The courtyard at dusk was quiet, save for the rasp of steel against steel. Corwin's blade cut the air in relentless arcs, each swing measured to the inch. His shirt clung to him, already soaked with sweat. A line of shallow cuts bled along his forearm where he had dragged the edge of the blade against his skin, not out of recklessness, but precision. He wanted to feel the weapon bite, to remind himself that this was no game.
Alex's surge — that raw explosion that had thrown the world off balance in their spar — still replayed in Corwin's mind. He could see the shockwave, feel the heat, recall the way his own guard had been shredded in seconds. That memory didn't leave him. It gnawed at him.
He had set up crude wooden dummies around the courtyard, each marked with chalked circles where a man's throat, eyes, or heart would be. He struck them one by one in a brutal rhythm: slash, thrust, pivot, strike. Each impact echoed like a drumbeat. He didn't pause between movements; he didn't allow himself to.
Corwin's breath came in ragged bursts, each exhale carrying the sharp bite of frustration. His training spear clattered against the wooden post again, splintering chips from its surface, but no matter how hard he drove the weapon forward, the sound did nothing to quiet the storm inside him. Sweat ran freely down his brow, soaking the collar of his tunic. The courtyard, bathed in the pale glow of lanterns, felt more like a cage than an arena for practice.
He hated this feeling.
Hated that he, Corwin Deylen—scion of a respectable house, disciplined, skilled, ambitious—was being eclipsed by a boy who didn't even seem to understand the weight of the gift he carried. Alex Valea.
That name curdled in his gut.
He had seen Alex train earlier. The reckless way he flung himself into exercises, struggling and fumbling, only to somehow scrape his way through—each failure masked by that infuriating determination that drew others to him. Brinn's loyalty. Elya's attention. Even Fenrik's interest. It was unbearable.
Corwin thrust his spear again, this time with a guttural growl. The post rattled, but his hands still trembled.
Why him?
It should have been Corwin. He had trained since he could walk, sparred until his bones ached, studied forms and histories until his eyes blurred. His path was shaped by sweat and discipline, not… chance. Not some half-forgotten bloodline that even Alex himself barely seemed to understand.
Corwin pulled the spear back, let it whirl around him in practiced arcs. The motions were clean, precise—muscle memory born of endless repetition. But precision wasn't enough anymore. Not when Alex was beginning to bend the very air around him with his cursed potential.
Corwin slammed the spear butt against the ground, chest heaving. "I will not be overshadowed."
The words rang hollow in the empty courtyard.
He could still see Alex in his mind's eye—awkward but unyielding, pushing through training with Elya watching. That boy carried something dangerous, something that could tilt every balance. And if no one else was wary enough to act, Corwin would be.
He launched into another set, faster now. The spear hissed through the air, jabbing, sweeping, stabbing again. Each strike bore a face: Alex's stubborn stare, Brinn's quiet faith, Elya's rare half-smile. Faces that should have been his to claim, his victories to earn.
Instead, he was left in the shadow.
"Not for long," he muttered.
His arms burned, his shoulders screamed, but he pushed harder. He had to prove himself, even if only to the night air. The spear blurred, wooden shaft vibrating against the strain of his grip. He envisioned Alex standing before him, and with every strike, he promised himself one thing—he would not allow Alex Valea to rise unchallenged.
No. He would break him first.
The lanterns flickered, shadows stretching long across the courtyard. Corwin lowered his spear, trembling not from exhaustion alone but from the hatred coursing through him. The path ahead was clear.
If Alex's fire grew brighter, Corwin would become the storm that smothered it.
——————
Brinn was halfway through tearing into a crusty roll, crumbs collecting down the front of his tunic, when Alex slid his tray onto the table.
"Three bowls of stew? Really?" Alex raised a brow.
Brinn didn't even pause, just shoved another bite into his mouth. "Fuel," he mumbled thickly, gesturing with his spoon. "Tournament's coming. You'll see everyone bulking up like me soon."
Alex snorted. "Pretty sure there's a difference between bulking and eating like you've been starved for a week."
Brinn grinned, unbothered, and tore into the next roll. "Laugh now, but when I'm tossing people across the arena, you'll wish you copied my diet. Stew makes champions."
Alex shook his head but didn't push it. With Brinn, there was no winning an argument about food.
Elya appeared then, gliding onto the bench beside them with that same unbothered grace she carried everywhere. Her tray clinked softly as she set it down. She didn't flinch at the stares that still followed her sometimes—if anything, the quiet confidence in her posture dared anyone to say something. Most didn't.
"Morning," she said, voice even.
Alex nodded in greeting; Brinn gave a vague wave with his spoon, already halfway through bowl number two.
They ate in easy rhythm. The low clatter of utensils and bursts of laughter filled the cafeteria, layered over a louder thread of conversation that circled back to one topic again and again: the upcoming tournament.
"You hear who's signed up already?" Brinn asked, lowering his voice just enough to make it sound conspiratorial. He leaned closer, crumbs dusting the table. "Rumor is half the noble heirs are throwing their names in. Even a few of the masters."
"Of course they are," Elya said, a little sharper than usual. She sipped from her cup. "They'll want to put on a show. They always do."
Brinn shrugged, undeterred. "Good. Means when I win, it'll be twice as impressive." He jabbed his spoon at Alex. "You better sign up too, or you'll look like a coward sitting on the sidelines. Everyone's expecting it, you know. Heroics, magic flares, dramatic speeches before a duel—"
Alex cut him a look. "I think you've been imagining this more than you've been training."
"Imagination's the first step!" Brinn said, half-defensive, half-proud. "Besides, tournaments are half performance anyway. People remember the show. You knock someone down and look boring, nobody cares. Do it with flair, and suddenly you're unforgettable."
Elya's lips quirked like she wanted to smile but thought better of it.
Before Alex could reply, a ripple moved through the hall. The kind of subtle hush that spreads when someone worth noticing enters. Alex turned his head.
A tall figure strode in from the far doors, robe of deep blue trailing behind, silver threads curling in intricate designs along the sleeves. He carried himself like he owned the air around him, every step smooth, practiced. Students shifted in their seats to watch without looking like they were watching.
"Who's that?" Alex asked under his breath.
Elya's answer came quiet, but it carried weight. "Darius."
Her voice didn't waver, not exactly—but something in it thinned, like a thread stretched taut. Alex glanced at her, catching the faintest flicker before she composed herself again.
Darius crossed the room as though it belonged to him. He smiled in a way that seemed designed for everyone and no one, though when he stopped at their table, his focus narrowed completely.
"I didn't expect you," Elya said, her greeting steady, practiced.
"Nor I, little star." His smile softened, but Alex thought it looked rehearsed, polished for effect. Darius set a sealed letter on the table in front of her, movements deliberate. "From home. I thought it best to bring it myself."
The nearest tables leaned subtly closer. Alex heard it—the shift in air, the pause of spoons halfway to mouths, the quiet murmur masked as conversation.
She's his sister, isn't she? someone whispered behind him.
No, more than that. He's from her House.
Look at the way he—
Alex didn't catch the rest. His attention was on Elya. Her hand hovered over the envelope, her face smooth as ever. But he saw it: the brief tightening of her jaw, the flicker in her eyes before she slid the letter beneath her tray.
"Thank you," she said evenly, though her voice felt thinner than usual.
Darius inclined his head, gaze lingering on her a heartbeat too long before flicking briefly to Alex and Brinn. Alex held the stare without meaning to, something prickling under his skin. Then Darius turned, leaving as smoothly as he'd arrived.
The hall exhaled, chatter resuming like nothing had happened. But Alex noticed how people's glances kept circling back to their table, whispers riding just beneath the noise.
"What was that about?" Brinn asked bluntly, spoon clinking against his empty bowl.
"Nothing," Elya said, brushing it off. "Family business."
Her tone was final.
But Alex saw the way her fingers tapped against her cup, just off-beat with her usual calm, and for the first time since meeting her, he realized how carefully she wore that composure—like armor.
——————
The dormitory halls had gone still, their usual hum faded into the soft hush of night. Alex should have been asleep—Brinn certainly was, sprawled across his bed with the kind of exhaustion only over-eating and over-training could produce.
But Alex couldn't shake the image of Elya at the training grounds, her voice clipped, her hands tight at her sides. He turned restlessly until finally he gave in and slipped out into the cooler night air.
The courtyard lay silvered under moonlight. That was when he saw her.
Elya sat on the low stone bench beneath the old oak, the sealed letter resting in her lap. She wasn't reading it—just staring at it, as though opening it might summon something she wasn't ready to face.
Alex hesitated at the edge of the courtyard, debating whether to turn back. But she looked up then, her eyes catching his across the space.
"You're terrible at pretending you weren't following me," she said quietly.
Alex winced but crossed the distance anyway, lowering himself onto the bench beside her. Not too close, but close enough. "I wasn't following. Just… couldn't sleep."
She tilted her head, studying him in the moonlight. Her expression was calm, but there was a faint weariness there too, the kind she rarely let show.
"The letter?" he asked carefully.
Her gaze dropped to it. Her fingers brushed the seal but didn't break it. "It's from my House," she said at last, voice low. "That's all you need to know."
Alex nodded, letting silence stretch between them. He didn't want to push, not the way Brinn did. Still, his curiosity gnawed at him.
"You didn't seem glad to see him," Alex said after a moment. "Darius. If he's family."
That earned him the faintest of laughs, dry and sharp. "Glad isn't the word I'd use."
She shifted, turning the envelope over once, twice, as though testing its weight. "Family can be chains as much as comfort. You'd understand, if you—" She cut herself off, the words pulled back before they could escape.
Alex leaned slightly closer, his voice gentle. "If I what?"
Her eyes lifted to his, steady but unreadable. For a heartbeat, he thought she might actually tell him. But then her walls slid back into place.
"You ask too many questions, Alex," she said, her tone softer than before, almost regretful. "One day you might not like the answers."
She rose, slipping the letter under her arm. "Goodnight."
Alex stayed on the bench as she walked away, the weight of her words pressing against him. He'd learned almost nothing, yet somehow everything—Elya carried secrets like shadows, and Darius was only the surface of it.
As the moonlight stretched across the empty courtyard, Alex realized he wasn't just curious anymore. He wanted to understand her, even if it meant uncovering things she clearly wanted hidden.