The cold air still slled faintly of scorched wood from the mage’s last spell. Soren felt it in his lungs, the acrid reminder of what magic could do to solid matter in seconds. The crowd parted before him, their silence heavier than any noise as he stepped into the circle.
His boots crunched against the gravel, each step deliberate. The sound seed unnaturally loud in the hush that had fallen over the yard. He kept his eyes forward, though he sensed the weight of dozens of stares pressing against him from all sides.
Up on the balcony, Veyr’s expression shifted, part warning, part curiosity. His mismatched hair caught the winter light as he leaned forward slightly, fingers drumming once against the stone railing. Beside him, Lord Callen remained impassive, arms folded across his chest, his face a study in controlled indifference.
Soren stopped at the center of the circle, the practice sword hanging loose but ready in his grip. The blade felt inadequate suddenly, a child’s toy brought to face sothing elental.
"I’ve never faced a mage before," he said, his voice carrying easily in the silence. "I’d like to see how far steel gets ."
The mage stood opposite him, lean but not frail, with the quiet confidence of soone who had never needed to prove his strength.
His hair was the pale gold of wheat under frost, and his robes were lined with muted blue runes that seed to shift slightly when Soren tried to focus on them.
The slender staff in his hand was capped with an amber crystal that caught the light oddly, as if it contained sothing alive.
"Aric Solvarren," the mage introduced himself with a slight incline of his head. His sharp, amused eyes weighed Soren like pieces on a chessboard, calculating values and potential moves. When he spoke, each word was delivered with deliberate clarity. "Curiosity can be costly, boy."
Soren t his gaze. "So I’ve been told."
Around them, the recruits whispered among themselves, their voices a hushed current of anticipation. Soren caught fragnts, bets being placed, predictions of how quickly he would fall. So sounded almost eager to see him fail, still nursing the sting of their own defeats at the mage’s hands.
"—won’t last ten seconds—"
"—never seen anyone try to rush a mage before—"
"—going to be entertaining, at least—"
Up on the balcony, Veyr leaned closer to his father. "He won’t last a minute," he muttered, just loud enough for those below to hear.
Lord Callen didn’t look away from the circle. His cold gray eyes remained fixed on the scene unfolding below. "Or he’ll last too long," he replied. "Either result will tell sothing."
Aric clasped his hands behind his back, studying Soren with renewed interest. Then, with a fluid motion, he brought his staff forward and tapped it once against the ground.
Faint light coiled around him like breath in winter air, pale blue tendrils that twisted and writhed with a life of their own.
The shard against Soren’s chest pulsed once, warm and insistent. He felt Valenna’s presence sharpen, focusing with keen interest on what was about to unfold.
’Watch the chest, not the hands or the crystal,’ she whispered in his mind. ’The movent begins there.’
Soren shifted into his opening stance, blade angled low, knees bent, eyes fixed on the mage’s chest as instructed, deliberately avoiding the glowing crystal that seed designed to draw attention.
He breathed in slowly, tasting the lingering scorch in the air, feeling the weight of the mont press down around him.
The silence in the yard grew so complete it felt sharp enough to cut. Even the wind seed to hold its breath.
The first flicker of magic sparked in the air and Soren moved.
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