Chapter Six: Fire, Air, and Authority
Monday at Empiral Honour School was not for the weak.
It wasn't lectures.
It wasn't theory.
It was survival.
Every student was required to enter the combat arena and face a lecturer—or a ranked knight—and attempt to last.
Not win.
Last.
The circular arena shimmered with protective barriers as students gathered in tiers around it, anticipation buzzing like static in the air.
Amanda stood with her arms folded, veil in place, watching the roster display light up.
And then—
Arthur Grayhound.
Versus.
The Strongest Knight in the School.
The entire stadium went silent.
Then exploded.
"You've got to be joking."
"He's still a student!"
"Is the administration insane?!"
The knight stepped forward first—towering armor, seasoned presence, mana thick and suffocating.
Then Arthur walked in.
Calm.
Unbothered.
Hands at his sides.
The whistle blew.
What followed didn't look like student versus instructor.
It looked like two generals meeting on a battlefield.
Steel clashed.
Mana roared.
The knight struck with crushing force—Arthur countered effortlessly.
Speed against experience.
Precision against power.
Arthur moved like he'd memorized every possible outcome before the knight even acted.
Gasps echoed with every near hit.
At one point, Arthur disarmed the knight so cleanly the entire arena fell silent.
Then—
The timer blared.
The knight staggered back, breathing heavily.
Saved.
Saved by the bell.
Arthur stood straight, not even winded.
Students weren't just impressed.
They were stunned.
It was clear.
If that fight had gone on thirty seconds longer—
The strongest knight would have fallen to a student.
Amanda swallowed.
He's unreal.
---
Then the second announcement came.
Student versus student.
Her name lit up.
Amanda Scarlett.
Versus.
Sylvester Stallone.
Of course.
Amanda exhaled slowly.
She didn't need to ask.
Sylvester had influence.
And pride.
This wasn't coincidence.
This was an attempt.
The elven princess stepped into the arena with effortless grace, silver hair catching the light like woven moonbeams.
Amanda stepped in after her, fire mana already simmering beneath her skin.
An air elf versus a flame user.
Wind feeds fire.
But wind can also extinguish it.
The whistle blew.
Sylvester moved first—blindingly fast. Wind blades sliced through the arena, sharp and controlled.
Amanda barely dodged, rolling and countering with a burst of flame that forced Sylvester upward.
Heat met air.
Fire spiraled.
Wind twisted it apart.
Amanda knew immediately—Sylvester had more raw power.
Better training.
Greater control.
But Amanda had something else.
Endurance.
Stubbornness.
She refused to be humiliated.
She took hits.
Her flames burned brighter.
Her breathing grew heavier.
Sylvester pressed harder, trying to overwhelm her.
But Amanda didn't break.
The arena filled with swirling embers and cutting gusts.
Students leaned forward.
The tension was suffocating.
And then—
The timer went off.
A draw.
Sylvester lowered her hand slowly, frustration flashing in her emerald eyes.
She had expected to dominate.
Amanda stood straight despite her exhaustion.
She hadn't won.
But she hadn't lost.
And that was enough.
---
Then the board lit up again.
Arthur Grayhound.
Versus.
Lucas Graytrith.
A murmur swept the arena.
Lucas entered smiling, confident as ever.
Arthur walked in expressionless.
The whistle blew.
What followed wasn't a duel.
It was a lesson.
Lucas lunged first—flashy, aggressive.
Arthur dismantled him.
Strike.
Counter.
Sweep.
Disarm.
By the time it was over, Lucas was on his back staring at the sky, pride shattered.
When people say belt to ass—
That.
Arthur didn't gloat.
Didn't smirk.
He simply turned—
And looked directly at Amanda.
She flinched.
Wait.
Did he know?
About Saturday?
About Lucas wrapping his arms around her?
How would he even—
Arthur's gaze lingered just a second too long.
Calm.
Possessive.
Certain.
Amanda's lips curved softly beneath her veil.
I'm betrothed to a god, she thought.
---
After training, students gathered in small groups, replaying fights, gossiping.
Arthur walked toward her casually, as if he hadn't just publicly dismantled a duke's heir.
"Hey," he said calmly. "How are you?"
She folded her arms. "Was all that necessary?"
He shrugged lightly. "I have no idea what you mean. He was my opponent. So I fought him."
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Teasing.
She smiled despite herself.
Why did her chest feel so tight around him?
How did he do that—just standing there—looking at her like she was the only thing worth noticing?
She sighed and stood, adjusting her veil.
"I'm heading back now."
Arthur nodded once.
Then, as if asking about the weather—
"May I visit you tonight again? I want to touch you again."
Her entire face burned.
Does this arrogant fool have no shame saying that out loud?!
But she remembered.
He always asked permission.
Always.
Even when commanding, he asked.
She swallowed.
"Seven," she said carefully. "And you leave at nine."
Two hours.
Did she just—
Did she just schedule private time with him?
Arthur smiled slowly.
"As you wish, my dear."
Her heart nearly burst out of her chest.
She let out a fake, controlled laugh that fooled absolutely no one.
"You know exactly what you're doing to me," she muttered—
And practically fled.
Arthur watched her go, hands in his pockets, eyes warm.
Seven o'clock suddenly couldn't come fast enough.
The end.....