The training fields rang with steel that morning. Dozens of students circled across the open grounds, their boots crunching into the sand-packed floor as blunted practice blades clashed in measured rhythm. Shouts of encouragement, gasps of pain, and the barked orders of instructors created a constant backdrop—a battlefield symphony in miniature.
Elya Runehart moved through it all with the same sharp discipline she brought to every lesson. Her stance was textbook—feet aligned, shoulders squared, blade angled with that cold precision that made her strikes look almost rehearsed. She drove her partner back with a flurry of cuts, each one delivered with calculated timing. She wasn't the strongest in the yard, but she didn't need to be; she was exact. Where others wasted energy in wide arcs, she conserved it, her movements lean, efficient, deliberate.
"Again," she said flatly, parrying and twisting her wrist to force the blade down. Her partner stumbled, corrected, then came again. Elya's eyes narrowed, catching the smallest gap in his guard. She stepped in, pivoted, and laid her blade against his shoulder before he had a chance to recover.
The bout was over in seconds.
Across the grounds, Brinn fought with less elegance but no less heart. His strikes were heavier, his footwork less refined, yet he had a steadiness that kept him grounded. Where others rushed to attack, he absorbed blows, letting them slide off his guard, waiting for the right opening. His opponent—a tall boy with quick reflexes—pressed him hard, blades ringing as their rhythm built to a furious tempo. Brinn gritted his teeth, sweat dripping into his eyes, but refused to give ground.
Then came his chance. A swing aimed too high, too desperate. Brinn stepped under it and shoved forward with his shoulder, knocking the boy off balance. His practice sword came up in a heavy arc, halting just an inch from the other's chest.
Instructor Nareth clapped sharply. "Point to Brinn."
A few students muttered in surprise—Brinn rarely outpaced anyone in finesse. But he had patience, and patience sometimes won battles.
"Valea, you're up."
Alex Valea stood there, a practice blade gripped in his hand. The weapon still felt heavier than it should, though no longer like the crushing weight it once had been. He flexed his fingers around the hilt, remembering the first time he'd lifted one of these swords and how it had nearly dragged him to the ground. The memory burned with equal parts shame and stubborn resolve.
Instructor Nareth barked the order, and a taller boy stepped forward, face marked with a grin that promised bruises. His name was Daren Clyne, one of the sturdier recruits—more brawn than grace. He held his sword like an extension of his body, shoulders square, ready to test himself against the so-called "walking hazard" of the Academy.
Alex nodded silently and raised his blade.
The first exchange was brutal. Daren came in with raw force, each strike crashing like a hammer. The impact rattled Alex's bones, but he held, shifting his stance, recalling Elya's countless drills: anchor your footing, let the force travel through you, not into you. He parried once, twice, the third nearly slipping through—but his reflex snapped, sword rising just in time to turn the blow aside.
Whispers stirred at the edges of the field. Alex was holding. More than that, he was fighting back.
Daren pressed harder, sweat rolling down his face, confidence burning in his eyes. But Alex found a rhythm, not flawless but steady. Every strike was measured, every movement built from painful nights of training, from Elya's sharp corrections, from Brinn's encouragement. He ducked under a swing, brought his blade up, and tapped the flat of it against Daren's chest.
Point.
The instructor called it, and Daren stepped back with a frustrated scowl. Alex's chest heaved, sweat clinging to his skin, but inside him something surged—pride, disbelief, a faint ember of the fire that belonged to him alone.
From the sidelines, Elya's gaze lingered.
She studied the way Alex shifted his weight after the bout, the way he flexed his wrist as if still uncertain of his own strength. A month ago he couldn't even lift a practice sword without wincing. Now he had just disarmed Daren Clyne in open combat.
Elya stepped forward.
"I'll spar him."
A hush swept the field.
Instructor Nareth arched a brow. "Runehart?"
"Yes," she said, voice calm but unyielding. "If Valea wishes to test himself, he should do it properly."
A murmur rippled among the students—half intrigue, half pity for Alex. No one doubted Elya's pedigree. She was a Runehart: swordmasters for generations, her precision etched into her very blood.
Alex blinked, surprise flashing across his face. "Elya—"
She cut him off smoothly. "You've been training hard, Alex. Let's see if it's enough."
Brinn shifted uneasily from the sidelines. He knew Alex's progress better than most, but sparring Elya was different.
The circle cleared.
Elya drew her blade with practiced ease, the motion clean, economical. Alex raised his own, steadying his breath, forcing his grip not to tremble.
Nareth gave a sharp nod. "Begin."
Elya moved first—no hesitation, no wasted step. Her opening cut came in at a diagonal, fluid and precise. Alex met it, the clash jarring his arms. She pressed again, blade darting like quicksilver. He staggered but found his footing, parrying just in time.
Anchor your footing… let the force travel through you…
Her strikes came faster, each one testing a different angle of his guard. Alex's blade wavered, but he held. A few students gasped when he countered with a clean upward cut, forcing Elya back a single step.
Her eyes narrowed, sharp with interest. "Better."
A flash of memory surged through Alex—the two of them alone in the practice yard weeks ago. He had collapsed onto the dirt, arms trembling from holding the sword too long.
"You're treating it like a burden," she had said coldly, kicking the blade back toward him. "The sword doesn't carry you, Alex. You carry it. Now again."
And he had. Again, and again, until his arms screamed and his vision blurred.
Now, here, he planted his feet and matched her strike for strike. Not flawless, not elegant, but holding.
The students' whispers grew louder. Some leaned forward, astonished. Elya Runehart was pressing, and Alex Valea had not yet fallen.
But then—her rhythm shifted.
A legacy technique, drilled into her since childhood. Her blade blurred in a sudden flurry, the precision of generations woven into a storm. Alex tried to follow, tried to block, but his arms slowed under the weight. A cut slid past his guard, another forced him back, and with a deft twist she wrenched his blade free.
The practice sword clattered to the dirt.
Elya's tip hovered at his chest.
Silence.
Nareth's voice cut through it, sharp and final. "Point to Runehart."
The circle erupted in murmurs—some relief, some disbelief. Alex bent to pick up his fallen sword, breath ragged, sweat dripping into his eyes.
Elya lowered her blade, expression unreadable. Then she spoke, quiet enough for only him to hear.
"Last month, you would've been on the ground after my first strike. Today, you made me work for it." A faint curve touched her lips—not quite a smile, but close. "Keep this pace, Alex, and you might even catch me someday."
She stepped back, composure restored, but Alex caught the truth in her words.
He had lost. Clearly, undeniably. But for the first time, defeat didn't taste bitter. It tasted like progress.
Brinn clapped him on the back as he left the circle. "You lasted longer than you've ever done against her in training."
Spellcraft, swordmanship, Alex was improving at a terrifying pace. Elya and Brinn we're improving too. Whatever free time they had, the trio trained.
They weren't the only ones sharpening their blades. Somewhere else on the grounds, another student pushed himself harder, driven not by progress… but by resentment.