On the far side of the training field, the atmosphere was starkly different. There were no bursts of flame or torrents of water here—only the muted clang of steel, the crunch of boots on packed earth, and the low murmur of voices as swordsmen stood in a loose formation before a man who radiated an aura of quiet authority.
Professor Dorian Vael didn't need to raise his voice to command attention. His dark uniform was crisp, a silver trim tracing the edges like the sheen of a well-honed blade. The longsword across his back rested easy, as if part of him rather than a weapon. When his eyes swept across the group, conversations died mid-breath.
"You are here," he said, tone measured and firm, "to prove that you can wield a blade with discipline. Power without control is chaos. Control without intent is weakness. I expect neither."
He paced once, boots silent on the stone floor. "The rules: one-on-one sparring. Dull steel, no killing. You may face a fellow applicant or a summoned opponent. If I see sloppy footwork, wild swings, or arrogance, I will stop the match and you will fail. Clear?"
The chorus of "Yes, sir!" echoed like a single voice.
Dorian nodded once, expression unreadable. "Begin."
The first pair stepped forward. Steel clashed, ringing across the grounds. Dorian stood with arms folded, his gaze like cold iron, dissecting every movement.
When Raffin Jorde's name was called, the boy exhaled hard through his nose and strode forward, adjusting the grip on his sword. His opponent—a wiry student with sharp features—gave him a mocking grin.
"Ready, fancy-boy?"
"Always," Raffin muttered.
The match began with an explosive clang. Raffin swung heavy and hard, his strikes designed to crush rather than cut. Each blow sent vibrations through the earth, forcing his opponent to retreat step by step. But the wiry boy was quick, darting in and out, slashing at Raffin's side and forcing him to adjust his footing.
Raffin gritted his teeth, sweat beading at his temple. He wasn't fast, but he knew how to absorb punishment. He caught a glancing blow on his shoulder, hissed, and then drove forward with a brutal overhead strike that knocked his opponent's sword spinning from his hand.
The bout ended with the clang of steel hitting stone.
"Jorde," Dorian said, his tone flat but acknowledging. "Pass."
Raffin offered his opponent a hand up, then lumbered back toward the line, chest heaving. Elias caught his eye and gave a nod of approval.
Then came the call that drew a ripple of interest through the crowd.
"Elias Silford. Callen Veyre."
The tall, broad-shouldered boy who stepped forward looked like he'd been born for intimidation. Callen grinned as he rested his dull blade against his shoulder, his chestnut hair falling over narrowed grey eyes.
"Well, well," Callen drawled, loud enough for everyone to hear. "They let toddlers in now?"
A few snickers broke out from the back of the line. Elias ignored them. He walked forward with a calm that almost looked lazy, his honey colored eyes fixed on Callen like the boy was nothing more than an obstacle to move past.
"You'll be wishing I stayed in the nursery soon enough," Elias said lightly, rolling his shoulders.
Callen barked a laugh. "Cute. I'll make sure to send you back there in pieces."
Professor Dorian's voice cut through the tension like a drawn blade. "Begin."
Callen surged forward first, swinging with sheer brute force. The ground trembled as his blade came down in an overhead arc meant to break bones. Elias wasn't there when it landed. He slid aside like water slipping around stone, his own blade flashing in a tight, economical motion aimed at Callen's exposed flank.
Steel screeched against steel as Callen barely brought his sword around to block.
"Fast," Callen grunted, shoving Elias back with raw strength. "But not fast enough!"
He charged again, wide arcs cleaving the air, earth magic humming faintly as his muscles bulged with reinforcement. Each blow was a hammer strike meant to crush.
Elias danced between them, his blade a whisper, his footwork crisp and precise. Where Callen was all fury, Elias was focus—a sharp, unbroken rhythm of sidesteps and parries.
"You swing like you are chopping wood," Elias said smoothly, deflecting another strike and spinning low to cut across Callen's legs. "Are you trying to impress the trees?"
The taunt earned him a snarl. Callen lunged, reckless now, his sword whipping forward in a brutal thrust. Elias twisted aside, pivoted, and slammed the hilt of his own blade into Callen's ribs. The bigger boy staggered with a grunt, eyes wide in pain.
Before he could recover, Elias moved—swift, surgical. His sword hooked under Callen's guard, wrenched the weapon free, and sent it spinning across the dirt. In the same breath, Elias's blade rested at his opponent's throat.
"Yield," Elias said quietly.
Callen glared, chest heaving, but the cold edge of defeat was there. "...I yield."
Elias stepped back, lowering his sword with calm precision. No smirk, no gloat—just a simple nod as if the outcome had been inevitable.
Professor Dorian's voice broke the silence. "Silford. Pass."
His tone was even, but his eyes lingered on Elias for a fraction longer than necessary—sharp, measuring. The kind of look a hunter gives when he spots something rare.
Callen stalked off without a word, fury radiating from every stiff movement. Elias wiped his blade on the hem of his sleeve and returned to Raffin, who gave him a crooked grin.
"Well," Raffin muttered. "Remind me never to spar with you."
Elias just shrugged, a smile playing on his lips. "You'd do fine."
Dorian Vael watched them both, his face unreadable—but behind that stillness, calculation flickered like steel in shadow.
The crowd of swordsmen began to break apart as Professor Dorian Vael gave the final dismissal. Blunted blades clinked back into racks, boots scuffed on the packed earth, and low chatter rose as students compared bruises and boasts.
Elias had barely stepped off the sparring ring when a calm, deep voice halted him.
"Silford."
He turned to see Dorian Vael approaching with his measured stride, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze sharp as tempered steel. The quiet around them seemed to deepen.
"Walk with me," Dorian said.
Elias blinked, but obeyed without hesitation. They moved toward the edge of the grounds, where the sun cast the field in molten gold. Lilith, standing a short distance away with Tamsin, caught sight of the two and stilled mid-conversation. Her eyes followed them—curious, guarded.
Dorian stopped near the weapons rack and turned to Elias. "Your form," he said, voice low and deliberate. "Clean. Fluid. That is rare for someone your age. Who taught you?"
"My father," Elias replied, straightening unconsciously. "And the family instructors. I've trained with them since I could hold a blade."
Dorian's eyes slid to him briefly, assessing. "How long has that been?"
"Since I was six," Elias said. There was no boast in his tone—just quiet pride. "Every day, without fail."
A faint glimmer of approval crossed the swordmaster's face. "It shows. Your control is uncommon for a boy of twelve. And your speed—" His gaze sharpened slightly. "You favor precision over brute strength. That suits you."
Elias inclined his head, a flicker of warmth curling in his chest at the recognition. "Thank you, sir."
Dorian studied him for a moment longer, then asked, "Have you ever considered dual-wielding?"
Elias blinked. "Dual… swords?"
The faintest curve touched the professor's lips—almost a smile, but gone in an instant. "Your footwork, the way you transition between offense and defense. You move like a duelist, not a brawler. With a second blade, your speed would become twice the weapon."
Elias absorbed the words, his mind sparking at the idea. "I've… never tried, sir. But I would like to."
"Good," Dorian said simply, turning away. "Keep that thought." He started back toward the others, his voice low but firm over his shoulder. "You have potential, Silford. See that you live up to it."
Elias stood there for a moment, gripping his sword a little tighter—not from nerves, but from the quiet thrill of possibility.
Across the way, Lilith's gaze lingered on her brother, her expression unreadable. Tamsin followed her line of sight and grinned.
"Looks like your brother impressed the big man."
Lilith only hummed softly.