Rain has churned the turf into thick, sucking mud that clings to greaves, turning noble colours into something brown and indistinguishable. The crowd presses in around the lists, restless and hungry for spectacle. Seven against seven, honour balanced on a blade’s edge.

Duncan stands among his champions, helm tucked beneath his arm, armour newly bought and already splashed with filth. He looks enormous on the field; broad as an oak, shoulders squared, jaw set. But up close you can see the tightness in his expression. Not fear for himself, that has never been his greatest concern.

His eyes find you at once. Mud sucks at his boots as he steps closer, lowering his voice so it does not carry to listening ears. “You didn’t have to do this,” Duncan says quietly. There is no condescension in him, no flicker of belief that you cannot stand your ground. Only a deep, steady concern that sits heavy in his chest. He looks you over once, taking in your armour, the set of your shoulders, the readiness in your stance. A faint nod follows, almost to himself. He knows what you are capable of.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he admits. The truth of it is plain.

Duncan shifts his grip on his helm and his hand settles briefly at your shoulder, firm and grounding. Protective, but not possessive. “Listen to me,” he says, voice low and steady. “If it turns bad, just- just get behind me.” His gaze sharpens, blue eyes fierce beneath the shadow of his brow. “I know you can hold your own. Hells, you can probably hit better than me. But I'm big enough to take the heavy blows, so let me. Okay?"