The announcer’s voice cut through the thinning crowd. Names rolled out like drumbeats, calling us to the sand. My pulse drummed with them, louder with every heartbeat.

  Finally, the order reached me.

  “First years, to your places.”

  Flipping my astral raptor blades in my hands, the bracers warm against my skin, I rose from the bench and followed the others down the steps to our designated circles. My pulse beat steady, not frantic, the familiar rhythm of knives in hand keeping me centered.

  Before I knew it, my turn had come. I stepped onto the sands, the ground firmer than I expected, packed tight as if hundreds of battles had already stamped their weight into it. The ring I entered was fifteen yards across, its boundary etched into the ground. As soon as I crossed, an aetheric barrier shimmered to life, rising high and sealing the circle so no strike could spill into neighboring matches.

  I had left Dusk in the designated area for companions and familiars, and the absence on my shoulder left me unsettled. That lightness was uncomfortable. I pushed the discomfort down, channeling it into focus for the fight to come.

  Across from me, my opponent stepped forward. An average-sized human male with black hair and a patchy beard. At first glance, unremarkable. Yet the smug curve of his mouth told me everything I needed to know. Pride radiated off him in waves, arrogance leaking through him like water through a cracked dam. It made my fists itch.

  He carried a staff in one hand and a short sword in the other. A split fighter. Someone who could wield both aether and blade. That meant unpredictability. Dangerous, but not insurmountable.

  The referee gave us only a brief warning. “Fatal or crippling strikes end the match immediately. The wards will protect against death, but your injuries will be real. Five minutes. Begin on my mark.”

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  “Fight!”

  Even before the final word left the referee’s lips, my tremor sense screamed a warning. The ground shifted beneath me — he had already begun shaping aether before the call.

  Typical noble. Always bending the rules.

  I dove left, rolling as shards of stone erupted where I had been standing, the explosion of dirt and rock biting the air. Even before I landed, my hands snapped forward. Two blades shot from my hands, streaking across the space between us. My senses caught his hurried movement as he twisted aside, barely dodging the first strike, slower on the second.

  My countdown pulsed in my mind. Three seconds until the blades reformed. My feet found the ground, my body snapping up into a sprint. The moment the blades returned, I flicked them into my hands and launched another barrage.

  This time, a stone pillar surged from the earth in front of him. Both knives bit deep into its surface, sinking halfway before quivering still.

  I was already dashing forward, refusing to give him time to breathe. Close quarters would be to my advantage here. If I closed the distance, his staff may do more harm than good, and I trusted my knives would eat through his swordplay.

  My tremor sense painted the truth behind the wall. He was weaving stone up and over his body, layering it into jagged armor. His staff elongated, stone thickening it into a heavy club. A golem shell, clumsy but dangerous if it landed a strike.

  I adjusted my plan to account for this change as I reached the stone pillar.

  He stepped around the it, his gait suddenly heavy. Too heavy and slow. The armor weighed him down more than he realized. It threw his rhythm off, clunking with every step.

  I slipped around the other side of the wall, feet silent on the packed earth. He never noticed. My tremor sense gave me his exact position. His right leg dragged slightly as the stone settled, the joints stiff.

  I darted behind him, knives ready. One flick of my wrist sent a dagger spinning toward the back of his knee. The blade struck with a sharp crack, splitting the stone around the joint.

  He staggered, his head snapping around too late. I was already in motion. I leapt, planting my boot with every ounce of strength into the weakened spot. The blade bit deeper, sliding through ligament and tendon, and with the added force, his knee snapped.

  His scream burst against the stone mask, muffled but raw. He toppled backward, the weight of his armor dragging him down. I landed lightly, stepping with him as he fell. By the time his back hit the ground, my knife was at his throat.

  “Match to Bryn!” the referee’s voice rang out.

  The barrier dissolved, the shimmer fading, and the healers rushed forward. Already they were chanting, working to undo the damage before it could linger.

  I stepped back, my breath ragged but controlled, already flipping my knife in my hand in that old rhythm. My heart slowed, the rush settling into something fierce and alive in my chest.

  I had done it. My first match was a victory. The thrill surged through me, hot and heady. I felt sharper than I ever had before, the world clear and alive around me.

  First match down. Four more to go.

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  —

  That first match proved to be the most difficult and the most interesting. None of the others I faced wielded any aetheric magic. From that point on, the fights came down to raw skill, and in that area, I outclassed all four of them.

  One opponent had a build similar to mine, but his throwing stars lacked both power and accuracy. Against the storm of daggers, I sent at him, he crumbled quickly.

  Another was an archer. That match felt more like a quirk of the tournament format than a fair fight. I almost pitied him. A flick of my wrist sent two knives cutting through the air, and one sliced his bowstring snapping it in two. Once his weapon was useless, the rest was over in seconds.

  The final three ended even faster. My speed and senses carried the victories more than my blades. Their movements telegraphed everything, their strikes coming in neat, practiced sets. To anyone without my tremor sense, they might have seemed competent. To me, they were children playing drills, unable to adjust when their rhythm was broken. Every opening they gave me was clear, every counter already seen before they even made it.

  It was becoming clearer what the headmasters had meant when they said this academy would hone us with true experience, not just head knowledge and staged duels. These students had been trained, yes, but only within the safety of repetition. Though I had never stood in a true fight, Thorn had driven us to the edge of our limits, never letting us grow comfortable. It was as close to battle as training could come.

  What surprised me was how quickly I learned to strike for the kill, how easily I moved past the shock of causing real injury. That, too, I owed to my final year under Thorn.

  He had not been gentle. My regeneration had rebuilt me countless times beneath his unrelenting hand, each broken bone and torn muscle reforged until hesitation itself seemed beaten out of me. Whatever revulsion I might have felt for such brutality had long since been burned away.

  Strangely, none of my matches had been against anyone of another race. Humans, all of them. I knew that would change soon, likely tomorrow. The thought sparked equal parts curiosity and excitement.

  After my final victory was called, I made my way to the cafeteria and grabbed as much food as I could carry. I ate in silence, then retreated to my dorm, replaying each fight in my head. I traced the moments I could have struck cleaner, the times my movement could have been tighter, the seconds wasted in hesitation. Every flaw was worth correcting.

  I stayed with those thoughts until it was late, my mind still circling every strike, every dodge. At some point, my eyes finally closed, sleep pulling me under like a tide.

  When dawn came, I was already awake, the anticipation pulling me to my feet before the sun had even touched the horizon. Round two was waiting.

  —

  Day two blurred past in a storm of circles, blades, and bruises. Five more matches, five more victories. The opponents were sharper than on the first day, but the same flaws showed through. Some favored power, swinging wide and hard, but left openings a child could have seen. Others relied on fancy footwork or elaborate forms that crumbled the moment I broke their rhythm.

  One duel stood out.

  My opponent was a tidecaller from the coast, with salt braided into his hair and a confidence that came from fighting with the sea at his back. The moment the signal was given, the air around him grew heavy. Moisture gathered, drawn from breath and sweat and the faint humidity clinging to the arena stones.

  Water coiled into shape at his hands.

  It snapped forward in twin whips, fast and merciless. The first caught my shoulder, the impact sharp enough to steal my breath. The second lashed across my ribs, heat flaring as if the skin had been branded. I stumbled back, boots skidding on wet stone as spray exploded around me.

  Another strike came. Then another. Each one burned, leaving my muscles screaming as I twisted and ducked, trying to close the distance after my throwing blades were ineffective.

  The water moved too quickly to block cleanly, flowing around my knives no matter how I angled them. For a few heartbeats, I was on the back foot, soaked and stinging, my focus narrowed to nothing but survival.

  Then the rhythm surfaced.

  I felt it through the ground first, a subtle pull in the stone beneath my feet. The tremor sense whispered the truth before my eyes caught up. His aether gathered, drew inward, then released in a controlled burst. Like waves meeting the shore, retreating only to crash again.

  There was always a moment between.

  I stopped chasing the openings and started waiting for them.

  When the pull came, I shifted. When the water lashed out, I moved with it instead of against it. A knife flew free, thrown not at the whip but at his stance. It clipped his guard, forcing him to adjust. The next pause came shorter. I stepped inside it.

  Steel flashed. One blade slipped past the water and nicked his arm. Another struck his thigh, shallow but clean. The tidecaller’s focus wavered, and for the first time his magic faltered, the whips losing their snap as his rhythm broke.

  I pressed the advantage.

  The next lull opened like a held breath. I crossed the distance and slashed with my blades. The referee’s call cut through the arena with finality.

  It was over.

  I stood there drenched, water dripping from my hair and sleeves, chest heaving as the burn along my skin faded to a dull ache. My arms shook with exhaustion, my lungs worked hard for every breath.

  And despite it all, I was smiling.

  The other four were quicker. Some ended before a full minute had passed. My senses gave me every angle before it unfolded, and my hands were fast enough to seize the opportunities given.

  By the end of the day, my arms ached, and my bracers thrummed with the echo of constant use. Yet my confidence grew. The headmasters had not exaggerated when they said many would fall in the first week. Dozens of students were already being escorted away, their dreams of Ascension finished.

  On day three, the competition grew fiercer. The matches dragged on, and fatigue gnawed at my edges for the first time. My regeneration worked overtime, stitching torn muscle and dulling the throb of battered ribs. One clash stood out above the rest. An orc berserker, broad as a wall and twice as relentless, came at me with a greataxe that split the air in savage arcs. Each swing rattled my bones even when I slipped clear.

  He fought like a storm, with raw fury and strength. Twice, he nearly broke through. Once, his shoulder slammed into me like a battering ram, and another time, the haft of his axe cracked against my ribs. We circled and traded strikes, my knives biting shallow against his thick skin while he surged forward with reckless abandon.

  At last, a feint opened the way. I slipped inside his swing and drove a blade up under his arm, deep enough to stagger him. The ward flared as he dropped to a knee, chest heaving, and the referee called the fight.

  I respected him more than the others. We both left that match with nods of appreciation.

  The day was a gauntlet. Matches stacked on matches, each opponent stronger, faster, more cunning. Still, I stood when the dust settled. My record remained unbroken.

  As night fell, the academy was already smaller by hundreds. The halls had more space. Whispers traveled faster than meals could be eaten. Names were spoken with awe or fear. Rivalries sparked before the matches even began.

  And through it all, I held back from reaching out to anyone. I watched. I listened. But I waited. The tournament would decide where we all stood, who we would live and fight beside. To rush ahead now felt like wasting effort.

  When the third day closed, I returned to my dorm and collapsed onto my bed, Dusk curling against my side. My body was tired, but my spirit burned bright.