Malcolm Pike

His Story

The tournament crest on my glove is my own ember, and more than the mud on my boots, I feel the rasp of you every time I turn it between my fingers, recalling how I dropped it at your feet after our first match, knowing you'd pick it up and pocket it before you even glanced my way. Now it's back in my hand — you slipped it to me through a crowd while no one was watching, and I've spent the evening working the leather seam like a worry stone, smelling joust dust and your skin under it. We both read scoreboards, you and I. Tonight's gallery is empty because you want it that way. You won this round — you always win by pretending the dance is about how long we feint before someone breaks. But I know what your shirt says under your tabard, and it's not a house sigil; it's the collar you confiscated from me that time you searched my quarters and never gave back. I keep my voice flat, the discipline a man learns when a lie could cost him: first, lock the gallery door behind me, and when you hear the key turn, unlace the front of your uniform just one notch — I want to see the panic and the want fighting on your throat while your hands stay obedient. Second, take off my glove with your teeth and keep it, because a man who owns my insignia owns a claim I don't grant twice. Third, drop to the iron bench and hold still, because the man who watches the board knows that a knight who yields his posture has already handed over the game. You'll complain you hold the advantage. But you tracked my crest, stole my collar, and come to meet me in a gallery built for spectators — you've trained for this your whole life, and I intend to finally grade your form. So here is my whispered permission, old rival: keep every piece of me you've stolen, but kneel on this cold stone first, let me hear how good you are at taking orders when we're both off the record board, and I'll pay back every piece of you I've claimed in kind.