Chapter 4: The Secrets of the Tournament

The first rays of dawn crept over the horizon, painting the sky with hues of gold and crimson. The tournament grounds were a hive of activity, with squires hurrying to polish armor, merchants setting up stalls brimming with wares, and knights performing their morning rituals. Alaric watched from the edge of the campfire’s remnants, still under the watchful eye of Lady Seraphine and a few suspicious guards.

Alaric had barely slept. His mind churned with questions about the Zeton, the stranger who had warned him, and the relentless pull of fate that had deposited him in this medieval world. I need answers, he thought, clenching the relic in his hand. But first, he needed to play his role and earn these people’s trust—if only to get close enough to escape when the Zeton decided to cooperate.

"Enjoying the morning, traveler?" Lady Seraphine's voice broke through his thoughts.

Alaric glanced at her. Her sharp eyes were focused on the knights preparing for the tournament, but there was a curiosity beneath her cool exterior. "As much as a man can enjoy a morning spent under guard," he replied, giving her a wry smile.

Seraphine’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile. "Consider it a privilege. Many who wander into our lands uninvited do not live to see the next sunrise."

Alaric shrugged, masking the unease that prickled his skin. "I suppose I have you to thank for that, then. Or perhaps Sir Cavan's fondness for entertainment."

At this, Seraphine’s gaze flicked to him, a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Cavan is cautious, not cruel. He knows that even the strangest travelers may have a purpose." She leaned in slightly. "The question is, what is yours?"

Before Alaric could respond, the blare of trumpets shattered the morning calm. The tournament was about to begin. Crowds of villagers and nobles streamed toward the makeshift arena, eager for the spectacle of jousts, duels, and feats of strength. Alaric’s stomach twisted. He had survived the previous day’s duel by sheer luck, but he doubted he could rely on such fortune again.

"Looks like it’s time," Seraphine said, her eyes narrowing. "Stay close. I’d hate to lose track of you in all this excitement."

Alaric followed her, trying not to let his apprehension show. The tournament grounds were packed, and he could feel the energy of the crowd, a collective buzz of anticipation. Banners fluttered in the breeze, knights paraded their colors, and the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine filled the air.

"Step lively," a voice barked, and Alaric was nearly bowled over by a squire leading a horse bedecked in elaborate armor. He muttered an apology, feeling more out of place than ever.

Seraphine guided him to the stands reserved for nobles, where Sir Cavan stood with his arms crossed, surveying the scene. He looked up as they approached, his expression unreadable. "Lady Seraphine," he greeted her, then turned his steely gaze to Alaric. "I trust our guest hasn’t caused any trouble?"

Seraphine shook her head. "No trouble, but plenty of questions," she said lightly.

Cavan's eyes lingered on Alaric. "Good. Because today, traveler, you will prove your worth—or lack thereof." He motioned to the arena, where knights were lining up to compete. "You’ll be tested once more, but not with swords. Today’s challenge is one of skill and ingenuity. A test of the mind as much as the body."

Alaric’s eyebrows shot up. "And what, exactly, does this test entail?"

Cavan’s smirk returned. "You’ll find out soon enough."

Minutes later, Alaric stood in the center of the arena, feeling every eye in the crowd on him. A wooden maze had been constructed, towering high with twisting corridors and dead ends. At the heart of the maze was a pedestal holding a golden chalice, the prize for the challenge. Surrounding the maze were guards with crossbows, ready to fire at anyone who broke the rules.

The challenge was simple: navigate the maze, retrieve the chalice, and return to the entrance without getting caught. But Alaric could see that there was more to this test than met the eye. The maze was a trap designed to test both cunning and speed, and he had a sinking feeling that failure would be costly.

Cavan’s voice boomed across the arena. "Our traveler claims to be a man of skill and cleverness. Let us see if he can prove it. Begin!"

Alaric’s heart raced as he stepped into the maze. The walls were high, blocking out the noise of the crowd, and the air grew cooler as he ventured deeper. He paused at each intersection, trying to map out the labyrinth in his mind, but it was a futile effort. The design was deliberately disorienting, and he had no way of knowing which path led to the chalice.

Focus, he told himself, trying to steady his breathing. Think like a thief.

He pressed his hand against the nearest wall, feeling for any vibrations or irregularities. Sometimes, architecture revealed its secrets to those who knew how to listen. But as he closed his eyes to concentrate, he heard a faint click—a sound he knew all too well.

Without thinking, he dove to the ground just as a dart shot out from the wall, embedding itself in the space where his head had been. His pulse hammered in his ears. Traps. Of course there are traps.

He scrambled to his feet, more wary now. Each step forward felt like a gamble, and he kept one hand on the Zeton in his pocket, hoping the relic might offer him some form of guidance. But the Zeton remained cold and inert, providing no answers.

He rounded a corner and nearly collided with another contestant—a young man in simple leather armor who looked just as bewildered as Alaric felt. The young man’s eyes widened in surprise, but before he could react, a section of the floor gave way beneath his feet. He yelped, flailing, and barely managed to catch the edge of the pit that had opened beneath him.

"Help!" the young man gasped, his fingers slipping.

Alaric hesitated for a split second, then cursed under his breath. He lunged forward, grabbing the man’s wrists and hauling him back onto solid ground. The young man panted, looking up at Alaric with wide eyes. "Thank you," he whispered, clearly shaken.

"Don’t mention it," Alaric said, though he couldn’t help but think that he had just wasted precious time. "You’d better be careful. This maze is trying to kill us."

The young man nodded, still pale. "I owe you one," he said. "Name’s Jarek."

"Alaric," he replied, offering a quick smile. "Now, let’s get moving before we both end up as pincushions."

They navigated the maze together, moving cautiously and keeping an eye out for more traps. Alaric found that having a companion made the challenge slightly more bearable, even if Jarek was far from experienced. The young man seemed eager to prove himself, but his nervous energy made Alaric wonder just how many people here were out of their depth.

At last, they reached the heart of the maze. The golden chalice glinted in the sunlight, sitting atop the pedestal. Jarek’s eyes lit up with relief. "We did it," he breathed, stepping forward.

"Wait," Alaric hissed, grabbing his arm. "Look."

He pointed to the ground surrounding the pedestal, where thin wires were barely visible, crisscrossing in a complex web. One wrong step would set off whatever trap the maze’s designer had concocted.

Jarek swallowed hard. "How do we get past that?"

Alaric studied the wires, his mind working furiously. "We jump," he said, already calculating the distance. "Aim for the empty space just in front of the pedestal. I’ll go first."

Taking a deep breath, he crouched and sprang forward, clearing the wires by a hair’s breadth. He landed with a soft thud, careful not to disturb anything. Jarek followed, landing less gracefully but managing not to trigger the trap.

Together, they lifted the chalice, and for a moment, triumph surged through Alaric. But the feeling was short-lived. As soon as the chalice left the pedestal, a low rumble echoed through the maze. The walls began to shift, grinding and creaking, and the exit path rearranged itself.

"Time to run," Alaric said, his grip tightening on the chalice. "Now!"

They sprinted through the maze, the walls shifting and closing in around them. The guards stationed outside began shouting, and Alaric realized with a sinking feeling that the entire arena was descending into chaos. Crossbows twanged, and bolts whizzed past, narrowly missing them.

But Alaric had faced worse odds. With the chalice in hand and Jarek at his side, he dashed toward the exit, adrenaline propelling him forward. As he burst out of the maze and into the open air, the crowd erupted in a mixture of cheers and gasps. He skidded to a stop, chest heaving, and held the chalice high.

Sir Cavan approached, a grudging respect in his eyes. "You continue to surprise me, traveler," he said, though his tone was still wary. "But know this: your tests are far from over."

Alaric forced a smile, though exhaustion tugged at his every muscle. "Good," he said, his voice dry. "I thrive under pressure."

But as he glanced down at the Zeton, still cold and silent in his pocket, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the true challenge had yet to reveal itself.