The Inner Confluence Grounds were built for restraint.
Wide stone circles marked with faint sigils spread across a sunken arena, each designed to dampen excess essence without nullifying it. Observation galleries ringed the space above, shielded by layered wards that turned stray force into harmless heat.
This was where lines were tested without being crossed.
Aren stepped onto the circle and felt the ground answer him—subtle resistance, a quiet refusal to amplify flame beyond intent. Good. It meant mistakes would be visible.
The instructor's gaze swept the group. "You will engage in controlled exchanges. One at a time. No escalation."
No one spoke.
The lightning-clad boy moved first. He was tall for his age, posture loose, confidence worn like a second skin. Storm-gray fabric shifted as faint arcs danced beneath it.
"Volryk," he said casually, offering a nod that was neither friendly nor dismissive. "House Solmyr."
Aren inclined his head a fraction. "Aren. House Pyranthir."
Volryk's eyes flicked to the sigils beneath Aren's feet. "I'll keep it brief."
The instructor raised a hand. "Begin."
Volryk vanished.
Not truly—lightning snapped him forward in a violent blur, the air cracking where he had been. His fist came in low, then shifted mid-strike, electricity bending the arc with predatory precision.
Fast.
Aren did not retreat.
He stepped diagonally, letting the strike pass where his chest had been, and brought his forearm up—not to block, but to intercept the vector. The contact was brief, controlled. Heat met charge.
The sigils flared softly.
Volryk skidded back a half step, boots scraping stone. His grin widened. "You're anchored."
"Corrected," Aren replied.
Volryk struck again—two quick feints, then a surge meant to overwhelm by speed alone. The air stung. Hair lifted.
Aren breathed out and shifted his weight. He let the charge skim his guard, bled it off through the ground, then returned pressure through Volryk's shoulder line.
No explosion.
No spectacle.
Volryk stumbled, recovered, and laughed. "Again."
They exchanged twice more. Each time, Volryk pressed faster, sharper. Each time, Aren denied him a clean outcome—redirecting, grounding, correcting.
"Enough," the instructor said.
Volryk stepped back, eyes bright. "You don't fight lightning. You drain it."
Aren nodded once.
Volryk's smile faded into something more serious. "That's irritating."
—
The frost-clad girl stepped forward next. Her movements were economical, her breath steady despite the heat. Pale vapor curled faintly at her lips.
"Eirys," she said. "House Iskavell."
Aren acknowledged her with a measured incline.
"Begin."
Cold spread. Not outward—downward. The stone beneath their feet lost warmth as frost traced invisible paths along the sigils.
Eirys did not rush. She advanced one step at a time, space tightening with each movement.
Aren felt the drag immediately. His flame circulation resisted, channels narrowing as temperature dropped.
He adjusted. Slowed.
Eirys struck with a precise palm, frost shaping the air ahead of it into a rigid plane. Aren turned the impact aside, but the chill lingered, numbing where it touched.
"Control," Eirys said softly.
"Yes," Aren agreed.
They circled. Frost advanced. Flame adapted. Aren did not counterattack; he focused on maintaining alignment under suppression, keeping circulation smooth despite resistance.
When Eirys finally withdrew, she studied him with open curiosity. "You don't force equilibrium. You wait for it."
"Equilibrium arrives," Aren said.
—
The earth-aligned youth was next. He introduced himself simply as Dorn, stance wide, presence heavy. When he moved, the ground answered—subtle shifts, micro-adjustments that favored stability over speed.
Aren tested him once and learned quickly.
Pushing was pointless.
He altered approach—angles, timing, pressure applied where the foundation was strong rather than weak. Dorn absorbed it all, unyielding, then offered a nod of respect.
"Patience," Dorn said.
"Endurance," Aren replied.
—
The shadowed boy did not introduce himself.
He stepped onto the circle and seemed to fade—not vanish, but blur at the edges, presence thinning like smoke. The air felt wrong, as if depth itself had shifted.
Aren's focus sharpened.
Shadow did not press. It insinuated.
The exchange was brief. A flicker at Aren's flank, a test of reaction. Aren pivoted, flame tightening inward, denying purchase.
The shadow withdrew.
"Interesting," a quiet voice said.
"Enough," the instructor called.
The session ended without applause.
From the galleries above, eyes withdrew one by one. Measurements taken. Conclusions forming.
Volryk approached Aren as the others dispersed. "Next time," he said, tone lighter, "I won't hold back."
Aren met his gaze. "Neither will I."
As Aren left the grounds, he felt it clearly—the subtle shift that came after first contact.
They had not fought to win.
They had fought to understand.
And understanding, once gained, did not remain neutral for long.