Entry 74: The people's tournament

Dear Diary,
 
The next morning, I woke to the sound of trumpets—bright and clear, ringing out across the city in grand proclamation. The Festival had officially begun.
 
I lay there for a moment, comfortably nestled in Liliana’s arms, watching the soft morning light spill in through the windows. Our suite overlooked the city, and the view had changed drastically overnight. Where once the streets had been simple and quiet, now every rooftop, streetlamp, and balcony was adorned with flowing pennants and colourful flags. Even the city park had been completely transformed—what had been a whimsical carnival two days ago was now a fully prepared tournament ground. The scale of the transformation was impressive, and I had to wonder how many fae had been working through the night to make it happen.
 
We dressed and enjoyed a quick breakfast before heading down to the tournament grounds. We still hadn’t received a proper schedule—no one had seen fit to give us one—and it would have been painfully embarrassing to arrive late. Better to be early than miss an entrance.
 
Word must have spread quickly. As we made our way through the streets, we drew more and more attention. Dozens of fae citizens joined behind us, clapping, cheering, and calling out our names. By the time we reached the entrance to the park, we had a small crowd of at least thirty people trailing behind us like a makeshift parade.
 
The guards, however, were less impressed.
 
They turned away the gathered onlookers with polite but firm insistence—the grounds were not open to spectators yet. Only participants were permitted at this hour. When we identified ourselves, a servant promptly appeared and guided us to a tent that had been prepared especially for us.
 
It was lavish, of course. Silk-lined, spacious, and equipped with refreshments. And, to our surprise, two fine horses stood tethered nearby—sleek, spirited, and clearly of fey stock. I imagine they were to be used in the joust.
 
By the time Gael and Liliana had finished their conversation with the horses (yes, conversation—they both speak with animals as casually as others do with servants), and the rest of us had inspected the gear provided, the tournament grounds opened to the public. The roar of the crowd was immediate and infectious—excitement filling the air like the sound of distant thunder.
 
Curious, I stepped away and asked a nearby guard what the schedule for the day would be.
 
He informed me that the archery contest would begin the day’s events, followed by the joust, which would take place in rounds throughout the day. The grand melee was scheduled for the afternoon, with the joust finals serving as the ceremonial climax of the day’s festivities.
 
As we made our way to the archery range, I helped myself to a local meat pie—richly spiced, flaky, and warm from the vendor’s cart. But though I savoured the taste, my focus wasn’t on the food. My eyes scanned the crowd, sharp and deliberate, searching for the telltale signs of the masked nobles. And sure enough, I spotted them soon enough, emerging from a tent on the far side of the jousting grounds. A wolf and a stag, just as before.
 
With a quiet word to Fiachna, my ever-watchful raven took to the air. He shadowed them from above, his black wings silent against the pale morning sky.
 
Now, as for the contests themselves, I’ll be brief—my interest in them remains limited. Of course I stood by to cheer for Liliana, if only for her sake. But beneath the polished spectacle, it’s all still just part of King Ulther’s circus. A distraction, a performance—meant to entertain the crowd and, perhaps more importantly, to test us.
 
Still, I must give credit where it’s due.
 
Gael triumphed in the archery contest, defeating a rather arrogant eladrin in the final round. His composure and precision earned him both the prize and the admiration of the crowd. Liliana made a strong showing as well, though she didn’t reach the final.
 
We then turned our attention to the joust, just in time to watch Alistan’s first bout. He made short work of his opponent, dismounting him with the same ease he might toss aside a training dummy. Gael, however, fared less well—knocked off his horse in the opening charge.
 
It was around then that Luke leaned in beside me and muttered something curious: he had noticed that the stands were conspicuously devoid of fey nobility. No masked figures, no regal entourages, not even a whisper of highborn presence. The crowd was made up almost entirely of commoners. Which struck me as odd, considering this whole festival was meant to be in our honour.
 
A trap? A joke? Or perhaps both?
 
Suspicion sat heavily on my shoulders, but there was little we could do but stay alert. So we moved on. As we were taking a short break, a tiny voice—literally—called for Luke. A pixie had come to announce the start of the Battle of Wits.
The rules were simple: five riddles, solve them before the others do.
 
With a bit of quiet collaboration from the rest of us, Luke breezed through the contest with ease. His victory was as decisive as it was swift. At least one of these events had some substance.
 
Alistan’s second joust followed shortly after, and once again, he emerged victorious. His opponent, however, did not take the loss well. As the nobleman turned his frustration toward his own mount, sword in hand, I whispered a sharp warning directly into his mind. I promised him agony if he dared lay a finger on the beast.
 
He backed down. Wisely.
 
And while I was preoccupied with that fool, Liliana caught something far more important. She noticed that the mood in the crowd had shifted—again. It wasn’t the cheerful excitement of commoners enjoying a show anymore. No, it had turned mocking. Derisive. We were the joke now. And whatever the punchline was, we hadn’t been let in on it.
 
Typical fey games.
 
I told the others not to care. If we don’t rise to the bait, if we act as though it means nothing, then we hold the power. Let them laugh. Let them scheme. We’ve survived worse than ridicule.
 
After a brief midday respite for food and rest, the grand melee began.
 
We found a good vantage point near the ring. It was more chaotic than the earlier contests—less ceremony, more raw action. Weapons clashing, dust rising, and the roar of the crowd echoing through the tournament grounds.
 
But then, amidst the noise and spectacle, I heard a sharp cry of pain—Luke.
 
I turned to see him stumble, a crossbow bolt lodged in his side. Assassins, again.
 
No hesitation.
 
With a word and a flick of my hand, a thick fog blanketed the area around us, cutting off the line of sight and forcing the attackers to close the distance. If they wanted to finish what they’d started, they’d have to do it face to face. And that’s a fight they wouldn’t win.
 
The confusion worked in our favour. One of the would-be killers escaped, but we captured the other—unconscious and bound. A prize for later interrogation. I’m starting to lose count of the number of times someone’s tried to kill us on this journey.
In the chaos, the grand melee reached its conclusion. Liliana was the last one standing in the ring—a deserved victory. But she turned to the crowd and, in a gesture of humility, disqualified herself. She admitted that I had healed her during the match, and that the win should go to Alistan instead.
 
I’m sorry to have stolen your moment, Liliana. But your life, your well-being—that will always matter more to me than a trophy or a title.
 
We returned the unconscious assassin to our tent, leaving him under the watchful gaze of Dadroz, who was more than happy to guard our grim little guest. With that handled, we turned our attention to the final events of the day.
 
Alistan, ever the unexpected source of insight, revealed something intriguing about the man in the wolf mask. Somehow—by watching him, he claimed—he’d discovered certain vulnerabilities. The man is susceptible to fire, to charm effects, and most notably, has a weakness to psychic damage.
 
I didn’t ask how Alistan knew. Perhaps he’s just a better observer than I give him credit for.
 
Either way, the knowledge may prove valuable.
 
In the ring, Alistan had his third joust, and once again he dominated the field—this time against a dragonborn. That victory secured his place in the final match… against Wolf.
 
While the crowd cheered, Gael slipped away, vanishing into the sea of onlookers to sniff out the truth behind this whole spectacle. When he returned, he looked equal parts smug and annoyed.
 
Apparently, while we’ve been parading around for the entertainment of the commoners, another tournament has been going on—the King’s tournament—held privately in the palace. We hadn’t even been invited. The whole spectacle we’ve been part of was for the public, a distraction, a sideshow.
 
And we were the clowns.
 
That’s the joke.
 
I saw the indignation in their faces, and I reminded them again—don’t take it as an insult. Let Ulther and his court play their games. Let them think they’re clever. We aren’t here for prestige or pageantry. We’re here to learn, to survive—and if necessary, to strike.
 
Besides, if they thought they were humiliating us, they’ve clearly never seen what happens when we stop playing nice.
 
While the crowd was still gathering for the final joust, we took a moment to deal with unfinished business: the assassin we had captured during the melee.
He understood his position well enough. No posturing, no threats—just cold resignation. He cooperated without hesitation.
 
There were six of them in total, he said. All hired by Wolf.
 
The orders were written out plainly, tucked into a pocket I hadn’t yet searched. Reading them made something twist in my gut. Their primary target was “the heir of Vincent.” In other words—Gael.
Liliana and Luke were to be spared, which only deepens the mystery. Why, then, did they target Luke first? Mistaken identity? A warning shot? Or are we dealing with assassins too incompetent to follow a simple kill order?
 
Once we were done with him, we handed him off to the city guards, just as we had done with the one in the library. I can only imagine what kind of impression this leaves on Ulther—assassins foiled twice under his nose. Either he’s losing control of his court, or he never had it in the first place.
 
With the interrogation behind us, we returned to the tournament grounds just in time for the final joust: Alistan vs. Wolf.
 
I won’t deny the satisfaction I felt when Alistan came out victorious.
 
But my attention was elsewhere.
 
While the crowd roared and the victor was crowned, I turned my senses inward and reached for Wolf’s tent. My magic slipped through the fabric like smoke. No incriminating notes or signed letters, of course—but plenty of clues. Wolf is rich, very rich. Everything in the tent spoke of old money. He’s also an arcane spellcaster.
 
And then there’s the teleportation circle. Permanent. Active. The destination unknown.
 
He’s prepared for a quick escape. Or worse—reinforcements.
 
As soon as the victor’s prize had been handed over and the ceremonial congratulations were spoken, the crowd began to dissolve. The festival spilled out from the park into the surrounding streets in a tide of music and lanternlight. Just like that, it was over.
 
We packed up the tent we had been given, and with one last inquiry, discovered the true value of the tournament’s rewards: favors.
 
The silver coins—and Alistan’s champion’s trophy—can be traded in with the fey nobles for favors. Potentially powerful favors. We’ll have to be careful when and how we spend them. A favor from the fey is never as simple as it seems.
 
We returned to the palace to clean up and prepare for the grand celebration that would cap off the day. The masks, the games, the half-truths and poisoned smiles—they’ll all be there. And we’ll smile back.
 
But I’ll keep my eyes open. Wolf may be licking his wounds, but the game isn’t over.
 
Not by a long shot.