The parchment is already stained with ink before the first blade is drawn.
“So this is where your legend begins,” Auri murmurs, more to herself than anyone else. She stands just beyond the edge of the crude arena, her silhouette still against the wind-warped banners of the Beggar’s Tournament. Around you, a hungry crowd gathers—mud-caked boots, torn flags, the scent of rust and old fire. There is no glory here. Only dust, desperation, and the weight of being seen.
She dips her quill, eyes never leaving you.
“I was told you’d be... interesting. But I see now they lacked the words.”
Auri’s voice is calm, precise—like a blade unsheathed but not yet swung. “The first duel in the tournament is rarely remembered. But I will remember. I remember everything.”
The horn sounds. The first challenger steps forward—clumsy, eager, already doomed.
And still she writes.
"Steel meets purpose. One does not always survive the other."
