The Academy's training yard hummed with activity—practice blades clashing, students sparring, shouts of instructors rising over the noise.
Quinn stood quietly beneath the stone archway, a scroll tucked beneath his arm, his gaze fixed on the sparring circles. He'd come early to study formations, but trouble had found him first.
"Look who crawled out of the neutral pit," a voice sneered.
Quinn turned. Across the courtyard stood Kael Draven, the Minister's son, flanked by two smirking friends. Kael's hair gleamed copper in the sunlight; faint flickers of heat curled from his fists, his talent—a flame born from bloodline pride and inherited power.
"You really think a prince with no talent belongs here?" Kael's lips curled into a smile.
"Silver hair's the only remarkable thing about you."
A few heads turned. Whispers stirred the air. Quinn held his silence, his expression calm. "Move aside," he said quietly, stepping forward.
Kael's smile vanished. "You don't get to ignore me, neutral."
Quinn kept walking. But Kael's footsteps followed—and then, a snap of heat.
"Light him up, Kael," one of his friends laughed.
A burst of flame cracked toward Quinn's feet.
He pivoted sharply, sidestepping as another flash seared past his shoulder. His movements flowed—precise, deliberate—spinning around pillars, weaving between crates. Every attack missed by inches.
The crowd thickened.
Murmurs rippled.
Among them stood Lyra Valenor, her violet eyes sharp beneath a curtain of dark hair. Daughter of a high commander, her presence carried weight. Her gaze never left Quinn.
For a heartbeat, their eyes locked—silver to violet. Quiet recognition passed between them.
Kael's frustration mounted, the heat in his hands sputtering. "Stand still, coward!"
But Quinn didn't. He slipped through the crowd's edge, vanishing beneath the eastern archway without a single strike thrown in return.
Silence hovered. Then whispers broke free.
"He dodged every strike—"
"Without a talent?"
"Did he train for that… or is he just lucky?"
Kael cursed under his breath, his fists still smoldering faintly. "Next time, neutral," he growled, storming away.
But Lyra remained a moment longer, her gaze thoughtful, lips pursed in quiet calculation. Then, with a flick of her cloak, she turned and walked away.
Far beyond the courtyard, Quinn leaned against a cool stone wall, chest rising and falling. No burns. No bruises. Only the steady, burning promise in his heart.
He hadn't needed a talent. Not today.
Lyra's talent is to channel vibrations through her arms and legs instead of her voice. Great choice—it makes her more of a close-range, physical fighter while still standing out.