The trial field had changed again. The wide courtyard where they'd gathered after the second test had been transformed with white stone platforms now stretched out in perfect symmetry across the open space, like duelling rings laid bare to the morning sun.
Lucan stood in line with the other remaining examinees. Thirty-seven of them. He counted.
From six hundred down to this.
An examiner's voice echoed across the field. "Congratulations. You have survived the second trial."
He let the words hang.
"For the third and final trial… you will fight. One-on-one duels. You may yield. You may be defeated. But show us why you deserve to stand among the academy's elite."
Lucan's gaze swept the crowd. Some were stretching. Some cracking knuckles. Others looked pale, trembling.
Then the examiner continued.
"You are not fighting to eliminate each other. You are fighting to prove yourselves. There is no cut-off this time. No quota. If all of you fight well all of you may pass. If none do, then none will."
A long pause followed. That was new.
It wasn't a bloodbath. It was a spotlight.
Cassian leaned toward Lucan from the next spot down. "Finally. A chance to hit someone."
Lucan huffed. "You say that like I'm not worried."
"You should be. I saw that girl with the glaive do a cartwheel in full plate armor."
Lucan didn't respond. He was already scanning the rings, the opponents, and the layout.
He wasn't a brawler. He wasn't even especially fast. He didn't know what this trial would ask of him but he was sure of one thing.
He'd have to outthink them.
The sun hung low over the wide duelling grounds as the crowd hushed.
The first match was called.
"Cassian Westmark."
Cassian stepped forward calmly, his long coat fluttering slightly behind him as he drew his sword with fluid grace. Across from him, a boy from Viremont rolled his neck and unsheathed a striking sea-green blade its surface catching the light like ocean glass.
Marel grinned. "I heard Eirenfall was full of courtly knights and soft swords. Let's see how true that is."
Cassian sneered, "I heard Viremont people smell like fish so I'd prefer if you stay at striking distance."
The examiner gave the signal.
Marel moved fast, quicker than expected, slicing low, then feinting upward with a powerful diagonal strike. Cassian sidestepped with ease, letting the blade whistle past. He countered with a probing thrust, testing distance.
The two exchanged a flurry of strikes, green clashing against steel, boots sliding against stone.
Marel pressed the attack, weaving in sweeping arcs meant to disarm. But Cassian's footwork was precise with sharp turns and perfect angles. He fought like a painter, every motion calculated.
Then, in one swift maneuver, Cassian parried high, shifted his stance, and let Marel's momentum carry him forward.
CRACK!
Cassian slammed the pommel of his sword into Marel's ribs and followed with a sweep that knocked the boy flat onto the stone. His sword was gone, Cassian had disarmed him mid-spin.
Gasps echoed through the crowd.
Cassian sheathed his blade and turned away as the examiner declared him the winner.
He nodded to Lucan and the copper-haired girl, who stood watching quietly.
Then her name was called.
"Melendra Octaran"
Mel stepped forward, eyes sharp and calm. She held her spear lightly but with purpose.
Her opponent, a broad-shouldered boy in dark leather, cracked his knuckles and unsheathed a cleaver-like blade. His armor bore the mark of Drakenheim, jagged lines like dragon claws.
They bowed, and the match began.
Thayen charged like a bull, leading with sheer aggression, his heavy swings meant to break her guard. But Mel danced around him, nimble on her feet, spinning and jabbing with surgical precision.
She didn't let him breathe.
A quick slash grazed her arm, but she didn't flinch. She stepped back, baiting him, then flipped the spear behind her back and spun striking him across the knee.
He stumbled.
Mel used it, striking twice more in a flurry with one to the gut and one to the shoulder.
Thayen growled and surged forward again but Mel dropped low and swept his legs. He crashed to the stone floor, his cleaver skittering out of reach.
She levelled her spear at his throat.
"Yield," she said simply.
Thayen, panting, did.
Then came the name Lucan had dreaded.
"Lucan Emberlily"
Lucan exhaled and stepped forward. His opponent seemed to be from Solmaris.
From the stands, Malric grinned wide. "This will be fun," he muttered to his lackeys.
"Is that a sword or a showpiece?" He called out to Lucan.
Olan was broad-chested and towered over Lucan. His greatsword rested on one shoulder, the blade thick and well-worn.
Lyra leaned forward from the stands, concern in her eyes. "Jerk," she muttered at Malric's jeers.
Lance watched, wide-eyed, smiling with wild delight.
"This will be worth the wait," he whispered. "Show me your talons, boy."
Lucan drew his sword, which was more fit for a duelist than a brute.
The match began.
Olan lunged first with brute force sending sweeping strikes meant to crush. Lucan barely sidestepped, his blade knocked aside by raw strength. He backed up, deflecting blows, his arms vibrating from each clash.
Olan grinned, pressing his advantage. "What's wrong, gutter rat? No alleyways to hide in here."
Lucan's mind raced. He wasn't stronger. He couldn't match his weight or reach.
But he didn't need to.
He slowed his breathing, reset his stance and watched.
He let Olan swing again, ducked low, and this time he stepped into the arc, letting it pass behind him. He struck a quick jab to Olan's exposed ribs, not enough to wound, but to test.
Then he saw it.
Olan's shoulders lifted half a second before each strike.
Another swing with the same tell.
Lucan smirked.
He began moving like water, sidestepping just before each strike landed, answering with quick flicks of his blade. Wrists, thighs, ankles.
Each hit landed clean.
Olan roared and went wide so Lucan ducked, spun behind him, and tapped his blade to the back of the man's neck.
A pause.
The crowd erupted.
Even the examiners blinked in surprise.
From the stands, Lance clapped slowly.
"I will have to be patient for my chance," he whispered, eyes gleaming.
Malric scowled. "You're shit, Olan. Absolutely shit. Can't even beat a lowborn rat like him?"
Olan didn't reply. He was too busy catching his breath.
Lucan turned and walked off the ring, sword in hand, sweat on his brow.