The announcement echoed through the courtyard, a brief respite from the anxieties that had taken root in Liam's gut. Three days. A paltry seventy-two hours stood between him and the semi-finals, a chasm of time that felt both impossibly long and terrifyingly short. While other competitors might welcome the respite, for Liam, it was a sentence to an agonizing purgatory.
He watched them disperse – the confident swagger of the seasoned warriors, the nervous energy of the hopefuls, the grim determination of those who, like him, knew they were walking a tightrope over an abyss. He envied them all. They had skill, honed through years of training. He had… a desperate hope and a magic he barely understood.
The training yard, usually a place of camaraderie and shared purpose, felt vast and empty. The scent of sweat and steel, normally invigorating, now seemed to mock him. He picked up a practice longsword, the familiar weight strangely alien in his trembling hand. He went through the forms, the Volgunder "frost-step," the parries, the thrusts. But his movements were stiff, his timing off. He was a marionette with tangled strings, his body refusing to obey his will.
He slammed the sword down in frustration. Van's advice – use their strength against them – echoed in his mind, but it felt like a cruel joke. He had no strength of his own to leverage. He was a hollow shell, a counterfeit warrior.
He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe, to think. He had to find an advantage, something, anything, to level the playing field. He thought of Carla Razakia, his upcoming opponent. The whispers followed her like a shadow: "prodigy," "rapier-fast," "two stars, almost three." He pictured her, a whirlwind of motion, her thin blade a silver needle dancing around his clumsy defenses.
He remembered the ice. That desperate, reckless gamble that had saved him against Torin and Serin. Could he control it? Could he weaponize it?
He sought out the most secluded corner of the yard, a shadowed alcove behind a crumbling section of the old keep wall. Here, hidden from prying eyes, he began to experiment. He focused on his boots first, summoning the chilling energy, willing it to coalesce into a thin, manageable layer of frost.
The cold bit into his skin, a familiar, almost comforting pain. A faint shimmer of blue appeared on the leather, followed by the delicate tracery of ice crystals. He took a tentative step. The ground was slick, treacherous. He stumbled, nearly falling, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He tried again, and again, each attempt a frustrating mix of near-success and clumsy failure. He could feel the magic, the raw power thrumming beneath his skin, but it was like trying to grasp smoke. It slipped through his fingers, refusing to be tamed.
Hours bled into one another. The sun climbed high in the sky, then began its slow descent. Liam ignored the burning in his muscles, the ache in his bones, the growing despair that threatened to engulf him. He practiced until his hands were raw, his legs trembled with exhaustion, and his head swam with fatigue.
He tried to expand the ice, to coat his forearms, envisioning a shimmering shield of frost. The magic rebelled, sputtering and dying like a candle in the wind. He tried to lower the temperature around him, to create a zone of chilling air that might slow his opponent. The result was a pathetic puff of frost that dissipated almost instantly.
He made progress, yes, but it was agonizingly slow, measured in fractions of an inch, in milliseconds of control. He could now maintain a somewhat stable layer of ice on his boots for a few minutes at a time, enough to increase his speed, but not enough to make him truly formidable.
As darkness fell, he finally stopped, collapsing onto a cold stone bench.
A shiver traveled down Liam's back, he was not strong enough, skilled enough. He was not ready, he knew it and so did everyone else. Yet here he was. He needed to face his reality.
He closed his eyes, focusing on the image of the rapier, its thin, deadly blade. He pictured Carla's speed, her agility, her precision. He needed a counter, something unexpected, something that would exploit her weaknesses, however small they might be.
An image flashed in his mind: a swift, almost impossible maneuver. A combination of the "frost-step" footwork, enhanced by the ice on his boots, and a daring, unconventional strike. It was a long shot, a desperate gamble, but it was the only chance he had. The plan has formed.
He opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on the training dummy in the center of the yard. He wouldn't win with skill. He wouldn't win with strength. He would win with… a razor's edge of ice, and a prayer. A prayer and a desperate, last-ditch effort. It will be him, or her.
The roar of the crowd was a dull thrum in Liam's ears, a distant wave crashing against the rocks of his concentration. He stood in the center of the arena, the packed stands a blur of faces, banners, and colors. This was it. The semi-final. One match stood between him and the final, between him and… Kael Dergovia.
He took a deep breath, trying to calm the frantic beating of his heart. He gripped the hilt of his longsword, the familiar weight a small comfort in the face of the overwhelming pressure. He had a plan, a desperate gamble that relied on timing, precision, and a magic he barely understood. He thought he was ready.
He scanned the arena, searching for his opponent. He spotted her immediately. Carla Razakia. Even from a distance, her presence commanded attention. She moved with a fluid grace, her silver hair catching the sunlight, her rapier held lightly at her side, a deceptively delicate extension of her will. Two stars glimmered on her tunic, a testament to her skill. But Liam knew, as everyone in Drakonia knew, that she was on the cusp of a third.
As she approached the center of the arena, their eyes met. There was no arrogance in her gaze, no disdain, only a cool, assessing intelligence.
"Liam," she said, her voice clear and steady, carrying easily across the short distance. "I didn't expect to see you here. Don't disappoint me."
A ghost of a smile touched Liam's lips. He straightened his shoulders, meeting her gaze directly. "Carla. I intend to give you a fight you won't forget."
The herald stepped forward, raising his hand for silence. "Competitors, prepare yourselves! The semi-final match between Liam Volgunder and Carla Razakia is about to begin!"
The crowd roared its approval, a wave of sound that crashed over Liam. He forced himself to breathe, to focus. He had to be calm, precise. He had to be perfect. He thought he was.
The signal was given, and Carla moved.
She was fast, incredibly fast. Her rapier was a silver blur, a darting, weaving serpent seeking an opening. Liam, his heart pounding in his chest, focused entirely on defense. He parried, he dodged, he used every ounce of his footwork training to stay just out of reach of her blade. Not yet, he told himself, not yet. He had to wait for the right moment.
"He's just defending? Has he given up already?" Anya muttered, leaning forward in her seat.
Gareth frowned. "He's being cautious. Smart, for him. But he can't defend forever."
Carla's attacks were relentless, a constant barrage of thrusts aimed at his chest, his throat, his arms. He felt the wind of her blade as it passed within inches of his flesh. He felt the strain in his muscles as he parried and deflected, his longsword a heavy, almost unwieldy counterpoint to her delicate rapier.
"Too slow," he thought, gritting his teeth. "I'm too slow."
He began to channel the coldness, drawing it up from the depths of his being, the place where the fear and the magic intertwined. He didn't focus it on his boots, not this time. Instead, he tried to radiate it outwards, a subtle wave of chilling air emanating from his body.
It was a struggle. The magic resisted, wanting to be focused, to be directed. But he held on, forcing it to obey his will. He could feel the air around him growing colder, a subtle shift that he hoped Carla would notice.
"What is this?" Carla thought, a flicker of surprise crossing her mind. The air around Liam seemed to shimmer, to distort. It was a subtle effect, almost imperceptible, but she felt it. A sudden chill, a prickling of the skin that had nothing to do with the autumn air.
"Is he… trembling?" Freya asked, her voice laced with disbelief.
"No," Gareth replied, his eyes narrowed. "He's… waiting."
Carla pressed her attack, her rapier flashing out again and again. She was starting to feel it now, a slight sluggishness in her movements, a stiffness in her muscles. The cold was beginning to take its toll, but Liam was reaching the limits.
"Come one, what trick are you hiding Volgunder?" Carla's movement started to slow down but not that slow.
Liam continued to parry, to dodge, to wait. He was tiring, he knew, but he had to hold on. He had to find the perfect moment. He kept pushing his mind for an opening or weakness as the time was crucial, "She is fast, very fast. I need to get my timing before…." He was running out of options.
Carla, sensing a slight opening in his guard had change and, seeing her opportunity, pressed her attack. She feinted left, then, with lightning speed, thrust again, aiming for Liam's exposed side, below his ribs, a spot where even the enchanted tunic offered minimal protection. It was a perfect strike, aimed to incapacitate.
He was doomed. Too slow. All this work was going to be for nothing. At that time when he closed his eyes he could only trust this.
Ice.
In that split second, as Carla's rapier hurtled towards him, Liam focused his will. He didn't create a shield, not this time. Instead, he formed a small, localized chunk of ice under his tunic, precisely where the rapier was about to strike.
The rapier struck. Liam felt a sharp, jolt of pain, but it was not the searing agony of a piercing wound. The ice, formed at the last possible instant, had deflected the blow, absorbing the brunt of the impact.
And just as quickly as it had formed, the ice vanished, dispelled by Liam's will, leaving no trace of its existence, the power it held did however had a scratch to prove it's point.
"That... that shouldn't have been possible." Carla frowned, replaying the last few seconds in her mind. Her thrust had been perfect, aimed precisely where Volgunder was most vulnerable. Yet, it had been deflected, not by steel, but by… what? A strange, fleeting coldness had brushed against her blade, a sensation she couldn't explain.
Liam didn't hesitate. He used the momentary opening, the flicker of surprise on Carla's face, to launch his counter-attack. He stepped forward, using the "frost-step" footwork to close the distance, and swung his longsword in a wide arc, aiming not at Carla's body, but at her legs.
"He… he deflected it?" Gareth whispered, his voice a mixture of shock and disbelief. "How?"
Anya and Freya were silent, their eyes glued to the fight.
The blow connected, striking Carla's knees with a sickening thud. She cried out in pain, stumbling backwards, her balance lost.
Liam moved swiftly, stepping inside her guard and placing the tip of his longsword at her throat.
"Yield," he said, his voice hoarse but firm.
Carla stared up at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of pain, surprise, and grudging respect. She took a deep breath, then slowly nodded.
"I yield," she said, her voice strained.
Silence descended upon the arena. Then, slowly, a murmur of disbelief rippled through the crowd, followed by a hesitant applause. Liam Volgunder, the underdog, the weakling, had defeated Carla Razakia, the prodigy.
Liam lowered his sword, his body trembling with exhaustion and the lingering effects of the cold. He had done it. He had won.
He offered Carla his hand, helping her to her feet.
"Well fought, Liam," she said, a hint of admiration in her voice. "You surprised me. You fought with honor... and something more."
"You fought bravely, Carla," Liam replied, returning the gesture of respect. "I… learned much from you."
The crowd began to erupt, slowly recognizing that the impossible had been achieved by someone that had no talent in fighting. As Kael Dergovia had all is eyes on him with no change only that now is was going to take on more serious manner for his next round, if they survive it will be fun… thought he, smirking.
The herald stepped forward, raising his hand for silence. "Liam Volgunder is victorious! He advances to the final!"
Liam closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He had survived. He had won. But the final challenge still awaited him. Kael Dergovia. He was one step closer to his goal, but the path ahead was still fraught with danger. He may have won this battle, but the true test was yet to come.
From his vantage point, Arthur Volgunder watched his youngest son with a troubled frown. He had seen the entire fight, of course, and while he was… surprised… by Liam's victory, something didn't sit right with him. It wasn't just the unexpected outcome. It was the way Liam had moved. The sudden, almost impossible deflection of Carla's rapier, the awkward yet effective slide, the way he had anticipated her movements with an almost preternatural accuracy. It wasn't the fighting style of a Volgunder. It wasn't any fighting style he recognized. It was… unsettling. He couldn't put his finger on it, but a seed of suspicion had been planted in his mind.