Cair Paravel.
2352.
49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Diamande.
Fanfare filled the air, light and jubilant, yet it did little to drown out the roaring of the crowd. Cheers erupted like crashing waves, rolling across the tournament grounds, louder than the ring of steel on steel, louder than the sharp whinnies of warhorses rearing in the dust, louder even than the splintering crack of lances striking armour and shield. Banners snapped in the wind, flashing the colours of noble houses, and the scent of churned earth and sweat mingled with the crisp autumn air.
Diamande felt the energy in the air, electric with anticipation, crackling like a storm yet to break. The people pressed against the barriers, eyes wide, breaths held, hanging on every movement in the arena. Some shouted the names of their favoured knights, while others whispered hurried wagers, hands clutched around coins, knuckles white with tension.
On the field, the knights fought with a ferocity that set their armour gleaming with sweat, their faces taut with more than mere determination. This was no ordinary contest. To be named a Knight of Narnia was an honour beyond measure, but today, the stakes soared even higher. The whispers had spread through the city like wildfire—whoever claimed victory in the Kings Tournament would not only earn renown but would be granted the title of King's Champion, a station reserved for one alone: the Heir to the Throne of Narnia.
Such a thing would have been unheard of on his world – but the King of Narnia had lost his son and had no family left. And so, a competition it was, to decide the fate of the land. And yet Diamande knew that not all knights were honourable. Not all knights followed the code they so boisterously preached. He'd seen far too many deaths at the hands of so-called knights.
The King of Narnia was bold to place the fate of his country to the outcome of a tournament.
He had seen many tourneys over the years, and the one he watched from the shadows was no different. There was one knight the crowd blatantly favoured – from the boisterous chants of his name and the banners they waved as he fought. With great skill did he fight, Diamande had to admit. And with his cocksure grin and easy grip on his sword, he put Diamande very much in mind of another young knight he'd watched rise through the ranks of his own home.
Both had the same surety in their stance, the same skill of blade and Diamande knew that the knight before them would be the one to win.
Sir Dustan.
Blood did not spill on the ground around his feet, unlike the others who fought with reckless abandon. Diamande watched closely, his sharp eyes catching the smallest details – the way Sir Dustan parried, the precision of each strike, the careful restraint in his movements. He wasn't fighting to maim, but to disarm.
He wasn't seeking death, just victory.
He seemed honourable, a knight deserving of the crowd's cheers, a shining example of skill and temperance. But then Diamande turned his attention to Dustan's previous opponents, his gaze narrowing. No blood, certainly, but the injuries… They told a different story.
Sword-arms shattered, vision robbed by strategic blows, bodies left trembling and disoriented. Vicious, damaging strikes that left scars beneath the surface—deliberate, calculated, and cruel in their intent. Diamande had seen enough knights train to know that such injuries didn't happen by accident.
Sir Dustan wasn't simply fighting to win.
He was fighting to break.
And yet, there he was – winning over the crowd with his easy smile, his handsome face, his unassuming charm. He had the people in the palm of his hand, and they cheered for him, blissfully unaware of the darkness beneath that polished exterior.
The King watched the proceedings with keen eyes. For the sake of Narnia, he could not choose his Champion incorrectly. And more often than not, the King's eyes were drawn to Sir Dustan.
Perhaps he was not bold, but something he was something else entirely.
Desperate.
The King of Narnia was running out of options.
And running out of time.
But Diamande could not reveal himself, not yet.
Not until he was sure of all the players in the game.
And until then he would wait and watch from the shadows.
And watch he did, as Sir Dustan felled his last opponent to the thunderous approval of the crowds.