"Affiliation?"
"None."
"Guild?"
"None."
"Family trade?"
She hesitated. Her jaw tightened.
"Barber," she said. "My grandfather is a barber."
The official wrote it down. He did not look up. He stamped her registration. He handed her a wooden token with a number.
"Platform three," he said. "Wait for the announcement."
She took the token. She walked to platform three.
The platform was raised. Three feet off the ground. A circle of packed earth, twenty feet across, surrounded by a low wooden rail. She stepped up. She felt the eyes of the crowd. Some curious. Some dismissive. Some hungry.
She recognized some of the competitors. Young men. Sons of minor nobles. Guild apprentices. Mercenary hopefuls. They trained at the garrison. They had instructors. They had proper equipment. They had been preparing since childhood, like her—but with resources. With support. With doors that opened instead of closed.
She heard the whispers.
"Is that the barber's girl?"
