Obinai slumps back in his seat, eyes locked on the glowing names above the arena.
Fiora vs. Lyra.
His fingers tap restless against his knee. He's seen Fiora train—seen the way her spells seem to have a finesse to them.
There's something there, something desperate under all that control.
Bram's elbow jabs into his ribs. "Yo. You zonin' out again?"
Obinai blinks. "Huh? Nah. Just thinkin'."
"Bout what?" Bram scratches at his stubble. He jerks his chin toward the glowing display. "Who ya got? Fiora or Lyra? Ain't no way you ain't got an opinion on this one."
Gideon leans in, wincing as his sore ribs protest the movement. "Ain't no easy call, that's fer damn sure," he says. "Hain't seen neither fight proper-like, but that Fiora... she's somethin' else. Like she knows what spell yer gonna cast 'fore you even think it."
Bram snorts, rolling his bandaged shoulder. "Yeah, well, Lyra turned Carrick into a damn rug a while ago. You remember me tellin' ya that? Big second-year who was s'posed to test the class?" He mimics a crashing motion with his hands. "Boom. Done in thirty seconds. Dude still walks funny."
Obinai's eyes track a group of third-years passing silver coins nearby. "Fiora's different though."
"Being different don't stop you from getting a beatdown," Bram counters. "Lyra's got that royalty training—private tutors since she could walk. She's real strong. If I'd drawn her 'stead of Mercer..."
Gideon spits to the side. "Quit yer whinin'. You won, didn't ya?"
"Barely," Bram mutters.
Obinai tilts his head. "What's Fiora's deal anyway? She train like that 'cause she loves it, or 'cause she's got somethin' to prove?"
Gideon shrugs. "Dunno."
Bram stretches, wincing as his bruises protest. "Well, however it shakes out, this ain't gonna be no dainty little duel. Bet ya five silvers Lyra drops her in under three minutes."
Gideon raises an eyebrow. "You're on. Fiora makes it five."
Why...
"I'll take that bet. Fiora wins."
Bram's chuckles at this. "You're cracked dude."
The arena lights dim.
The crowd's murmur dies.
Obinai leans forward, elbows on knees. "Guess we're about to find out."
Obinai glances around, noticing the intensity in the crowd's gaze. Everyone is waiting for this showdown, the final match of the first round.
Lyra appears in the center of the arena first.
The crowd erupts into cheers, but she remains stone-faced, her expression cold and detached as she surveys the audience. There's no emotion, no reaction to the roar of the crowd—just a calm, almost eerie presence that seems to draw everyone's attention.
A moment later, Fiora materializes on the opposite side of the arena. Obinai can see the tension in her posture, her shoulders stiff, her movements slightly jerky.
She's trying to mimic Lyra's composure, but it's clear she's struggling to keep her nerves in check. There's a slight tremble in her hands, a stiffness in the way she stands.
Lyth appears above them, floating gracefully in the air as the crowd's cheers swell once more. He raises his hands to quiet the audience. "Now," his voice booms, "for the last of the first batch of matches… we have Lyra Valthoris!"
The crowd's cheers intensify, but Lyra doesn't even blink.
"And her opponent… Fiora Draelith!"
The crowd keeps cheering, but it's different now—softer, almost careful.
Fiora's shoulders tense up at the sound. For half a second, her eyes go wide before she catches herself, straightening her back.
Bram elbows him, voice dropping to a whisper. "She's wound up tighter than a bowstring."
Gideon leans back. "Ain't like her."
Obinai doesn't answer, just watches as Fiora takes a shaky breath that doesn't quite fill her lungs. The crowd's murmurs feel louder than their cheers now.
Lyth's voice cracks like thunder across the silent arena. "Let the final match of the first round... BEGIN!"
...
Minutes pass in a blur.
Then—
"Damn," Bram breathes beside him. "Didn't think she'd... like that."
Obinai can't speak...
Fiora kneels in the dirt, arms dangling at unnatural angles. Blood paints her face in crimson streaks, mixing with silent tears. But what chills Obinai to the bone isn't the blood—it's the quiet. Not a scream. Not a whimper. Just... nothing.
Gods, she's still conscious.
Gideon's hands clutch at his hair. "She'll quit school after this..."
Standing beside her is Lyra, her posture rigid. "It would be wise for you to surrender," Lyra says, her voice almost monotone.
Fiora doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just... breathes.
Lyra's eye twitches. "[First Technique]—"
Obinai's stomach lurches. No no no—
"—[Cloak Fissure]."
Lyra's fist blackens, shadows writhing around it like living smoke. The air wails as she pulls back to strike—
CRACK!
Lyth appears between them, a single finger raised. The darkness shatters like glass.
Lyra snarls. "You dare—?"
"Enough." Lyth's voice doesn't rise. He nods to Fiora—now collapsed face-first in the dirt. "She's unconscious. Or did you plan to murder an unconscious girl in front of the entire kingdom?"
The crowd's murmurs swell—not cheers, but uneasy whispers. Obinai catches snippets:
"—too far—"
"—never seen Lyra so—"
"—what was that technique—"
Obinai's fists clench at his sides, his nails biting into his palms. Where was this quick intervention when Bram and I were getting our asses handed to us?
A bitter taste fills his mouth as the realization hits him. Of course. Of course they'd step in for her...a noble. Should've known better than to expect anything else.
He turns away from the scene.
This is how it's always been. This is how it'll always be.
Lyra's hands tremble at her sides. Her perfect composure cracks for just a second—lips pressed into a bloodless line, nostrils flaring—before she schools her face back to stone.
Lyth kneels beside Fiora, pressing two fingers to her throat. A heartbeat passes. Then, in a shimmer of gold, Fiora vanishes—whisked away to the nurse.
The arena stays dead silent.
Lyra stands alone in the center, the weight of a thousand judging eyes on her. Her jaw works like she wants to speak, to defend herself—but no words come.
Bram lets out a slow whistle. "Well... shit."
...
Lyth rises slowly, the hem of his robe whispering against the bloodstained sand. He exhales—long and weary—before his form shimmers and vanishes.
A gasp ripples through the crowd as he reappears above them, hovering like some wrathful god.
"Those who came here today..." His voice rolls across the arena. "...behold your final qualifiers for the Trials of Ascension."
A beat of silence. Then—
SNAP
Obinai's stomach lurches as the world twists. One second he's in the stands—the next, he's blinking under the harsh arena lights, lined up with the other students.
"What in the—?"
To his left, Gideon yelps as his boots skid on nothing. He windmills his arms wildly before crashing onto his ass with a thud.
Bram nearly doubles over laughing. "Smooth, genius! Real smooth!"
Gideon glares up, his face red. "Ain't my fault magic teleportin' ain't got no damn warnin'!" He scrambles upright, dusting off his pants with exaggerated swipes. "M'fine! We're all fine!"
Obinai's chuckle dies in his throat.
Elrik.
The noble stands three spots down, smirking right at him. Those cold eyes rake over him—
Click.
Lyth's fingers snap again, pulling all attention back. "My dear onlookers..." He spreads his arms, the gesture somehow mocking and grand at once. "...applause, if you please."
The crowd hesitates. A few polite claps. Then—
BOOM.
The noise erupts—a thunderous wave of sound that vibrates in Obinai's ribs. He forces a smile, scanning the roaring faces.
Wait.
Obinai's gaze sweeps across the empty spaces where the other students should be standing. Eight. Only eight left. His eyes flick up to Lyth, still floating above them.
The crowd's cheers fade into uneasy murmurs. A mother in the front row clutches her chest, her lips moving in silent prayer. A mentor two rows back scowls, arms crossed tight over his chest.
Lyth raises a hand.
"Confused?" His voice is velvet over steel. "You should be. This year's trials are... different."
A ripple of tension. Obinai's fingers twitch at his sides.
"Healing magic," Lyth continues, "isn't some miracle. It borrows from your own flesh. Your own essence." He tilts his head. "Use too much, and well..." His gesture takes in the glaring absences in the lineup. "...you exhaust yourself beyond normal recovery means."
The crowd erupts in panicked chatter.
"BULLSHIT!"
A burly tiefling in the stands shoots to his feet. "My boy made it to the finals last year! You're telling me he's—"
Snap.
The man's voice cuts off mid-sentence, his mouth moving soundlessly. Lyth's smile doesn't reach his eyes.
"I suggest you sit. Now."
The man collapses into his seat like a puppet with cut strings.
Obinai's blood runs cold. What the hell kind of magic—
Lyth exhales. "Apologies once more," he says. "But let me be clear—no one is in critical condition. What I mean is rest. Most students need recovery time after their matches." He gestures vaguely toward the infirmary wing. "We've even had several cases in this tournament of simultaneous eliminations, as you've witnessed."
Busy getting the book thrown at my head to see that, Obinai thinks bitterly.
"Now then," Lyth claps his hands, "since we're all so eager to debate the rules..." His grins. "...let's skip the break. Second round. Now."
The arena explodes with noise as they see it—
OBINAI vs. ELRIK
"Fuck..."