The sun had shifted lower, staining the arena's jagged skyline with streaks of amber and blood-red. The noise of battle had grown patchy now—fewer fighters, but every clash sharp and deliberate. From his vantage on a broken ledge, Eleres could see the one he'd been watching all along.
A broad figure in polished half-plate, moving with the swagger of someone who believed the field already belonged to him. The pouch at his hip bulged with brass—more than any other in sight. His helmet crest caught the light as he straightened from another victory, shaking a fallen opponent's nameplate into his hand before tucking it away.
Eleres knew him.
Sir Karven. A knight-cadet from one of the western border houses. In the sparring yard, Karven had laughed openly when Eleres was assigned a rusted practice blade. "You'll never make it past the first cull," he'd said, loud enough for the others to hear. "You're just a stray dog trying to run with hounds."
Now, as Eleres dropped from his perch and closed the distance, Karven saw him coming. Surprise flickered across his face, then curled into a smirk.
"Well, look at this," Karven said, loosening his stance but not his grip on his longsword. "Didn't think I'd have to hunt you down. And yet… here you are, gift-wrapped."
Eleres's gaze stayed level. "Thought I'd save you the trouble."
Karven laughed, the sound carrying in the still air. "Brave words for someone with what—two plates? Maybe three? You think you can take mine?"
"I don't think," Eleres said, stepping into range. "I know."
The first exchange was a blur of steel. Karven came in with a wide, crushing arc meant to break guard on the first blow. Eleres met it, redirecting rather than stopping it, feeling the shock pass down his arms. He countered with a thrust toward Karven's midsection, but the knight twisted, letting the blade scrape against his cuirass harmlessly.
"You're quick," Karven admitted, circling. "But quick doesn't win against steel like this."
"Steel's only as good as the arm behind it," Eleres replied.
They clashed again—Karven driving forward with his weight, trying to corner Eleres against a cracked stone wall. Eleres ducked low, rolling under a horizontal slash, and came up inside Karven's guard. A quick slash opened a line along the knight's forearm where the armor plates met leather.
Karven hissed, jerking back, but Eleres didn't press recklessly. He let the knight recover, circling again, forcing Karven to waste energy with heavy swings that cut only air.
Sweat darkened the edges of Karven's collar. His strikes slowed just a fraction—but that was all Eleres needed.
When the knight committed to another high guard, Eleres slipped left, let the blow whistle past, and slammed his shoulder into Karven's side. The impact staggered him against a broken column. Before he could regain his footing, Eleres's hand was at his pouch, ripping the weight of brass free.
Karven roared, swinging wildly, but Eleres was already stepping back, the stolen plates clinking in his hand.
The fight could have ended there.
But Karven wasn't finished. As Eleres turned, the knight pushed off the column with surprising speed, his longsword flashing toward Eleres's unprotected back.
Eleres caught the movement in the edge of his vision and spun, bringing his blade up in time to deflect the strike. The force jolted through him, but anger flared sharper than the pain.
"You had your fight," Eleres said coldly. "You lost."
Karven's eyes burned with humiliation. "I don't lose to gutter trash."
Something in Eleres snapped. His grip shifted, his stance lowering into a coiled readiness. If Karven wanted another exchange, he would get one—and this time, Eleres wouldn't just take plates.
He stepped in, feinting low before driving an overhead slash meant to break Karven's defense entirely. The knight blocked, but the impact forced him back a step, then another. Eleres pressed, blows raining faster now—high, low, side, forcing Karven into a desperate guard.
One opening, and Eleres would end it.
But the opening never came—because a new shadow fell between them.
A gauntleted hand caught Eleres's sword arm mid-swing, halting the strike with unnatural strength.
"That's enough," a voice commanded.
Eleres looked up into the cold, assessing eyes of Instructor Varran—one of the examiners from the observation deck. His deep blue cloak brushed the ground, but the sword at his hip was bare, its tip angled casually toward Eleres.
Karven straightened behind him, smirking again.
"This one's done," Varran said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You've taken more than enough."
Eleres narrowed his eyes. "He came at me after yielding."
"I saw a man defending himself from an excessive assault," Varran replied smoothly. "And I don't take kindly to cadets who don't know when to stop."
Karven's smirk widened. "Guess even the gutter dog needs a leash."
The words dug like hooks, but Eleres's focus stayed on Varran. Th
e instructor's stance wasn't just authoritative—it was combative, the weight balanced evenly, the sword poised to react. He wasn't just here to stop the fight. He was here to make a point.
"You're protecting him," Eleres said flatly.
Varran's lips curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "I'm protecting the Academy's standards. Now, unless you want to be removed from the trial entirely, drop your weapon and walk away."
Eleres didn't move. The plates he'd taken from Karven were still in his grip, their edges biting into his palm. Every instinct screamed to push past Varran, to finish the fight, to silence the smirk still curling Karven's mouth.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. The only sound was the distant ring of steel from elsewhere in the arena.
Then Eleres shifted his weight forward—just enough for Varran's blade to tilt in warning.
The moment hung like a drawn bowstring.