to explain. But he was touched nonetheless, and repaid her kindness by gently and hesitantly placing his hand over hers.

"You are most kind, Arabella. Kinder than I deserve... but you needn't fear," he said, even as his breath shook a little with those final words. "I'm as ready as I'll ever be. I just hope that I'll be strong enough to see us all through. That all of us will be strong enough..."

In the distance, Logan saw a few familiar figures around the campfire that burned in front of Romain's tent. Stalk was oiling his crossbow, Ren was poring over his spellbook, Romain was brushing his mass of golden locks, and Finnan was skipping in circles around the steady flames and glittering embers, carefree as could be.

All of them looked more ready than he felt. Even Ren, who wasn't taking part, seemed more a knight than Logan...

Then, he felt a light, warm touch as Arabella instantly enraptured his attention. Specifically as he moved a hand from his arm to his cheek, then leaned up to peck a kiss to his jaw. Her lips were as warm, soft and sweet as her hands, and as she pulled away she told him in a soft, melodic voice:

"You're strong enough. I know you are..."

She then smiled at him before she took his hand again and led him away, her touch more firm this time. "Now come. You need to eat," the princess told him in a maternal fashion. "I want you all well-fed for today, to keep your strength up."

Logan was too stunned to disagree, his heartbeat through-the-roof behind his ribcage, and before he knew it, Arabella had let him to the campfire to rejoin the party. At his arrival, Stalk called out to him with a 'Mornin', Sir Logan...' and Romain finished brushing his hair just in time to approach his fellow paladin and hold out his hand.

"Are you ready, mon amis?" he asked with a smile.

Arabella's kiss, though light and chaste as a dream, had awoken something within Logan, and he couldn't help but smile. Quickly glancing at the princess, who blushed delicately under his gaze, Logan then looked back to Romain and gripping his friend's hand with all his strength.

"For the Platinum Dragon." he declared proudly.
Romain grinned and nodded. "For the Platinum Dragon."

~~~

After a hearty breakfast made by Arabella's own hand and wishes of good luck from both her and Ren, the knights of the Yellow Team mounted their chosen steeds and prepared to strike forth. Logan clicked his tongue and spurred Thunder onward, following just behind Romain and Elodie to a large wooden gatehouse that marked the entrance to the arena. There, all the other knights already riding in and taking their places in a long row of mounted warriors.

It soured Logan's day to see that Milton du Vertlac was already there, looking particularly brazen and haughty in his armour of dark green and burnished gold, his bulbous nose turned up at all those who passed, even as the common people waved and bade him good fortune in the lists.

Logan felt his face curdle at the sight of him again, even if it was only brief. Soon, the accursed Comte disappeared through the gatehouse, followed by several other knights before the party finally got their turn.

Passing into darkness as their horses plodded through the gatehouse and then back out again, Logan had to lift a hand to shield his eyes – they'd been in the cool shade just long enough for his eyes to forget how bright the Milisevran sun was. But as his gaze adjusted, he looked around to behold the sights of the arena.

There were six teams, with four knights apiece, each one bearing a different colour on the kerchiefs about their upper arms - blue, red, green, white, black and yellow, in that order. All of them were lined up on the backs of their steeds, standing in a neat row across the centre of what appeared to be a hippodrome – an oval-shaped venue of grassy ground with a fence circling the very centre, just behind where their horses stood.

This was a venue designed for horse-racing, which Logan remembered Gamesmaster Phillipe saying yesterday was the first of the competitions.

Rising up above the knights from all sides was the vibrant, chromatic brilliance of the crowd and the stands - they were completely surrounded by people, from nobles wearing richly-dyed cloths seated on velvet cushions in the stands, shaded from the sun and fanned by servants, to the common people cramming together shoulder-to-shoulder against the external barriers, forming a sea of cheering, excited faces.

There were only two faces who weren't exuberant. The first was Sir Amadis, who sat up in the stands, his jaw no longer broken but his expression nonetheless bruised and peevish. And the second was Technus, who Logan briefly glimpsed the cyborg standing silently in the near-distance, motionless save for the slight swaying of his hood in the breeze, eyes coldly analysing what lay before him.

In a way, Logan was grateful he had shown up – at least it meant one more face he knew in a sea of the unfamiliar. For aside from the Tech-Cleric, and Ren and Arabella standing elsewhere at the foot of the stands, he recognized no-one, nor any of the coats-of-arms showing the families who had come to either compete or merely attend.

Overhangs, drapes and banners of a million different colours hung from every surface, with sigils of every sort depicted on ribbons, pennants and shields which lined the wooden construction of the hippodrome. The only one he did know by sight – the Milisevran royal standard depicting the Platinum Dragon triumphant over the red - flapped and fluttered from four banners atop a magnificent tent of purple and cloth-of-gold which all the knights stood facing.

Of everything here, it was the most magnificent of all, with an open balcony-like viewing protruding from the top giving a close-up view of the racetrack, its wooden floor supporting a throne of carved golden wood that rested at its centre.

No-one was there, but Logan had a gut feeling why they were facing it. And soon his suspicions were confirmed.

The thunder of hooves and the creaking of wheels sounded, and half-hidden behind the corner of that tent, the paladin of Bahamut glimpsed an enormous horse-drawn wheelhouse pull up nearby. The volume of the crowd exploded all the more as this happened, and after a few moments, a deafening storm of cheers blasted from every direction as the very man that the party had come here to see strode out to stand before the crowd within his viewing box.

The royal box.

From head to heel, King Charles the Wyrmslayer looked everything a heroic warrior and royal should be. He was a tall, magnificent lion of a man, broad of shoulder and deep of chest, garbed in the most splendorous of clothing – an ermine-trimmed cloak of purest crimson velvet was draped over richly-ornamented golden plate that was studded with rubies, sapphires, diamonds, emeralds and polish stones of jet. His crown, meanwhile was a circlet of purest platinum, resting atop the cascade of golden brown hair which flowed down from his scalp. A neat beard of the same colour framed his face, whose features were strong and sharp as an eagle's; handsome, masculine and mature.

What was most amazing, though, was that from beneath the breastplate of his shining armour came a silver-white radiance that illuminated his majesty's person. Despite the golden plate being opaque, the glow was visible to all who looked upon His Majesty, and as Logan's eyes fell in his direction, his paladin ability to sense magical energies was instantly set off.

The glow was a spark of the divine in King Charles – he could feel it. It beamed out from his body in all directions, as though the light that all could see shimmering off of him was a vessel of godly strength and righteousness.

Admiration and respect washed over Logan at the sight of the king, swiftly followed by a sudden wave of utter disbelief.

Romain told him that Gorthalon, the dragon that had nearly destroyed Milisevre, had attacked sixty years ago. He was expecting King Charles to be an old man, but in person, the monarch looked no older than thirty-five! There wasn't a wrinkle around his eyes, or even a speck of silver in his hair or beard!

"Do you sense it too?" he heard a voice to his left say, and turned to see Romain smiling at him, a knowing gleam in his eyes.

Logan nodded. "I do..." he replied before turning his gaze back to the king, watching the man smile as he raised a hand and waved to the crowd. "How... how is he so young? I thought you said he became king sixty years ago..."

His voice was barely above a whisper, but Romain still heard him.

"He did. Many say that for saving the kingdom, he was raised to a Chosen of Bahamut and blessed by the Platinum Dragon himself with many powers, including eternal youth!" Romain said that with a beaming smile.

Logan didn't think his sense of wonder could swell any further, but in that moment, it did. So much so that he felt it blast through his body like an explosion.

There were many tales of Chosen across the Realms – individuals granted a portion of their deities' own power, their status equalled only by demigods. They were living legends in our time, their names were known far and wide: Catti-Brie, Chosen of Mielikki the forest goddess; Elminster Aumar, the archmage and fellow Cormyrean who became a Chosen of Mystra, goddess of magic, and the malevolent Dark Urge, whose bloodthirst knew no bounds...

To be the Chosen of any god was an honour beyond the reckoning of many, especially Logan. Not even the greatest paladins of his family had earned such a status. Not even his uncle...

"Truly? A Chosen?" he gasped aloud.

Romain nodded, his smile wide and warm. "I believe it to be so... and it was a well-deserved reward. Under His Majesty's rule, Milisevre has known nothing but peace and prosperity!"

Behind Romain, however, Stalk spoke up, eyeing the king with an arched eyebrow. "Why is his chest shining? Does His Majesty eat lantern bugs for breakfast or something?"

He proceeded to snicker at his own mocking, snarky joke – the only laugh that was heard, even as Finnan listened in. Romain's head suddenly spun around to fix upon Stalk, and Logan swore for a moment that he saw a flash of anger, the Milisevran's eyes suddenly going from bright and jovial to sharp and stern.

However, that ended up being the most anger he had ever seen out of Romain, who then proceeded to explain, his voice calm but firm.

"That is the Dragonmark, Stalk, as folk call it..." he said. "When the Dukes of Milisevre, His Majesty included, were chosen to slay Gorthalon during the Slaughter, the Platinum Dragon made his mark appear on their chests, calling them to defend their kingdom," he explained. "His Majesty survived, and so the Dragonmark remains upon him – a sign of his status."

Logan instantly felt his imagination and respect captured by Charles' feats, and as he looked up at the monarch, that sensation in his own chest grew as he noticed something else.

At the King's sides and all around his tent stood a posse of knights – about thirty-five by his count – guarding the entryways to the cloth-of-gold structure as well as His Majesty's person in the viewing box itself. They were of varying heights and builds, but each carried themselves with an air of nobility and strength, as any true knight should. The species of each member remained hidden, though, for each of them was clad in an identical suit of platinum-coloured plate that covered them from head to toe.

Every piece of the armour was masterfully sculpted into draconic patterns and shapes. Their face-covering helms were carved like dragon heads, their gauntlets shaped like reptilian claws, and the cloaks of cobalt blue and yellow gold that hung down their backs were pinned to their shoulders by clasps resembling leathery wings, wrought in silver and brass.

They were almost as magnificent as His Majesty, and again, Logan couldn't help but turn to Romain in search of answers.

"Who are those knights around the king?" he whispered.

Thankfully, Romain was more than willing to explain – as ever, he was a lifesaver in this foreign country.
"They are the Ptarian Guard - His Majesty's personal protection and one of the most prestigious knightly orders in the realm." Romain explained. "They swear a solemn vow to protect the King and the royal family with their lives, foregoing lands, titles, serving only the realm until their deaths."

Logan's background knowledge filled in the rest – no doubt they were named after the Ptarian Code, a draconic code of honour created by the gold dragon Ptaris in the ancient past and seen as one of the bedrocks of Bahamut's faith.

One of its tenets was 'Honour and Fealty to the King', and if they were Charles' bodyguards, then no more need be said.

All of this was making Logan feel smaller and smaller - here he stood, in the presence of legends, and he was growing more self-conscious by the second. In the light of all the other knights that lined both the tournament field and the stands themselves, the Cormyrean paladin feared that, even with everything he'd done to look the part, he was still not up to scratch.

Clenching his jaw, he pushed his chest out a bit as he took in a deep breath, then kept it there as he straightened his back and steeled himself.

'I am a Galehaut. A son of Frostpeak and a servant of the Platinum Dragon...' he declared in his head. 'It is not in my blood to know fear... and it is not in me to fail.'

The instant King Charles raised both his hands for silence in the royal box, his command was obeyed and the clamour of the crowd died down swiftly, bathing the entire tournament in an awed, tense quiet as everyone turned the monarch's way and waited with bated breath.

Then, His Majesty began to speak:

"Friends! Milisevrans! Countrymen!" he declared, sweeping his arm in a wide arc as his voice boomed out across the grounds. "It brings a tear to my eye to see so many having travelled far and wide to be here this day! And to see so many knights having arrived to prove their mettle!"

As he spoke, his bright, twinkling eyes scanned the row of knights before him. "Each and every one of you, young or old, rich or poor, honour me with your presence, for your arrival shows you are prepared to undertake the quest for our most sacred Lake of Virtue, and to win back the heart of our history – the place where the birth of our fair nation began many centuries ago!"

A great cheer of 'huzzah!' went up from the crowd, to which the King smiled and allowed to die down before continuing.

"But only the best among you shall be chosen to embark upon this mission, and as you clash in today's trials, the victorious team shall be proved for us all to see! For it is upon the field of battle that a knight's true worth is shown, as it was in the days of King Garahel, and shall be evermore!" He stated, his hand closing into a fist and crashing against his chest, the echo blasting across the grounds.

Another cry of 'huzzah!'

"But fear not – the fruits of your labour shall be great indeed! For alongside the honour of questing for the Lake, the victorious team shall receive a royal audience and a boon of their choosing! If it is within my power to grant, it shall be yours!"

Logan's hands tightened around Thunder's reins as his ears seized upon those words, every nerve and muscle in his body aflame with determination.

After His Majesty's speech, a herald garbed in a neck-ruff and a surcoat of the royal colours stepped up onto a podium overlooking the arena and uncorked a long, cylindrical scroll holder before unfurling the contents. Holding up the length of papyrus, he quickly and subtly cleared his throat before reading out loud:

"Your Majesty, and good folk of Milisevre, the teams for the Tourney of the Lake are as follows..."

Each team was then listed, starting with the Red Team, who stood together on horseback at the far end of the arena from Logan and his companions. From there, the herald began to work his way down the line.

"The Green Team: Comte Milton du Vertlac, Sir Anseis de Dorndalle, Sir Fulber de Barbaron and Baron Sebastien de L'Huec."

Cheers went up from the crowd, though nowhere near half as loud as the ones for King Charles had been. Still, Milton, Anseis and Fulber soaked it up, the first two waving to the crowd, while the latter punched the air with his giant fist.

What the people were cheering for in those three, Logan couldn't comprehend. Milton was garbed in splendour, but his cronies wore armour of dirty chainmail and boiled leather beneath their surcoats.

Not to mention, while Logan had never thought himself a looker, he was a bloody nymph or freaking Arabella compared to those ugly louts. Anseis' hair was like rat's tails, Milton's sneers were as pleasant as a cheesegrater, and Fulber's head looked like a thumb with a face protruding from a bull carcass.

Baron Sebastien wasn't much better – he was tall and sturdily-built, though not quite of a height with Milton, with lopsided ears sticking out from the sides of his distractingly small head. Dressed in his silvered-steel plate and milk-pale surcoat, he looked like a peach left on top of a glacier, his crest that of a grey bridge against a white background.

The herald read out of the names of the White Team and Black Team next, all of them getting decent cheers as the knights

"Finally, the Yellow Team: Sir Romain de Toussaint, Sir Logan Galehaut, Sir Stalk and Sir Finnan Greatsurge."

A gentle pattering, no louder than the sound of a light rainfall, dripped down from the stands as the nobles seated there clapped politely. Meanwhile, a few half-hearted cheers sounded from the crowd, while most merely turned to those around them and whispered with quizzical expressions.

Ren and Arabella clapped and smiled, while the wind carried the sound of a few snickers down the rows of their competitors, which made Logan's jaw clench tighter than a fist. He tried not to notice Milton's twisted smirk or Fulber's sickly, yellow-toothed grin in the tail of his eye...

He longed to see those wretched looks wiped off both their faces. To see them cast into the dirt by himself and his friends.

The idea of that made the shadow of his own smile dance across Logan's face, and a glimmer of confidence sparked in his chest, bursting out in defiance of all the pressure that continued to assail him.

He could do this... he had to. For Elsa, for Romain, and for House Galehaut. Not necessarily in that order.

And so he then scanned the crowd and opened his mouth to address them.

"You may not know our names, true, for we are not from Milisevre!" Logan declared. "But we fought at the side of Sir Romain to slay the Chimera of Toussaint, and both Stalk and Finnan were knighted at his hand!" he declared, turning to his companions. "Knighted for valour in the field of battle, and for honour in service to the kingdom!"

Drawing his sword, heart and head pounding as he felt all eyes on him, he thrust his blade aloft and cried out. "The same valour brought us here, and I can think of no greater honour than to stand amongst the knights of Milisevre, and to join one for the chance to search for your country's most sacred place! While we may not be Milisevran by birth, I hope we shall prove that, in spirit, we can be as noble as the People of the Platinum Dragon!"

His speech was made up completely on the spot, and at first it drew naught but looks of contempt from the nobility in the stands. But then, as Arabella and Ren clapped and Romain looked his way with wide eyes full of gratitude, a wave of approving cheers swept through from the common people below, calling out 'Aye!' and 'Tres bien!' at his words.

It was not enough to equal the cheers the other teams had received, but it was something at least.

Most heart-lifted and nerve-wracking of all, King Charles had noticed... and was smiling down at Logan with a gleam of proud approval in his eye.

The Cormyrean's moment in the limelight was sweet, but short, for King Charles' voice quickly seized it back with ease. "Tell us, Gamesmaster - what is the first competition?" he boomed. As he said that, His Majesty whirled about, and a figure began to emerge from the back of the royal box.

As the sun brought his feature to light, his long, narrow and chinless face immediately made him recognisable – Phillipe.

"Horse riding, Your Majesty," the bureaucrat replied, wringing his little hands with nerves as he smiled up at the royal. King Charles was a over a head taller than him, standing tall and proud while Phillipe was hunched and submissive.

But the king responded with a kindly grin before he declared "Then I see no reason for us to wait any longer!" Then, with a flash and a flourish, Charles reached to his hip and drew his sword from beneath his cloak, the blade catching the sun and sending barbs of silvery light flashing through the crowd, catching a few onlookers right in the eyes.

Logan was among them, and as he watched the king's blade rise toward the heavens, a voice like a god cried out:

"By the will of Crown, and of the Platinum Dragon, let the tournament BEGIN!"

The cheers of the crowd went up like the crest of a tsunami, the sound crashing down upon Logan and all the other knights with a force unbridled.

This was it.