The lecture hall was warmer than usual.
Not because of the fire runes etched along the stone walls—but from the crush of too many bodies packed too close. The morning lesson was mandatory. Attendance sealed by a formal order—signed by the Swordcrest Faculty Head himself.
Leon leaned against the back wall, arms folded. He wasn't watching the others, but he felt them.
Most sat in benches—some whispering, others restless. The nobles filled the front rows, robes pressed, crests stitched in silver. Their glances were quieter than their voices.
He'd passed the Flame Trial. Survived the Bone Chamber.
And now, they were watching.
Because it meant something.
Because it wasn't supposed to.
Leon Thorne had been a name whispered with pity—soft, bloated, forgotten. A fallen house clinging to courtesy.
Now it was rising again.
And people hated that.
Across the room, Rellan Faulk narrowed his eyes.
Of course he was here.
Son of a merchant duke. Top marks. Clean strikes. Dirtier whispers. He hadn't spoken to Leon since the rankings. But his silence carried its own kind of edge.
Elena entered just before the instructor. She didn't look at Leon—but she paused, a beat too long, near his side of the hall.
He noticed.
So did they.
Murmurs stirred.
Then the door slammed shut.
Master Norrix entered—scarred, gray-eyed, blade at his hip, book in hand.
He didn't waste time. He never did.
"This morning's lesson," he said, voice like flint, "concerns dueling etiquette and political escalation within noble academies."
Leon blinked.
That wasn't the scheduled topic.
The room shifted—quiet murmurs beneath tight shoulders.
Norrix dropped the book on the desk.
Didn't open it.
"Let me be clear. This is not theory. This is preparation."
Someone coughed. No one laughed.
"In the last three weeks," Norrix said, "we've seen a surge in inter-house tensions. Undeclared challenges. Withheld details. Spars that turned into blood duels."
He looked at them—each one.
Leon didn't flinch when their eyes met.
"This academy is not a battlefield," Norrix continued. "But it trains you for one. And politics don't end when swords come out."
Then he lifted a scroll.
"The Crest Exhibition has been approved. And it is now mandatory."
That hit the room like a dropped hammer.
The Crest Exhibition wasn't practice.
It was a stage.
Each house would name a fighter for three ranked duels—public. Judged. Before instructors, nobility, and talent scouts. Victors earned glory. Losers wore failure in front of the court.
Leon straightened.
Last time he heard that name, he was twelve. Chubby. Watching his cousin lose.
Now…
Different story.
Norrix read off names.
Old houses. Powerful ones.
Then—
"House Thorne."
The room stilled.
Leon felt every glance shift.
Norrix didn't pause.
"Participant: Leon Thorne."
Someone choked. A pair of students hissed behind cupped hands.
Leon didn't blink.
Didn't speak.
Just folded his arms tighter.
They hadn't asked him.
No warning.
Just a spotlight.
A target.
Norrix finished the scroll. "Your first match is in three days. Attendance is Mandatory. Dismissed."
The room emptied in ripples—some loud, some quiet.
Leon waited, avoiding the rush.
When he stepped into the hall, Elena was already there.
"You didn't submit your name," she said.
"No."
"Someone did."
He nodded. "Politics."
"Or a trap."
"Or Both."
They walked.
She didn't look at him, but her voice was quieter now. "You shouldn't go in blind."
"I won't."
"I can help."
He glanced at her. "Would you?"
She stopped.
"I didn't speak for you against the Faulks. Or the pit trials. I'm not making that mistake again."
Leon met her eyes.
"East yard. Midnight."
She nodded.
Then turned and left.
—
The yard was colder than he expected.
Leon moved through his drills with a borrowed blade, steps sharp, focused. The dirt held. His shoulder ached.
A shadow stepped into view.
Rellan Faulk.
Leon didn't stop.
"Watching?" he asked.
"No," Rellan said. "A warning."
Leon turned.
Rellan's expression was hard.
"You've been set up. Corven's not sending their heir. They brought a proxy—some northern kid. Trains with iron monks."
Leon wiped the blade on his sleeve.
" That's illegal."
"Officially. But they filed under joint banner. The kid doesn't fight like us."
Leon looked at him. "Why tell me?"
"If you die in front of the court, the rest of us look weak."
Leon raised a brow. "Or you want to be the one to finish me."
Rellan smirked. "That too."
He tossed something across the yard.
Leon caught it.
Gauntlets. Reinforced.
"For your wrists. When he tries to shatter them."
Leon nodded once.
Rellan turned and vanished into the dark.
Leon didn't sleep.
He stayed in the yard after Rellan left, running drills until his arms shook and the wind bit cold into the sweat clinging to his back. The gauntlets were tighter than he expected. Used. Someone had bled into them before—maybe Rellan.
He didn't care.
They held firm.
He shifted again—low stance, sword angled down, shoulders set forward. His father had taught him this one, long before the war, long before disgrace. It wasn't flashy.
But it worked.
By the time he heard footsteps crunching across gravel, the moon was already tucked behind the east tower. Elena stepped into view—no robes, no sigils. Just a dark cloak, hair tied back. Bare faced. Her hands shimmered faintly with wardlight.
She stopped a few paces away.
"You look like hell," she said.
Leon smirked. "You're late."
"It's two minutes past."
He didn't push it.
She flicked her fingers. A ward spread low and clear over the dirt—no sound, no sight for spying eyes.
"Footwork," she said, rolling her sleeves.
He moved.
She watched. Circled.
After a few passes, she stepped in and tapped his back foot.
"Too shallow. You'll eat a sweep."
"I wasn't off balance."
"You were bracing for pain. Left side's still too tight. Keep overcorrecting like that and you'll fold inward."
Leon grit his teeth.
She was right.
He adjusted.
"Again."
Five more times. Each pass, she spotted something else. Subtle flaws. Nothing flashy—but fatal if left to rot. By the end, his breath burned in his throat and his legs screamed.
"You're not fighting to survive anymore," she said, casting a soft rune near his ribs. "You're fighting for a name."
"That's worse," he muttered.
She didn't smile.
"Don't let them write your story for you."
The rune flared. Warmth bloomed through his side.
He exhaled.
"You won't be at the match."
"Not officially. House Velcorin stays neutral."
"And unofficially?"
She reached into her coat.
A silver ring. Light. Cold. Subtle runes coiled at the band.
"Wear it. Won't stop a blade. But it might keep a cracked rib from killing you."
He slid it on.
Then looked at her.
Not as a mage. Not as a noble.
But as someone who cared.
"I'll win."
"You better," she said. "If you die out there, I'll kill you myself."
Leon smiled—barely.
Then turned back to the blade in his hand.
He still had an hour before dawn.