The following morning, an odd voice boomed across academy grounds.
It didn't ring human — deep and booming, as if from the air itself.
"All first-years, to the Grand Seminar Hall at once."
The voice thundered through the dorms and training grounds like a storm before it.
Kairen brought his footsteps to an end. His hands continued to throb beneath the delicate bandages that wrapped around his blisters. Each muscle in his body pleaded for him to freeze. Yesterday's practice had left him bruised to the bone, but beneath all of that agony, something else simmered — concern.
Surprises annoyed him.
He had only just begun to adjust to the rhythm of training — the little victories, the aching arms that showed he was getting better. It wasn't actually confidence yet, but it was good enough to let him breathe without shame.
And now this unexpected revelation had set it all out of kilter. Something new was on the horizon. Something that could shatter what little strength he'd gained.
When he and the others entered the Grand Seminar Hall, the room was tense with tension. There hung the acrid scent of waxed metal and dampened fear in the air. Hundreds of students grew quiet to one another, their voices giving a rising and falling motion like waves on a pond of water.
"Maybe it's a surprise break," Dain whispered optimistically to his right. "A thank-you for all of our hard work."
Ilya didn't even glance at him. Her eyes remained glued to the vacant stage.
"They don't give holidays for working hard," she told him calmly. "They just give you more work."
Kairen attempted to laugh, but it emerged weak and parched. His palms were damp.
Hidden beneath his clothing, the strange wing-shaped smudge on his back caused a tender throb — a languid, heat-filled thump, as if something alive had pressed against his flesh. It went away quickly, but it left with an odd nervousness.
Then the doors opened.
Then there was an awkward silence; hanging in the air.
Headmaster Alistair came in with Magister Kellan. The headmaster's normally benevolent face was present, but something serious stood in his eyes today — something heavy.
"Congratulations," Alistair declared, his voice firm and loud. "You have passed the first phase of your training. You have started walking the paths that you have chosen."
There was a hush of pride among the students.
Then Kellan moved forward — and pride went flying out.
"Your first test," Kellan declared, his voice cutting and authoritative, "was to determine if you had the desire to learn."
He stopped, surveying the room.
"This second test," he went on, "will determine if you have the will to take action."
The hall fell silent once more. Kairen's heart pounded faster.
"Tomorrow," Kellan informed us, "we will be having the First Year Gauntlet — a combat between the Vanguard and the Arcane Paths."
A murmur of gasps coursed through the room. A combat? Already?
Kairen's stomach turned over. His hand went to move as if it was holding his wooden practice sword — even though it wasn't there.
Kellan raised one hand for quiet. "This is more than a game," he said, and reminded serious. "This is single-on-single duels; one bout, one opponent, one outcome."
The words struck Kairen like an icy splash.
"One-on-one…" he muttered softly to himself.
Kellan's eyes ran over the lines of students. "Each duel will pit a Vanguard swordsman against an Arcane mage. Steel against spell. Strength against mind.
He started pacing slowly, his boots echoing. "Swordsmen will use blunted steel training blades. They can't cut flesh — but they can break bones. You'll wear no armor. In a real fight, your speed is your shield. Fail to use it, and you'll fall."
A nervous murmur spread. Kairen flexed his fingers. He remembered the bruise from his wooden sword. A steel one could easily shatter his arm.
Kellan addressed the mages. "You can employ containment or impact spells — ice to slow, force to thrust, earth to bar the way. No burns or piercing spells. This is a test of control, not of destruction.
He came to a stop, his eyes narrowing. " A match is over when one of you submits, or is disarmed, or unable to continue. Healers would be on the field. If they declare the match over — it's over. No exceptions."
Then, after a moment, he spoke the words that froze every heart.
"Your families have been invited to attend."
The whole hall gasped. Kairen's chest came to a stop.
His mother.
She'd be there. Watching him fight. Watching him fail.
The mark on his back burned faintly - it wasn't painful. It was a sharp sensation, like fire underneath his skin. He bit the insides of his cheek and forced himself to stand still, their dwellings fresh in his mind: Kellan's final words from mere moments prior:
"Show them how you've become. Prove that the future of this city is in capable hands. Do not bring shame upon yourselves."
Kairen's lungs forgot how to breathe.
When they were let go, the room erupted into commotion — people speaking, debating, scheming. But he didn't really hear any of it. The world had narrowed down to just him. his sword. and that weird pulse under his skin that just wouldn't shut up.
The following day, they stood before the Grand Playground — although it wasn't actually a playground at all.
It was a battlefield.
Tall rocky walls towered above the earth bordering a broad area cluttered with broken towers, swinging bridges, and jagged rocks. The scent was weak to the extent that it approached nothingness, tantamount to recollection of dust and abandoned magic.
"This is madness," Kairen stated.
Dain grinned beside him. "Crazy? This is awesome! Real steel! Real fights! My parents are gonna see me in action!"
Kairen frowned. "We'll be fighting our classmates."
"So what?" Dain shrugged. "Better friends than strangers. We'll all survive."
"I don't think I would be so confident," Ilya said softly, as she surveyed the arena with sharp eyes, as if she was planning or setting a trap. "For mages, being tall is a tremendous advantage. It's ideal for long-distance attacks."
"Which means it's in your favor," said Dain with an eye-roll.
Kairen folded his arms. "So how do we then get close? One shove spell and we're on our backs."
"Then learn to predict," said Ilya quietly. "I'll demonstrate. Both of you — attack me."
"Wait, what?" began Dain, but Ilya raised her hand.
"No holding back."
It wasn't even possible for Dain to take a step before the air snapped cold. The ice sheet beneath his feet solidified. He stumbled and slipped in every direction around the floor, and as he was getting his bearings, a wind blew him back to the ground, knocking the wind out of him.
"Ugh," was all he was able to say.
Kairen winced. "You alright?"
"Think my dignity's gone," Dain replied weakly.
Ilya's face changed very little, but her eyes sparkled. "Lesson one — predict, then strike."
Kairen had seen every move. Her magic wasn't boisterous or frenzied. It was silky, precise, exactly on beat. Every movement had a function. He could almost hear its beat.
Perhaps strength wasn't power. Perhaps it was control.
They practiced until the sun began setting, painting the sky golden. Kairen's body hurt, but his mind was sharp.
A voice interrupted the peacefulness then — smooth and taunting.
"Practicing with your little friends, Zephyrwind? How sweet."
Kairen stood still.
Kaelan Brightblade approached them, grinning. The golden hair he had flowing against the background of an ever-changing dark sky shimmered, and little specks of ambient magic danced on his fingertips. His uniform looked as if it was still the very first time he had put it on, and upon a slight inspection of the areas that may be scratching from the effort, he had yet to lift anything in effort to compliment his appearance.
"I heard you've taken up sword-swinging," Kaelan said. "Fitting, for someone who can't use real magic."
Kairen's jaw locked as he remained quiet.
Kaelan tilted his head, a silly grin unfolding. "I made a request. Tomorrow, I'll be your opponent. Perfect, isn't it? I'll get to show your mother what a failure her son really is."
The words hit harder than any weapon.
Something inside Kairen burned — not just anger, but fear and shame all tangled together. The mark on his back surged, heat pouring into his spine -- cold and hot at once. The air shook around him -- not enough for someone watching to see, but he felt it.
Dain stepped forward. "You're a real piece of work, Brightblade."
Kaelan smirked. "Coming from you?"
And then Ilya spoke — softly but acutely. "Tell me, Kaelan," she said, "do you jeer at him because his family name will forever surpass yours, or do you fear what he'll be once he ceases to care about your opinion?"
Kaelan's expression contorted. "Be careful with your words, mage."
"I'd prefer to watch you depart," Ilya replied calmly.
For once, Kaelan did. His magic sputtered, and he departed in silence without another word.
Dain blew hard. "Pay no attention to him. He's only trying to get in your head."
But Kairen wasn't hearing. The mark on his back had turned cold again — silent, but living, as if it waited. His fear was replaced now. In its stead was something cutting.
A voiceless exclamation of rage.
That night when he returned home, the scent of warm, fresh bread flow through the door before Kairen made it inside. For a moment that warmth almost made him forget the rest.
His mother lifted her head from the stove when he entered and her eyes surged with pride. "Kairen!" She exclaimed, waving a letter in gold inked writing. "The First Year Gauntlet! They invited me to come watch it! My boy — fighting, in front of the whole academy!"
He forced a smile, noting the lump in his throat. "Well... that's a lot of pressure."
"I'll be throwing a bouquet from the front row, right from the front row!" she beamed, contributing an uncertain oeuvres of her own.
He reached over, and took her hand. "I'm going to be careful," he continued softly, although he nearly cracked with disbelief. However, they maintained eye contact. Then her smile became worried. "They said you'd be using real steel. That's safe… right? Promise you'll be careful."
Kairen gazed at her — truly looked. The love, the pride, and the fear all combined on her face.
Something within him calmed down.
He took her hand and grasped it. "I will be careful," he whispered. His voice shook, but not his eyes. "I promise."
The mark throbbed once, lightly — a pulse beneath his skin. Not hurting. Just there.
He did not know whether it was on his side…or it was a warning.
He pinned, wakeful, the whole night. He sat beside the window looking out at the bright stars above the academy spires. He was holding a wooden sword on his knees, the sword that had led him to this point.
It would be metal tomorrow.
His mother would be watching tomorrow.
And he would fight tomorrow.
Not to win.
But to demonstrate that the fire within him — that one that people claimed never burned — had been smoldering all along.