The first qualifying matches began two days later, under gray skies that looked like bruised steel. The entire student body was herded into the arena behind the academy, a circular pit carved deep into the earth and lined with tiered seats. The stone floor was damp from the morning rain, slick enough that every step left a faint reflection. Runes pulsed faintly along the walls, containment glyphs that shimmered with restrained energy. This was not a place for play. It was a place built for breaking things, and people.
Kael stood in the waiting area beside Seret, his uniform stripped down to the training variant, dark fabric and reinforced leather straps, a blade resting against his shoulder. The weapon had been issued specifically for the trials. A longsword of tempered steel, its runes etched faintly along the fuller, each one a sigil meant to enhance the flow of magic through the wielder's veins. Kael could feel the hum of the runes against his palm, like a heartbeat that wasn't his.
Across the pit, his opponent entered. A third-year named Jorvan Rhyle. Broad-shouldered, hair tied back, the kind of grin that came from knowing how to hurt people and enjoying it. He carried a war axe engraved with crimson channels, the weapon practically growling as he rested it on his shoulder. The crowd's murmur shifted, almost pitying. Everyone knew the name Jorvan. He had ended three matches last year with his opponents carried off by healers, and one with a broken spine.
Seret leaned close to Kael before the gate opened. "Try not to kill him," she muttered.
Kael smirked faintly. "No promises."
The gate opened. The bell rang.
Jorvan moved first. His axe cut through the air with a howl, the embedded runes igniting with molten light. Kael sidestepped, the blow grazing past, splashing stone fragments against his face. He countered fast, his sword sliding toward Jorvan's ribs, only for the older boy to twist and slam his forearm into the blade. Sparks burst from the contact. The impact rattled through Kael's arm like lightning.
Jorvan grinned. "Quick. You'll die slower than most."
Kael didn't answer. He pressed forward. The two clashed again and again, steel screaming against steel, runes flaring, mana crackling in the air. Each blow was heavy, each parry punishing. The crowd roared when Jorvan kicked Kael square in the chest, sending him sliding across the wet floor. He hit the barrier wall, breath leaving his lungs in a rush.
Pain. Real pain. It grounded him. He felt his mana surge in response, wild and instinctive. He stood slowly, blood running from his lip, and something inside him sharpened. The hum in his sword turned into a low song. He stepped forward again, then again, faster now, moving with the rhythm of combat that the cult had drilled into him since he could walk.
Jorvan came down with another heavy swing. Kael ducked under it, spun, and slashed upward. The sword connected with flesh this time, biting into Jorvan's shoulder. A line of red followed. The older boy snarled, twisting away, his aura flaring bright red as he slammed his palm into the ground.
The runes in the arena reacted instantly. Spikes of hardened mana erupted from the floor. Kael leapt back, the spikes missing him by inches. The ground crackled beneath his boots, alive with dangerous energy. He could feel the crowd's roar vibrating in his bones.
He adjusted his stance, one hand on the sword's hilt, the other tracing the air. He whispered the activation phrase under his breath. The runes along his blade shifted from blue to white, feeding off his pulse. He darted forward, cutting through the gap in the spikes, and brought the sword down in a brutal arc.
The clash was thunder. The impact sent both of them sprawling, mana exploding in a flare of light and smoke. Kael hit the ground hard, ears ringing, vision fractured by bursts of color. Through the haze he saw Jorvan stagger up first, laughing, half of his face splattered with blood. "That all you got?" he roared.
Kael's breath came sharp, chest heaving. He lifted the sword again, the blade cracked near the hilt. He moved before thinking, before feeling, before reason could slow him. He ducked under another swing, twisted inside Jorvan's guard, and rammed his shoulder into the larger boy's chest. The impact drove them both backward, Kael using the momentum to drive his knee into Jorvan's ribs. He heard a crack. The older boy wheezed, spitting blood.
Kael pulled back, then slammed his pommel into Jorvan's jaw. Once. Twice. The second blow dropped him. The crowd fell silent for a heartbeat. Then the bell rang, sharp and cold.
Jorvan lay on the ground, his weapon a few feet away, blood dripping from his mouth. The healers were already rushing in. Kael stood there, chest rising and falling, the cracked sword still in his grip. He could feel his pulse in his teeth. He didn't hear the applause, only the faint ringing in his ears and the sick realization that, for a moment, he had wanted to keep hitting him.
Seret met him by the gate as he walked out, his boots leaving faint red prints. Her expression was unreadable. "You won," she said quietly.
Kael looked down at his hands, trembling slightly. "Yeah. I did."
She studied him for a long moment. "You didn't need to hit him that hard."
"I know."
"Then why did you?"
Kael didn't answer. The runes on his cracked blade flickered once, then went dark.
That night, he dreamt of the fight again, except the crowd was gone, the arena was filled with shadows, and Jorvan's face was replaced with his own.