Rest day arrived under a sky heavy with clouds.
The academy training grounds smelled of damp grass and ozone from earlier magic drills.
Lucien stood near the edge of the dueling ring, boots sinking slightly into the soft earth.
His palms felt clammy.
Darius Voss waited on the opposite side, rolling his shoulders with a low chuckle that carried across the gathered students.
Elara watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.
She had said little that morning beyond a curt “Show what you’ve learned.” No offers of strategy.
No last-minute advice.
Just that cool, assessing gaze.
Captain Harlan stepped into the ring, voice gruff and clipped.
“Standard rules.
First to yield or incapacitation.
Begin when I signal.”
Darius grinned, flames already licking at his fingertips.
“Try not to cry too loud, Nightshade.”
Lucien exhaled slowly.
The air tasted metallic.
He let his shadows rise—not the wild bursts from early days, but something tighter, more deliberate.
The crowd’s murmurs faded into background noise.
The signal came.
Darius charged first, a wave of heat rolling ahead of him.
Lucien sidestepped, shadows snapping out to snag the older boy’s ankle.
It held for a heartbeat, then snapped under the strain.
Darius spun, launching a fireball that scorched the grass where Lucien had stood moments before.
Smoke stung his eyes.
They circled.
Darius’s strikes came heavy and direct, each punch carrying flames that forced Lucien to stay mobile. This story is hosted at g.com.
Sweat trickled down his back.
His own attacks felt precise in places—binding a wrist here, tripping a step there—but Darius powered through with raw strength.
A lucky hit caught Lucien in the ribs, driving the breath from him in a sharp gasp.
Pain flared hot and immediate.
From the sidelines, Elara remained still.
Her fingers twitched once, but she didn’t intervene.
Testing.
Always testing.
Lucien pressed his advantage when Darius overextended, wrapping shadows around the boy’s sword arm and yanking hard.
Darius stumbled, cursing under his breath.
“Lucky shot,” he growled, voice thick with irritation.
The fight stretched.
Lucien’s lungs burned.
Each exchange revealed small cracks—Darius favored his right side, grew sloppier when frustrated.
Yet the gap in experience remained wide.
Another flame burst clipped Lucien’s shoulder, fabric singeing with a sharp, acrid smell.
He didn’t fall back.
Not completely.
Shadows coiled tighter, more controlled than in their first spar.
The crowd’s noise swelled as he landed a solid bind that forced Darius to burn through it with fire, wasting energy.
Finally, Captain Harlan called the end when both fighters slowed, breathing ragged.
No clear victor, but Darius looked far more winded.
He spat on the ground. Find the original chapter at g.com.
“Not finished with you, runt.”
Lucien nodded once, ribs aching.
The crowd dispersed in clusters, whispering.
Elara approached only after most had left.
Her steps were measured on the charred grass.
“You lasted,” she said simply.
No praise.
No criticism.
Just fact.
Her voice carried that familiar edge, cool and slightly distant, like she was still deciding whether this version of her brother was worth the effort.
“Yeah.” Lucien touched his sore shoulder, wincing.
“Could’ve been worse.”
She studied him for a long moment, then turned toward the path back to the dorms.
“Next time, aim higher on the binds.
Voss drops his guard when he thinks he’s winning.” She walked ahead without waiting, leaving him to follow.
The walk back felt longer than it should.
Leaves rustled overhead.
Somewhere distant, laughter echoed from a group of students.
Lucien’s thoughts moved slower now, less frantic whirl and more quiet calculation.
The ache in his side grounded him.
This world demanded more than survival.
It demanded adaptation, piece by stubborn piece.
In the days that followed, classes resumed their brisk pace.
Cecilia appeared in one shared lecture, offering a quiet nod across the room.
Darius shot occasional glares in the halls but kept his distance for now.
Elara’s training sessions continued—brisk, demanding, with long silences between corrections.