The arena wasn't like the training yards.
It was older. Meaner.
Columns ringed the edge, carved with old dueling crests from before the last civil war. The sand was dark—stained deep with ash and blood. The crowd sat high above, loud but distant, their voices blending into a kind of storm overhead.
Leon stepped through the outer gate.
No applause.
Just murmurs.
Some were surprised he came. Others disappointed.
He didn't look at them.
Didn't need to.
His pulse held steady. Blade in hand. The gauntlets Rellan had given him bit into his wrists. His breath was short from warmups, but his stance felt good—low, measured.
Across the ring, his opponent dropped his robe.
Tall. Pale. Eyes black as obsidian.
The monk from the northern provinces.
He didn't bow. Just rolled his neck, cracked his knuckles, and stepped into the center like it already belonged to him.
The instructor's voice rang out:
"Leon Thorne of House Thorne…"
The crowd shifted.
"Versus Kael of the Iron Path."
Silence.
Then: "Begin."
Kael moved first.
Not testing. Not posturing.
Just pressure—fast, clean, direct. Blade angled low but rising, built to punish any forward motion.
Leon slipped sideways. Let the edge slide past. Used the back of his blade to guide it clear.
Metal hissed.
Kael didn't pause.
He twisted—reversed his grip mid-motion—and drove his elbow at Leon's jaw.
Leon ducked.
Too slow.
The strike grazed his temple. Stars flickered.
He hit the ground hard.
Sand filled his mouth.
Spitting, rolling, pushing to his feet—
Kael came again.
No words. No pause. Just movement.
Leon let him.
Second exchange. Tighter now. Blades caught and scraped. Hilt guards slid. Kael fought like stone—each strike crushing, deliberate.
Leon fought like water.
Not elegant, but quick. Shifting, adjusting, just fast enough to stay ahead.
The crowd stirred.
Kael pressed harder.
A vertical slash came down for the collarbone.
Leon caught it—crossed gauntlets ringing. He twisted, grabbed a second of control, and slammed his pommel into Kael's ribs.
A grunt.
Kael stepped back. Spun. Kicked.
Leon didn't duck.
He stepped in.
Took the hit across his side, but crashed his shoulder into Kael's chest.
Both staggered.
Neither fell.
The instructor stayed still.
So did everyone else.
Kael's blade shimmered faintly—enchanted. Durable, nothing more.
Leon's wasn't. Standard steel. Heavy toward the back.
He changed grip.
His turn.
Slash. Feint. Hook.
Kael blocked the first two. The third drew blood—just a line across his thigh.
Gasps rippled.
Kael's focus sharpened.
Then he moved again—looser now. Less rigid. Faster.
The real fight began.
Five minutes in.
Leon's limbs ached. Kael bled from three places now—thigh, forearm, jaw.
Leon too. Shoulder. Cheek.
But he was still thinking.
Still standing.
Kael shifted his stance.
Open. Too open.
Leon hesitated.
Trap?
No time.
He went in.
Tried to bind blades. Keep control.
Kael dropped.
Swept Leon's legs.
Leon hit hard. Air gone.
Kael moved in, blade reversed for a downward stab.
Leon's hand found a divot in the sand.
He drove his heel down, twisted his hips, and kicked hard.
Kael stumbled.
Leon rose.
Two hands on the blade.
He swung.
A clean strike across Kael's chest.
The monk hit the sand.
Not unconscious.
But down.
The instructor raised his hand.
"Match over."
Leon didn't raise his arms.
Didn't smile.
He stood there, chest heaving, blood dripping down his ribs, watching Kael push to one knee.
The monk looked up.
Nodded.
Leon nodded back.
Respect.
The crowd didn't cheer.
But they were quiet now.
And they were watching.
Leon Thorne had won.
And no one would forget it.
Leon didn't linger in the arena.
The moment the instructor called it, and Kael was helped off the field, he lowered his sword and walked straight out.
No nods.
No applause.
No permission.
His ribs burned. Shoulder worse. The cut on his cheek still bled—a slow trail down his jaw.
But his legs held.
At least until he hit the stone hallway beyond the gate.
Then he stopped. Let out a breath. Leaned against the wall.
Let his arm drop.
Bootsteps came fast behind him—steady, no hesitation.
Not Elena.
Not Rellan.
Fena.
She stopped in front of him, hands on hips, eyes sharp.
"You're an idiot."
"Was it the win that bothered you?"
"You chased a fake opening. That sweep nearly folded you."
"I adjusted."
"You gambled."
He didn't argue. She was right.
Still didn't regret it.
She scanned him once, then pulled a small jar from her belt.
"Hold still."
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding."
"I'll manage."
She pressed the cloth to his cheek anyway. Quick, precise, no nonsense.
"You're not untouchable just because you've passed two trials and a Crest Duel," she muttered.
"I know."
"You're making noise."
"I want them listening."
She paused, hand still for half a second.
Then stepped back.
"You're changing things."
"I have to."
Silence hung there.
Then a voice echoed from down the hall.
"Leon Thorne!"
Formal. Cold.
Leon looked.
A steward stood at the corridor's end, scroll in hand.
"Summons from the Faculty Board," the steward said. "You're expected at highbell."
Fena stepped back.
"You're not getting a day off."
"Didn't ask for one."
The steward turned and left.
Leon slid the blade onto his back and followed.
New arena.
Same fight.
The corridor coiled through the upper levels—far from the barracks now. Marble underfoot. Silver sconces. The air smelled less like sweat, more like ink and dust.
Leon said nothing.
The steward never looked back.
At the final stair, two guards waited beside the tall double doors, Swordcrest crest etched deep—twin blades wrapped in phoenix wings.
One pulled the door. The other stepped aside.
Leon entered alone.
The boardroom was small—but heavy. Five faculty members sat behind the table, robed in violet, crests at their shoulders. Scrolls and rune tablets cluttered the desk.
At the head: Master Caedric Varn.
Broad. Bald. Beard braided twice. One eye sharp. The other amber crystal—lit from within.
"You're late," Caedric said.
Leon bowed, short.
"I came when summoned."
"In time to matter," another instructor muttered—a thin woman, glasses slipping down her nose.
"No posturing," Caedric said. "You're here because you won a Crest Duel. And passed two field trials in three weeks."
Leon didn't speak.
"You're also here," Caedric added, "because nobles are whispering."
Leon raised his head.
"They say you're aiming for something," said a man with gold rings on every finger.
"They're right."
"Oh?" Caedric asked. "And what is it you want, Thorne?"
Leon didn't blink.
"To reclaim my family name."
Silence.
Even the pages stopped turning.
Caedric's crystal eye flickered.
"A noble's pride cuts deep."
"I'm not chasing pride."
"Then what?"
Leon met his gaze. "Justice."
A scoff. A glance.
Caedric didn't move.
"Justice costs blood," he said. "Make sure you know whose."
"That's why I'm training."
Caedric reached for a document. Passed it to the steward.
"Effective immediately, you're reassigned to Cohort Seven. Direct instruction under Master Elric Marrow."
Leon's eyes narrowed.
Cohort Seven.
Not promotion.
Exposure.
"Elric doesn't take low ranks," someone muttered.
"He does now," Caedric said.
The steward handed Leon a new crest—black and silver.
He took it.
Heavier than it looked.
"Dismissed."
Leon bowed deeper this time.
Then left.
Only when the doors shut behind him did his shoulders shift—barely.
Cohort Seven.
That meant full combat.
That meant every noble watching.
And it meant no room left for mistakes.