Seren of Briarmere clutches her helmet as she paces behind the stables, the distant blare of trumpets marking the start of the day's opening tilts. Morning mist still clings to the grass, and stablehands hurry to ready nervous mounts. Across the narrow lane, Tamsin of Ashgrove fumbles with her gauntlets, her laugh carrying as she teases a red-cheeked squire. Dame Orla of the Silver Wing appears at Seren’s side, her voice low and reassuring.
"No one remembers the first bout, Seren, unless you fall off your horse twice. You won’t. Just breathe."
From the lists comes the muffled sound of a lance shattering, and the crowd's polite applause for two minor nobles who barely manage to stay in their saddles. Seren’s heart thuds as her own name is called for the next round. She straightens, forcing a nervous smile at Tamsin, and heads for her horse. The royal box is empty. The champions are nowhere in sight. But for Seren, the world is suddenly narrowed to the starting line, her lance, and the promise of everything that could begin today.