Grislen's voice rolled across the yard like thunder over glass. "Pair up!" he barked. "And don't stand there gawking at me move!"
A murmur ran through the circle. Boots crunched on gravel as the chosen ones , the most elite in the entire kingdom some shuffled, eyes sharp, some eager, others wary. Amari felt the weight of a dozen stares settle on him like a cloak. Kaiden however, grinned too wide for anyone's comfort.
"You, witch-vampire," Grislen said, fixing Amari with a look that made the air go cold and thin. "You'll show us what mixed blood can do. Step forward and take your place."
Heat flushed Amari's cheeks, then cooled when he remembered to breathe. He stepped to the marked ring — a shallow circle of trampled earth bordered by rose hedges. Up close, Grislen appeared too large for the platform he favored: broad shoulders, gaunt cheekbones, and eyes that read like a blade. Around him, the others had taken positions, forming a ring of spectators. The sun cut slashes of light and painted Amari's blue hair in a brief, unnatural sheen making him glow like an imperial being.
"Your opponent will be Fraya," Grislen announced. "Demon-vampire. Take your place"
Fraya's smirk was all leisure and danger. She was tall and composed, carrying the kind of lazy confidence that had none of the humility Kaiden attempted. When she stepped into the circle, she sucked her breath. Her eyes flicked over Amari with interest, then amusement, like someone sizing up a promising toy.
"Good luck," Kaiden mouthed, though Amari couldn't tell if it was encouragement or a dare.
Amari placed the left foot forward — witch's stance, grounded; the right foot back — vampire's balance, ready to spring. He felt the old instincts that were part of him click into place, the witch's steady root, the vampire's coiled hunger. He kept the hunger like a held blade. He would not let it name him.
"Begin," Grislen said.
They moved. Switching sides watching their every movement.
Fraya attacked first, eyes bloodshot, fast and graceful like a blade singing through silk. Amari blocked, tasting the iron tang of effort at the back of his throat. They traded blows: a sweep, a parry, swinging her blade swiftly. Amari deflected with a hand movement casting her blades aside, disarming her, then whispered a charm to thicken the air around him, to slow reflexes. It worked, her strike came down into a cushion of mist. She laughed, delighted by the game.
The circle watched, breath held. Kaiden's expression had switched from smirk to unease. Grislen was flat, patient. The maids and guards who'd accompanied them lingered just beyond the spectators, their faces a wash of curiosity and thinly veiled judgment.
Amari felt something tug at the edges of his sight: a flash of movement at the hedges, a glint of metal. He blinked it away. Focus, he told himself. You are a witch and a vampire. You are not a thrown stone. He believed in his strength but this was a trained demon, she might have trained for this all her life till this moment.
Fraya changed cadence, stepping back and letting Amari move forward into her rhythm. That was when she caught him — not a blow, but a touch to the throat, an attempt to unsettle. Her fingertips brushed his pulse and he recoiled. The touch was a test, an invitation; she smiled like she'd read a good book.
He should have struck back harder. He should have proven something. Instead, as their fight unfolded into a blur of shadow and light, Amari felt an old, personal thing rise, a fleeting emotion or memory of his father's lessons, as if to stir him up she said "the late Chosen's son, Lord Rasmos was a great fighter but you a piece of joke" a smug smirk graced her lips, as she stared him down as if he were beneath her, being called the son of Late Lord Rasmos as if that name should be a sword to brand him with. Those lessons had been taught as much by silence as by voice — watch, never be overtaken, make them wait for your reveal.
A rustle in the crowd — someone hissed, the word "Rasmos" like a spark. A pair of knights shifted. Kaiden's jaw clenched, but Amari's eye swept through the crowd and met his and he stopped.
Fraya used the pause. A coil of dark energy zipped toward Amari, thin as a needle, aimed to snag his shoulder. Amari inhaled, and the witch in him pushed out: a soft web of sigils flared at his fingertips, catching the attack and dissolving it into harmless ash. He felt the magic like warmth on his palm; it steadied him. He answered with a press of power to the ground — a rootspell that tugged the earth, tripped Fraya's foot.
She stumbled, surprised. The audience went quiet; even the wind seemed to suspend its breath. Amari seized the moment. He moved with a precise, measured aggression that belonged as much to a practiced duelist as to a predator — not to feed, but to control.
And then something new shifted beneath his skin: the ghost of the hunger, not the ravenous stories told, but a kind of acute clarity. His senses sharpened, colors brightened, and the scent of everyone in the yard layered into a map: Kaiden's citrus oil, Grislen's leather and smoke, Fraya's iron and something sweet, the maids' starch and rosewater. The world recalibrated; movement slowed like a drawing-out of thought. His senses sharpened as his eyes shifted.
He could have used it to end the match in a blink. A simple redirect, and Fraya would be pinned, or worse. But the hunger was a blade with two edges — use it and he'd open a path he couldn't close. He kept it folded, as he'd been taught, hide your hunger and keep your darkness under leash.
With a small movement, he slid beneath Fraya's arm and tapped the inside of her elbow with an electrical jolt, a witch's sting. Or maybe something more, She yelped, feeling the pain spread from your shoulders to her entire body. The motion was clean, almost elegant. The crowd inhaled like waves. No one saw him move till he was behind her.
Grislen nodded once, like a man approving a well-made blade. "Enough," he said. "Stop."
They separated. Fraya's eyes glittered in the sunlight, curiosity now edged with respect. "You move differently," she observed, voice low. "You hide your speed."
"Don't flatter me," Amari said, chest heaving slightly . Around him, the others reassembled into loose groups, murmuring among themselves
Grislen's gaze sliced the crowd and came back to rest on Amari. "You are Lord Rasmos's son," he said. It was a statement, not an accusation now. "You may be heralded or hunted for that name. Today, you will learn the more important thing: you will be measured. The yard does not care for titles."