Rodrick and I stepped through the arched entrance and into the open space of the main pit, our footsteps a strange duet — his light and asured, mine deliberately slow, as if the extra seconds might change the outco of what was about to happen. I didn’t expect it to.
The dueling grounds of Graywatch Academy were never quiet, even at night. They weren’t ant to be. The place was built like a living stage for the city’s best and worst fighters — a wide, open arena of beaten dirt and stone ringed by cracked marble columns, old enough that their histories had stopped being recorded and started being guessed at.
The torches mounted high along the outer walls burned with that particular stubborn fla Graywatch favored: tall, gold, and a little too bright, like they were trying to burn away the sll of sweat and blood that clung to the place no matter how many tis the ground was raked clean.
I could already feel the eyes on us. They ca in the form of sideways glances from duelists oiling their blades, chuckles from a knot of archers leaning against the far wall, a couple of outright smirks from the young bloods who thought they’d invented swordplay just because they’d won a few tavern challenges.
You could always tell who the regulars were here — they lounged on the sidelines like cats that had already eaten, sizing up new prey not out of hunger but for the sport of it.
"Looks like the academy’s gone soft," one voice called from my left. The speaker was a broad-shouldered man with too much hair on his forearms and too little in his wit, if the smug twist to his mouth was any indication. His friends snickered.
I didn’t even bother looking directly at him when I answered. "Don’t worry," I said, voice slow and sugar-sweet, the kind of tone people use right before poisoning soone’s tea, "I’ll make sure to keep it soft when I bury you in the ground. Wouldn’t want the dirt to bruise your delicate ego."
The laughter from his corner stumbled, then stopped. One of his friends coughed like he’d swallowed a fly. The man’s mouth opened as if to retort, but no words ca out — only the sort of awkward grunt a man makes when he realizes he’s about to lose a battle without even drawing his weapon.
That was enough for . I wasn’t here for them.
Rodrick and I reached the center of the arena, the dirt beneath our boots still warm from the last bout. I exhaled, loosening my shoulders, and let the familiar weight of the spear slide into my palms. The silver glead under the torchlight, catching and throwing back the fire in long, wicked glints. It was beautiful in a way that made my chest tighten — perfectly balanced, deadly without shouting about it.
This was the first ti I’d get to use it.
I started with a warmup. Not the kind you do before a fight to keep your muscles from cramping — the kind you do to make a point. My point was simple: I was better with a spear than anyone here was prepared to admit.
The kata flowed through like water poured from a height. I moved in arcs and spirals, letting the weapon lead my body rather than the other way around, feeling the silver shaft glide across my back, my arms, the space just above the ground. It wasn’t practical — not for killing. It was a dance, every motion exaggerated, every turn drawn out just long enough to make the air whisper past the blade.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a few heads tilt. The smirks softened into sothing like curiosity. And there — a voice low enough to be almost private: "That’s... actually pretty good."
I let the kata end with the butt of the spear striking the ground, sending up a tiny puff of dust. My breathing was even. My heartbeat was steady. Rodrick’s smile, however, was not the friendly sort.
"You’re putting on quite the show," he said, rolling his wrist so the light ran down the edge of his blade. "Hope you fight as well as you dance."
I grinned at him, sharp and easy. "You’ll find out soon enough."
And then I moved.
The first lunge was fast enough to kick dust into the air between us. Rodrick t it head-on, steel ringing against silver as his sword caught my spear just below the blade. I pivoted, twisting my wrists to slide him off, then snapped the butt end up toward his ribs. He caught that too, stepping in close — too close — and forcing to skip back before he could turn the angle into a cut.
The dance was over. Now ca the fight.
We circled each other in the dirt, his steps asured, mine deliberately unpredictable. I feinted low and then swung high, the spear whistling past his ear. He ducked under and slashed at my side; I turned with it, letting the cut pass harmlessly through the space where I’d been a heartbeat earlier, then swept at his legs. He jumped the sweep and ca down hard, forcing to catch his weight on the shaft of the spear and shove him back with a grunt.
Sowhere in the crowd, soone shouted, "Get him, snow-head!" Another voice countered with, "Stick him, violet eyes!" Lovely. I had a fan club now.
The fight pushed us toward the arena’s edge, our boots grinding furrows into the dirt. Rodrick’s style was tight, efficient, no wasted motion. Mine, on the other hand, had always been a little more... conversational. I let him think he was pressing back, baiting him with the promise of an opening that never quite arrived, until the mont I pivoted on my back foot and brought the spear around in a wide arc that forced him to duck or lose his head.
He ducked — right into my knee.
The impact jarred up my leg, and he stumbled, swearing under his breath, but recovered quickly enough to block my follow-up. The crowd reacted in a ripple of cheers and groans, as if they’d collectively realized they might be watching sothing worth their ti.
And that’s when the enhancents ca in.
I didn’t even need to speak them anymore. Now, they were like silent switches in my head, flipping on exactly what I needed in the mont I needed it. A pulse of power into my legs sent bounding sideways, closing the gap between us in a blur. A quick surge into my arms turned a defensive parry into a shove that sent him back two steps.
It wasn’t just speed or strength, it was flow. My body beca a map of moving parts, each one lighting up only when it was called for, each one fading back into stillness as the next took over. The result was seamless, almost effortless, as though the spear and I were extensions of the sa thought.
I spun the weapon in a high arc, letting it sing through the air — and with that motion ca sothing unexpected. Not a mory I could see, but one I could feel. My body rembered movents I didn’t recall learning, patterns that slipped into place like they’d been waiting there all along.
I erupted into a sudden feint followed by a backward spin, using the shaft as a brace to vault clean over Rodrick’s head — my boots kissed the dirt behind him before he could turn. A jab to his side that turned into a hook behind his ankle, sweeping him off-balance just long enough for to press the tip of the spear to the hollow of his back. He twisted away, faster than I’d expected, his blade scraping along the shaft with a snarl of tal.
The crowd’s noise grew louder now, splitting evenly between cheers for him and for . Soone shouted a bet across the arena; another cursed when they realized the odds were shifting.
Rodrick’s jaw tightened. He pressed forward in a flurry of strikes, each one aid to push onto the defensive. But I’d already found his rhythm. Sword forward, recover, step — sword forward, recover, pivot. It was beautiful, really, in the way any deadly pattern can be once you know how to break it.
And I did.
I used the reach of the spear to keep him just far enough away that his blade couldn’t find , forcing him to commit harder and harder to each swing until he overextended by half an inch — all the space I needed. I twisted the shaft, knocking his sword aside, and stepped in so quickly the air between us cracked.
The silver tip ca to rest at the hollow of his throat.
The fight ended there. It had to.
For a heartbeat, the arena was silent. Then ca the noise — cheers from so, groans from others, the sound of coins changing hands. The air was warm with it, thick with sweat and dust and the raw satisfaction of a bout well-fought.
Rodrick exhaled and stepped back, picking up his sword. There was no bitterness in his expression — just a soft smile, small enough that it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone who wasn’t standing right in front of him.
From the edge of the arena, Salem stepped forward. His expression was sothing I’d rarely seen from him — not the amused smirk or the sharp, appraising stare, but open surprise. "I’ve never once seen moves like that," he said, voice even but edged with curiosity. "Where did you learn them?"
I hesitated. The answer should have been simple. It wasn’t. Because while my muscles had moved like they’d been trained for years, my mind couldn’t conjure the man who’d taught them. The motions were clear, perfect. However, the mory of the teacher, Japeth, was blank.
"I don’t entirely know," I admitted.
Salem’s gaze lingered on for a mont longer, but he didn’t press. He just nodded once, as if filing the answer away for later.
Rodrick sheathed his sword, his shoulders relaxing. "Well fought," he said simply.
"You too," I replied, eting his smile with one of my own. And for the mont, with the crowd dispersing and the night settling over the dueling grounds, that was enough.
Later that night I was lying on my side, staring at the faint moonlight pooling on the floorboards, thinking about nothing and everything at once — the tournant, the spear, the fact that my pillow felt like it had been stuffed with the regrets of a hundred monks — when a faint rustle broke through the quiet.
Rodrick’s shadow crossed the edge of my bed, and I glanced up to see him holding out a folded piece of parchnt. No words, just the kind of look that said don’t ask, just read.
The note was short. Just a handful of precise, almost too-neat letters:
et in the cathedral’s central library.— Salem
There was no "please," no "urgent," no "don’t tell anyone." Salem didn’t need those. He knew I’d co. The fact that it was this late ant it wasn’t just idle conversation.
I got up without a word, tugged on a shirt, and made my way through the sleeping cathedral. My boots were nearly silent on the worn stone floors, and every step seed to echo a little too loudly in my head.
The library’s massive oak doors creaked as I pushed them open, the sound swallowed imdiately by the hush inside. Salem was there, sitting in one of the high-backed chairs near the center table, a single candle burning beside him. The fla danced against the blood-red cover of the book in his hands.
When he saw , he closed it — slowly, deliberately — and set it on the table between us.
"You’re late," he said, though there wasn’t any real heat behind it.
"I was in the middle of contemplating the aning of life," I replied. "It turns out the aning is ’my bed is warm and you’re very inconsiderate.’"
His mouth curved faintly, but only for a heartbeat. "It’s ti," he said.
Now, there are a lot of ominous phrases in the world, but it’s ti ranks right up there with we need to talk and don’t turn around. I raised an eyebrow. "Ti for what exactly? Tea? Execution? A spontaneous dance number?"
He didn’t blink. "Ti for you to learn the skill my family has been passing down for generations. The sonic burst."
I stared at him. "You’re going to have to clarify whether that’s a fighting technique or an unfortunate digestive condition."
He ignored . "It’s an Incarnic form of movent. So fast it breaks the speed barrier."
That earned him an outright laugh. I couldn’t help it. "Oh, of course. Because clearly I’m in the market for catastrophic organ failure. I can barely place two enhancents at once without feeling like my veins are on fire, and you want to... what, enhance my entire body?"
"Not exactly," Salem said, leaning forward. His eyes were calm, but there was a weight in them that made sober up just a little. "The skill doesn’t work the way you think. It requires a very specific thod — one only my family has uncovered. You don’t dump all your energy into your body at once. You split the energy required for one enhancent into micro fragnts then distribute them across muscle, bone, tissue — everywhere."
My breath caught. "That... sounds like an excellent way to end up as a very fast corpse. How?"
He tapped the red book. "The path the energy has to travel is precise. One mistake and you’ll waste it. I’ve detailed the entire process for you already."
I picked up the book and started flipping through it. That was my first mistake. The diagrams were... well, "anatomy" didn’t quite cover it. It was as if Salem had personally commissioned a mad scientist to map every nerve, tendon, and joint in my body, then explained how to turn them into a living lightning strike. My stomach rolled.
"You wrote this?" I asked, incredulous.
"Every word," he said. "Just for you."
There was a quiet pride there, and for once, I didn’t try to cut it down with a joke. I closed the book, holding it more carefully now. "Alright. But you’re not selling on this being a good idea."
"I didn’t say it was a good idea," Salem replied. "I’m saying it’s necessary. But you need to know its limits. First — it takes ti to build up. Diffusion requires concentration. That’s why I ditate before using it."
I blinked. And suddenly I understood. That day in the garden — when I’d found him sitting like so serene statue just before he showed the move that defied reason — he’d been gathering the energy, storing it like a coiled spring.
"If you gather more during ditation, you can store the skill itself," he continued. "For , I can hold enough for about three uses. No more."
"And the second drawback?" I asked, already bracing for it.
"The toll it takes on the body." His voice was quiet now. "Even enhanced, you’ll still be moving past the speed of sound. Your body isn’t designed for that kind of speed. There will be damage. Inevitably."
I exhaled slowly. The room felt warr all of a sudden, the candle’s light flickering across the blood-red leather in my hands.
"Understood," I said finally. "Thank you, Salem."
He simply nodded, and that was all. No handshake, no lingering lecture. Just the weight of sothing old and dangerous passed from one set of hands to another.
I left the library with the book tucked under my arm, the cathedral’s corridors stretching before in long shadows. Sleep didn’t even bother pretending to be an option.
That night, I sat at my desk, the red book open before , the diagrams crawling under my skin in ways I couldn’t quite shake. I traced the patterns in my mind, again and again, until the lines blurred and reford into sothing almost natural.
Three days left. That was all.
I decided then that I was going to learn this skill, no matter the cost.
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