“Oh, the most of them.” He smiled. Enton didn’t even turn around to look at him. She pulled out a napkin and began dabbing at the smears of blood and dirt and sweat on his face.
            “I bet you did.” She cooed.
            “Ow!” he breathed in sharply, his teeth clenched. “Watch were you put your hands woman.” He snapped.
            She gave him a small slap around the head. “Well this is what you get for insulting me.” Her eyes narrowed.
            “Insulting you?” Weston looked utterly confused. “I never said anything that wasn’t true.” But Devlin would stake a lot on believing Weston had forgotten the whole thing anyway.
            “Oh really?” Enton stood up straight then, crossing her arms.
            “Er... yes?” She humphed and went straight for the exit. Devlin caught her before she could get too far.
            “Again, I am very sorry. He gets like this sometimes when he is drunk.” He apologised.
            “There is no excuse for his offending my dignity. He’d better watch himself or he will find in me a terrible enemy.” Devlin could not see that happening, she obviously cared for him. But he let her go. He could not really forgive his cousins attitude, though he understood that he was very drunk. He would have to let the matter be.
            The tournament would be very soon.
            Suddenly Devlin felt a little nervous. Just a few days now and he would be competing against some of the greatest fighters Louena had ever seen. He was confident, of course. He had picked up quite a reputation he knew not from where, that pitted him as a favourite in this tournament. He wondered how much money had been put on him by gamblers in the hopes that he would win. He wondered if maybe he should bet on himself. He knew he could do it, whether he would...
            Tournaments had been carried out almost every year except from wartime, and even then, if the Kings could manage it. But every tourney, the types of winners were always different. Sometimes the most favoured person won. Tallor had won at least three times in his life, Ridling had won it once and Garrett had won it often in his thirty years. Sometimes anonymous fighters would take part, they would sometimes win. He once heard of an anonymous fighter who bore the shield of the icy spear of Tundrask although he had not been Tundrakkian from his accent. He would not offer his name, but he thought with the same everice spears that they did, fought like they did and eventually won. He was gifted the champions laurel made by the Laurels of The Orchards though he gave this to the queen at the time, and when he was given the prize money, he rejected it. A strange tale Devlin had been told when he was little. It soothed him, thinking of the past victors, wondering if one day it might be his name that was up in the skies with the legends of the realm. He hoped so.

The End

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