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THE COMBAT HALL AT DUSK
Shadows stretched like grasping fingers across the Grand Combat Hall's marble floors. The air smelled of oiled leather and charged ozone—the scent of nervous energy.
Kenneth leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, watching as the sixty top students of his year gathered. No laughter. No chatter. Just the low hum of anticipation.
Zarek cracked his knuckles beside him. "Heard they're cutting us down to ten. No second chances."
Kenneth didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the platform where Master Rhelgar stood, a grizzled war-veteran with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow—a souvenir from the Northern Siege. The old warrior didn't need to raise his voice. When he spoke, the room froze.
"You stand here because you are the best this academy has to offer." A pause. "That means less than nothing."
A ripple of unease.
---
Rhelgar stepped down, his boots echoing like a death knell.
1. The Crucible (Day 1)
No abilities. Pure hand-to-hand combat.
"I will see your bones before I see your tricks."
Sixty become thirty.
2. The Gauntlet (Day 2)
Abilities allowed. Randomized opponents, no rest between matches.
Thirty become fifteen.
3. The Culling (Day 3)
Last man standing. Fifteen enter. Ten leave victorious.
Winners train under Rhelgar's personal tutelage.
Losers? "You'll wish you'd never been born."
Zarek grinned. "Bet you twenty credits I take down four in the Gauntlet."
Kenneth's gaze slid toward the hall's entrance—where a lone figure stood, observing.
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Cassian Veyne entered like a shadow given form.
Tall, lean, with sun-bleached brown hair tied back.
Gold-flecked eyes that scanned the room like a strategist surveying a battlefield.
Dressed in a fitted gray tunic—no academy insignia. A ghost among soldiers.
Movement:
He didn't stride. Didn't swagger. He glided, weaving through the crowd until he found an empty space near the front. No introductions. No challenges. Just quiet, calculating focus.
Zarek snorted. "Echo boy's got nerve showing up late."
Kenneth said nothing. He'd seen the way Cassian's fingers twitched—mimicking grip styles, stances, breathing patterns—as he studied the competition.
Like watching a mirror.
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The master stopped at the door, his back to them.
"Look around you." A blade's edge in his tone. "The person beside you? They will break your ribs to take your place."
A beat.
"Good."
Then he was gone.
The room erupted.
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Zarek was already strategizing with Kael, who muttered about probability matrices.
But Kenneth's attention lingered on Cassian, now seated cross-legged on the floor, scribbling in a notebook.
Not notes.
Schematics.
Fighting styles. Weak points. Predicted matchups.
Kenneth's chest burned—not with fire, but recognition.
He thinks like I do.
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