The announcer's bell cut through the terrace to silence. "Solmara Enclave versus the Erevalen Dominion. Competitors: Ilyra and Saelis of Solmara, versus Thalen and Luke of Erevalen. Begin."
Runners darted onto the stone, banners snapping. Aurelia watched them, arms folded, and felt the sour little tug of disappointment blossom into a sulk. "It should be me down there," she muttered, half to herself.
Lysandra looped an arm through hers and gave a conspiratorial grin. "You'll be next. I'll be with you. Don't sulk, save that energy for the arena."
Kael, always practical, tipped his head. "Analyze the fight. See what they do wrong. That's better use of a sulk."
Aurelia rolled her eyes. She let the damp, hot coil of frustration settle into something cleaner: attention. If she couldn't fight now, she could at least learn.
Ilyra moved gracefully, like a melody in the air. Her magic wasn't about creating sharp edges or traps, it was whisper-soft and subtle. She manipulated perceptions with flickers that blurred object outlines, sounds that came out of sync, and an atmosphere that felt heavier in spots, distorting reality.
Instead of the expected sound of a soldier's boot hitting the ground, there was only silence. Instead of a solid thud, an echo lagged behind by a heartbeat.
Her illusions were a dance, guiding the senses to misinterpret what was there rather than merely creating a copy of it.
Lucien leaned against the wall, rolling his eyes as he watched the latest display of illusions from the Solmara students. "You'd think they'd find a new trick by now. They sure do love their illusions, it's like a relentless parade of smoke and jokes. It's actually starting to piss me off."
Arthur chuckled beside him, unfazed by Lucien's irritation. "What do you expect? It's their specialty. They're masters at it. But I get it, a little variety wouldn't hurt."
Lucien crossed his arms, still exasperated. "Yeah, well, maybe they should focus on something else for once. It's getting old."
Saelis knelt down, his fingers pressing into the soft sand as he began to inscribe runes that emitted a low, steady hum. These markings served as practical anchors and supports rather than mere decoration.
Beneath the surface, small symbols are intertwined to form a lattice structure.
From these interconnected nodes, brief flashes of stone emerged, forming temporary supports that carried weight and offered resistance.
This innovative ground gave him a solid foundation to work with, even if only for a short time.
Saelis's craft felt pragmatic, if Ilyra made the world question what it saw, Saelis made the world answer with something you could lean on.
Opposite them, Thalen breathed, and the air listened. His wind came as precise probing: narrow threads that slipped along seams, tiny currents that tested a structure's flex.
Luke moved, Aura pooling around the haft of his spear; each planted foot drove out a point of stubbornness in the sand, a node that fixed a current's path.
Thalen found a gap, Luke held the anchor, together they read the field as if it were a map, and they only needed to find the fold.
For a long minute, the Solmara pair owned the choreography. Ilyra's glamours shifted the crowd's focus, folding sight and sound into polite confusion. Saelis's rune-arches raised little terraces that looked solid enough to walk on.
The arena stuttered between what was and what felt like would be. The audience leaned forward, entranced.
Then Thalen altered his tempo. He compressed his winds into thin, sharp cords and sent them slithering along the underside of one of Saelis's stone ribs.
Luke, planting both boots, flared his Aura into the spear, turning one of Saelis's nodes into an exposed hinge.
The wind's pressure on that hinge found a mechanical truth Saelis's rune hadn't fully accounted for, the temporary brace had a predictable stress.
Saelis lashed out, trying to retune the lattice, but the seams Thalen had tested now sang with a new frequency: a force that demanded either give or break.
Ilyra attempted a sensory retouch, smoothing the edges so the fracture would be hidden, but Thalen's gust had already found the rib's limit.
The brace splintered with a hairline crack, and a small collapse flattened the confident terrace into a shallow sink.
Where the ground buckled, Ilyra's illusions lost purchase, sound echoes misaligned, and steps landed in thinner air.
Luke drove the advantage like a practiced smith. His Aura-lance slipped into the newly exposed seam, and the point struck a rune-node that held a portion of Saelis's lattice.
The impact unraveled the node into sparks of failed geometry. Thalen's winds poured through the gap, driving Ilyra's phantasms into ragged retreat.
In the pause that followed, Erevalen struck twice, clean and deliberate.
Luke's spear found a seam in Saelis's rework; Thalen's gust swept through the collapsing space like a blade. The Solmara duo staggered beneath the coordination.
Aurelia felt the small, complicated thing that always knotted her chest, admiration for craft.
This was Aether as language, one side writing the stage, the other carving the route through it. She let the feeling sit, without rushing to disguise it.
When the bell sounded and the crowd cheered, she clapped because she'd seen something true.
The announcer's voice rose: Erevalen Dominion, victory. Applause swelled, some begrudging, some bright.
Lysandra's hand found Aurelia's sleeve, trembling with excitement. "Did you see how Thalen found the seams?" she whispered.
Aurelia nodded, keeping her eyes on the sand where the rune-smoke still lingered. "One wrote the world, the other made it answer," she said. The thought felt too neat to keep but right enough to hold.
Kael, quiet beside her, added, "They made the field obey them."
As the runners reset and the next call rose, Aurelia's readiness sharpened into a fine-point purpose.
The Solmara–Erevalen match had shown her a facet of Aether she wanted to learn, not just force, but the patience to listen and the craft to answer.
She folded that lesson into herself like a secret card, something to warm the long hours ahead.
"Next," Lysandra said, grinning around the edge of the arena, "it's our turn."
They rose together, Aurelia and Lysandra stepping toward the runners' gate with the rest of their division, the memory of braided wind and wigging ground tucked carefully under their skin.
Kael's hand curled into a small fist at his side. "Do your best," he said quietly.
Lucien's grin cut across the crowd. He moved up behind Aurelia and, before she could react, slapped her shoulder. "Three wins for Arcane," he said, voice bright. "Don't ruin the streak."
"What the hell was that for?" Aurelia snapped, rubbing where his palm had landed.
Lucien only smirked. "Encouragement," he said, as if that settled everything.
Lysandra, not to be outdone, gave Aurelia a playful smack of her own. "Stop sulking," she hissed, eyes bright. "You're on the stage now, no pouting."
Aurelia shot her a look and shoved at Lysandra's shoulder. "Don't hold me back."
"In your dreams," Lysandra shot back. "I'm as capable as you are."
They moved together toward the runners' gate, two students carrying the pride of their division. The announcer's voice boomed: "Representing Arcane Academy: Lysandra Vire and Aurelia Caelistra!"
A murmur rolled through the crowd. Above, nobles leaned forward; below, the students cheered. Arcane's banners fluttered like a heartbeat.
Across the sand, the Imperial Spire's pair stepped in: one tall and willowy, a hand resting near the polished cylinder of a revolver, the other, shoulders squared, palms open to the air, Aether already coalescing into a faint, visible shimmer around his fingers.
The announcer gave their names: "Tavian Rourke and Orin Halvyr of the Imperial Spire."
Lysandra snorted under her breath. "They sure do love their fancy toys," she whispered.
"That's all the more reason to dismantle them," Aurelia replied, voice low and even.
She felt the hum of the crowd like wind through a net, it slid past, not into her. This was a moment to be measured, not wasted.
With a graceful flourish, she unsheathed her sword, the steel singing a haunting melody that sliced through the tense silence.
The crowd collectively held their breath, captivated by the spectacle unfolding before them.
Aurelia twirled the weapon in an elegant pirouette, the blade dancing gracefully in the air as she wove a mesmerizing tapestry of precision and strength.
Every movement was meticulously orchestrated, a display not merely for show but a testament to her mastery, igniting the very essence of the blade as it thrummed with anticipation.
As the metal glinted brilliantly under the ethereal glow of the terrace lights, time seemed to still.
The world contracted into the luminous arc of her sword, each sweep a dramatic declaration of her skill.
Gasps of astonishment rippled through the crowd, their eyes wide with surprise and admiration, caught in the enchantment of her artistry.
"Don't be a show-off," Lysandra whispered, a mixture of amusement and anxiety flickering in her eyes as she observed her friend's spirit.
Aurelia's lips curled into a subtle smirk, the corners of her mouth lifting slightly. "I'm not showing off at all," she replied, her tone unexpectedly softening as she placed a gentle hand on the hilt of the sword. "I'm honoring it."
The blade shimmered in the dappled sunlight, its polished surface gleaming like the scales of a serpent, "Sebastian taught me that blades are alive in their own way. They remember every hand that has held them, every battle they've seen." She paused, her expression turning contemplative. "I was just… thanking it for the stories it carries, for the strength it lends."
The air around them seemed to thrum with a discernible energy, as if the sword itself acknowledged her reverence.
Lysandra blinked, then smiled fondly.
Tavian's gloved fingers brushed his revolver's grip. Edran's Aether rings brightened, became responsive, and were ready.
"Remember the rules," Headmaster Vyron intoned, "No lethal force. Incapacitate, disarm, or force surrender. Judges will enforce strictly."
Aurelia slid her shoulders back, centering herself on the feel of the blade at her hip, on the echo of her breath. Lysandra cracked her knuckles, a grin of mischief and steel.
The bell in the center of the arena chimed, clear, decisive. Sand stilled. Aether twined with muscle and intent.
"Begin."
Lysandra's grin flashed beside her. "Let's do this," she breathed, and with a single, confident snap, flames licked into being around her palms—coiled, hungry, ready.
Before Tavian's gloved finger reached the trigger, Aurelia did something the crowd hadn't expected.
She flicked her wrist, and the blade flew. The arc was precise, almost respectful, the steel sinking into the arena's stone with a sharp, ringing thud.
Gasps echoed through the stands. "She threw her sword?" someone shouted. "Her only weapon?"
It was a lie and a truth at once. The blade's point held fast in the wall, a steel spike that brought a heartbeat of chaos.
Tavian's hand jerked toward the revolver, and Aurelia filled that beat with motion, her body a coiled spring ready to unleash controlled fury.
In two fluid steps, she closed the distance between them, pivoting on the ball of her foot like a dancer.
Every movement was imbued with a blend of grace and lethal intent, a reminder that her training had forged her into a blur of precision and restraint.
Her first strike, a low shoulder roll, transformed seamlessly into a backhand that caught Tavian off guard, the sharp sound echoing in the tense air.
The impact reverberated, a stark contrast to the murmur of the swiftly gathering crowd.
With a swift adjustment, her heel pressed firmly against his midriff, driving the breath from his lungs in a singular, powerful exhalation.
Aurelia's follow-up was relentless, she executed a one-two combination like a well-rehearsed symphony.
The blows landed with a sharp, hollow sound, flesh meeting flesh, prompting Tavian to blink, stunned, as he staggered backward.
The revolver's muzzle dipped unpredictably, betraying his struggle to regain composure.
With his grip faltering, Aurelia saw her opening and surged forward again, moving like water, fluid and unstoppable.
Halfway through, she noticed the small, intricate etchings set along the revolver's grip, glossy runes scored into metal, faintly humming with contained Aether.
Enchantment, not craftsmanship, wards meant to steady the weapon in a hand, to resist being pried loose.
Disarming would be messy. The revolver had been built to resist my exact trick.
If I couldn't take the gun from him, I would simply stop him from using it.
Each attempt Tavian made to bring the pistol to bear was thwarted. She slid in close, striking with elbows that met his chest and knees that targeted his legs.
The pressure she applied to his wrist twisted the gun away from him, rendering the act of pulling the trigger an impossible dream rather than a grim reality.
Her rhythm was merciless, distract, close, strike, deny. Each of her moves was a study in combat efficiency.
She read his every intention, anticipating his shifts with instinctual accuracy.
When Tavian attempted to step back, seeking distance to steady himself, Aurelia countered with a well-timed hook that sent him reeling once more.
The crowd chewed its breath in and out with every exchange, caught in the electric pulse of the confrontation.
There was a raw energy in the air, a dance of danger, where Aurelia transitioned seamlessly from one technique to another.
She performed a quick sidestep to evade a wild swing from Tavian, then darted back in, her fist a striking comet aimed squarely at his jaw.
Tavian was not merely an opponent but a canvas for her skill. Her strikes were not just about power, they were about finesse.
Each move was designed to maximize her advantage while minimizing his opportunity to retaliate.
In the midst of the chaos, Aurelia remained calm and focused, the crowd's excitement feeding her intensity.
Tavian's smile went thin. "Focus on the pistol all you like," he said, voice flat with amusement, and his free hand flicked out.
A column of wind slammed into her, precise, compressed, a point of force that would have flattened a lesser opponent.
As Aurelia was launched across the arena, she instinctively gestured with her hand. Just before she collided with the wall, she conjured a shimmering basin beneath her, the cool liquid rising to meet her.
Though the impact jarred her shoulder, the cushion softened the blow and unrolled like a wet carpet beneath her feet. Pain brightened the edges of her sight, but she barely felt it, thanks to her quick thinking.
The cushion boiled and sprayed as she righted herself, soaked hair gluing to her brow.
She had misread him. The revolver was not his only trick. Tavian had built a margin of surprise behind the gun: elemental adjuncts, small and fast, designed to make room for a shot.
Aurelia let the embarrassment flare, then die. She turned her gaze to the blade still embedded in stone.
For a breath, she felt the nervous thread of time, then she threaded Aether through her fingers and pulled.
Metal answered like a recalled bird. The sword slid free with a ringing complaint and leapt into her hand, warm and true.
The motion took her back into posture, breath matched to blade, pulse laced to intention.
Tavian's hand hovered over the trigger now with full freedom. The runes glinted, Lysandra's flames hunched like coiled beasts at her sides, and Orin on the flank held his Aether like a drawn chord.
Aurelia settled into a stance that was equal parts defense and promise. Her shoulders unspooled, blade angled to the sky, tip low enough to shadow his hands. She tasted metal and dust and the faint ozone of conjured wind.
The arena narrowed to two heartbeats, his finger, her blade. The crowd leaned in.
Kael in the stands watched with a knife of concentration. Marlec's jaw tightened.
Every eye knew what would happen if she failed, a shot, a wound, a swing of fortune.
Aurelia's mouth shaped the smallest of vows. Not for pride. Not this time. For the blade that remembered her brother's hands, for the rhythm she was learning to hold, for the small, steady proof that a single lost duel would not define her.
She flexed her grip. "Try it," she said, low enough that only Tavian would hear.
He smiled again, this time without amusement.
He pulled the trigger.
For an instant, the world reduced to the clean line of the shot: a bright seam of light, humming with rune-slick Aether, a hurtling promise of metal and intent. It cleaved the air between them, and Aurelia met it.
Her blade met the round with a ringing, impossibly precise clang. Sparks flared, Aether snapping like a violin string.
The projectile fractured into hot specks of light that scattered like fireflies and then merged back into a ragged arc of displaced current. Aurelia didn't try to catch the pieces, she braided them.
She drove Aether through the haft, using the metal as a channel. The broken projectile screamed along the ribbon of light. It veered, spun, then sailed past Tavian's ear and smashed into the arena wall, erupting into a shower of harmless, glittering residue.
A throat in the stands went hoarse.
"Nice," Lysandra breathed from beside her, flames coiling in response like curious cats. Her smile sharpened into focus.
Inferno coalesced into a pair of burning gauntlets around her hands, tools that could press, prod, and shove. Where Aurelia denied the shot, Lysandra denied space.
She slammed a wall of heat between Tavian and his partner, Orin, the fire a living thing that hissed and pushed.
Orin's fingers, tight with Aether, flickered as wind currents tangled with the heat.
They moved like a single instrument, finding tempo. When Tavian lunged for the second shot, Aurelia closed the distance with the supple certainty of someone who'd practiced inches into instinct.
She was no show-sword now, every step landed like a metronome. Tavian's wrist snapped back under her elbow, and her knee struck a tendon.
He twisted, stave of gunmetal braced, but Lysandra's flame wrapped around his forearm like a binding cord, hot and fierce but careful, and he grimaced, pistol muzzle dipping.
Orin didn't stand idle. As an Aether weaver, his hands danced through the air, conjuring a trailing spear of sheer current that surged toward Aurelia with lethal intent.
The spear sliced through the arena, turning dust into a dazzling spray. In that heartbeat, Aurelia's instincts kicked in.
She shifted her stance, her sword glinting as she drew upon Aether.
With a powerful swing, she channeled the energy, letting the blade resonate against the incoming force.
At the moment of impact, Aurelia's edge met the spear head-on. Sparks flew as her sword split the current, deftly redirecting the invisible waves.
The spear faltered, divided in two, each half dissipating harmlessly into the sand beyond her.
It was a duel of threading and unthreading, a contest of who could read the flow faster.
Lysandra saw the seams of Orin's weave and exploited them. She snapped her fingers, and a ring of blinding ember exploded at Orin's knee, the heat broadened the air, and the Aether spear wavered, losing the precise focus he'd need for a winning blow. Orin cursed and took a step back.
Aurelia stood in the chaos, her heart racing as she felt the pulsing energy within the arena.
The runes etched on the revolver's grip were not mere symbols, they were conduits of Aether, binding the weapon to its wielder.
To understand them, she had to think deeply and intuitively about the nature of the magic.
Closing her eyes briefly, she visualized the flow of Aether, the underlying essence of reality that connected all things.
She reached within herself, tapping into Aether, feeling it coalesce at the tip of her blade.
The energy blended with her intentions, guiding her as she prepared to sever the intricate weave of magic that fortified Tavian's grip on the revolver.
As she moved forward once more, she focused not just on the physical execution of her strike, but on the resonance of the runes, the hum of energy that surrounded them.
She aimed her blade with precision, understanding that the trick was to disrupt the flow without triggering a backlash of energy.
Channeling her Aether, Aurelia let it converge into a thin, bright thread that echoed the runes' patterns.
With each slice, she infused her blade with the essence of unmaking, a force that unraveled rather than destroyed.
The glow intensified around the engravings, and the air crackled, resonating with the imminent collapse of the weapon's magic.
With a swift motion, she struck the runes, and instead of mere metal meeting metal, the Aether responded to her intent.
The runes began to shimmer and then faded, their power severed, and the grip of the gun slipped in Tavian's hand.
The spark of instability shot through the weapon like a shockwave, sending a jolt of confusion across his features.
In that moment, Aurelia felt the tide of battle shift, her mastery of Aether intertwining with her blade, bringing victory within reach.
She kicked the gun away, watching it skid across the ground as the pistol coughed and jammed, leaving Tavian momentarily defenseless. He swore, more in disbelief than pain, but he did not freeze.
He slammed his palm to the ground as if striking a drum. A geyser of molten rock and ember erupted where his hand hit, jagged pillars lancing up between Aurelia and Lysandra.
Orin answered by flinging a blade of compressed wind that shaved the air into a screaming arc. It rode the spikes like a hunting hawk, aiming for Aurelia's ribs.
Lysandra's net rose to catch the first surge, but Tavian was already changing the pattern.
He braided ember into shards and hurled them with practiced malice, each spark tried to bite through the flame-net.
The binding flamed and hissed where the shards struck, but instead of snaring him, it began to fray.
Aurelia moved like a tightrope. She didn't try to catch every flying splinter, she redirected them.
With a cool, hard breath, she summoned the winds, channeling their currents into the metal of her sword.
The blade vibrated with energy as gales spiraled around it, creating a luminous vortex.
As the embers streaked past, Aurelia wielded the winds, guiding the currents to wrap around the shards like tendrils.
Each redirected splinter was caught in the flowing air and sent curving harmlessly into the sand.
One shard, deflected by her winds, slammed into Orin's trailing gust, and the two forces collided in a powerful explosion of air and heat.
The impact folded the wind's edge back on itself. Orin staggered, eyes flashing with surprise.
Tavian seized the moment to push with stone and ember together, an ugly, clattering assault meant to bury them.
Lysandra answered with hands that were all motion and mercy, her fire tightened into coiled bands, not to burn but to press.
The flaming loops closed around Tavian's legs, not burning so much as cramping motion and draining the urgency from his limbs.
He fought to pry them loose, but each tug only pulled him deeper into the weave.
Orin, furious, lashed with a ribbon of Aether that sought Aurelia's throat. Aurelia stepped through it rather than away, breathing in the rhythm of the strike, and fed a counter-current.
She didn't merely block, she reversed its vector, threading her own Aether into Orin's wave and sending the force slewing aside by a fraction of a degree.
The redirection slammed Orin into his own conjured spike line, causing the collision to wobble his footing and disrupt his focus. Seeing Orin stagger, Aurelia struck cleanly and precisely.
Tavian screamed a word that might have been anger or warning and tried a last furious push, a cascading burst meant to break their lines.
Lysandra breathed out, and the flame-net shifted, no longer a trap but a soft, irresistible tide.
It wrapped the burst and dampened its edge, turning motion into warmth and then into tiredness.
Both men sagged at once, motion bled away, not from destruction but from carefully measured exhaustion.
They crumpled to the sand, their conjured elements dying like candlelight snuffed by breath.
The arena held its breath for a beat before the judges sprang forward.
Aurelia and Lysandra stood in the center, breathing but not rushing to a victory pose. Their stomachs thrummed with the same steady drum, adrenaline mingling with the satisfaction of work well done.
They had not merely won by brute force. They had denied, redirected, and shaped the fight.
Aurelia's blade had been more than steel, it was a channel. Lysandra's fire had been more than heat, it was a tool of timing.
Together they had made a pattern: deny one threat, create an opening, bind the other.
Their flanks had been covered without a single word, a conversation in gestures and shared rhythm.
From the stands, Kael smiled, hands clapping until his palms burned. Lucien's smirk was gone, replaced by something like approval.
Professor Marlec slid a hand under his jaw, and the corner of his mouth twitched. Selvara's expression was a blink of rare amusement.
Even Headmaster Veyron's stern face softened into the small, almost-smile of a teacher who'd seen a good lesson land.
Aurelia felt Lysandra's hand on her arm, warm and solid. "We did it," she said, breathless and delighted.
Aurelia let herself smile back, sharp and small. Her chest felt lighter, the bruise of that earlier humiliation threaded in, not erased but kept to stoke practice.
She had not solved everything, the revolver's runes were shattered, the students only knocked senseless, not broken. But they'd left the arena intact, and that was its own kind of proof.
"Arcane wins," Headmaster Veyron intoned, formal and loud. The sound was a gate opening to cheers, and Aurelia felt, in the middle of the roar, how the Aether in her hands thrummed like a living thing answering its name.