Thyssara Nightspire sat on the cracked wooden chair like a queen carved from stormlight, one leg crossed over the other, silver eyes glowing faintly beneath the dim courtyard lamps.
Her posture was relaxed—bored, unconcerned—yet the air bent around her like she owned it.
A teenage boy in the crowd couldn't help himself. His gaze slid over her curves, lingering far too long, lust dripping from his eyes like filth. He didn't even try to hide it.
Before his next breath landed—
FWIP.
One of the women standing behind Thyssara vanished.
A shockwave rippled through the air, sharp enough to sting skin.
Then—
CRACK.
She reappeared in front of the boy, fist already buried in his cheek.
The impact launched him off his feet, his body collapsing to the ground in a heap before anyone could blink.
Gasps exploded around the courtyard. Someone screamed. Another staggered back.
The female instructor stood over the unconscious boy with cold, disgusted eyes, shaking out her fist as if she'd merely brushed away dust.
The message was brutal, instant, absolute—
Lust at Thyssara was a death wish.
And Thyssara herself didn't even bother looking at the fallen boy.
She simply tapped her finger on the armrest, bored expression unmoved.
As if this kind of violence was beneath her.
As if men deserved worse.
As if this was only the beginning.
Gareth's eyes narrowed, following the spot where the boy had fallen, mind racing. How… how was she that fast?
Every instinct screamed that no ordinary Veil could account for her speed.
He tilted his head, analyzing, calculating, letting the memory of the strike replay in slow motion in his mind. It wasn't Veil tricks… it was pure physical strength. Reflexes, precision, timing… every fiber of her body honed to lethal perfection.
A slow, almost amused smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Obviously… they're stronger than me.
He shook his head faintly, the weight of that realization settling in, yet a spark of excitement flickered beneath the fear. This isn't something to fear—it's something to understand.
Gareth flexed his fingers subtly, testing the air, imagining what it would take to match even one of them.
Every step, every motion, every strike… she's a living weapon. And her crew is the same.
He exhaled, calm now, eyes still fixed on Thyssara's chair. If I want to survive… I need to learn from this. Study them. Measure them. Understand what makes them untouchable.
A low, wry chuckle escaped him. Stronger than me… yes. But not invincible.
Gareth's gaze flicked across the courtyard, scanning the trainees as Thyssara Nightspire leaned back in her chair, silver eyes glinting with bored amusement.
Her voice cut through the tense silence like a blade. "Who among you wants to be first?"
She didn't shout. She didn't plead. She simply asked, her tone absolute, almost mocking, daring anyone to step forward.
"To see if you can even survive… and maybe, just maybe, earn a place in the Sixth Outermarch."
The courtyard held its breath. Every trainee shifted, eyes darting nervously, bodies tightening instinctively.
Some swallowed hard. Some looked down, unwilling to risk a single step.
Gareth's pulse quickened, mind analyzing each face—who had courage, who had desperation, who had the foolish arrogance to challenge her.
Even as murmurs spread, he kept staring, calculating, waiting… knowing that in moments like this, one wrong move would be enough to reveal who truly belonged—and who would break.
The air was electric, charged with anticipation, as every eye turned toward the challenge, the first test under Thyssara Nightspire's gaze.
Without a sound, Ember raised her hands from nowhere, dark energy radiating subtly from her movements.
Her face was grim, shadowed, almost unreadable, and the silence around her seemed to thicken as she passed through Gareth and Jaless.
Jaless reacted instinctively, reaching out to touch her shoulder. "Hey—what's wrong? Why are you looking like that?"
Ember didn't answer, her gaze fixed ahead, her aura heavy enough to make the hairs on the back of their necks stand.
From her chair, Thyssara Nightspire's voice erupted, sharp, cold, and absolute, echoing through the courtyard. "Do you… dare challenge my authority?"
Her silver eyes flared, glowing faintly as the words struck like steel, cutting through even the morning haze.
"And to make it worse… you're a man." Her tone dripped contempt, deliberate and unrelenting, daring anyone to move, to speak, to breathe.
The courtyard went utterly silent, trainees frozen mid-step, shadows of fear and awe stretching long across cracked stone.
Even Gareth felt it—a weight pressing down, undeniable and oppressive, making it clear that Thyssara Nightspire wasn't just a leader. She was absolute.
Jaless dropped to his knees instantly, bowing low. "I-I'm sorry! I didn't mean—"
Thyssara's silver eyes flicked toward him, sharp and unyielding. "Useless," she said coldly, dismissing him with a single word before her gaze returned to the courtyard.
Meanwhile, Ember's steps carried her forward, silent but inevitable, approaching the center with dark purpose.
Gareth crouched, lifting Jaless roughly to his feet. "Why did you have to kneel?" he asked, frowning.
Jaless shook his head, voice low, serious. "Because she can kill us if she wants. We're just nobodies to her."
He glanced at Ember and the others stepping forward, a grim smirk tugging his lips. "The only way to survive… is to be stronger than her. Or…"
He leaned closer, lowering his voice, almost conspiratorial. "Or be disgusting enough… that she doesn't even have the decency to step on you."
Gareth's eyes flicked toward Thyssara and Ember, the weight of truth settling heavy in the courtyard: strength, cunning, or sheer irrelevance—there was no middle ground.
And in that moment, every heartbeat, every breath, felt like walking the edge of a blade.
One of the female warriors behind Thyssara stepped forward, her black hair flowing, dark gloves gleaming.
"I am Mira Nightborne," she announced, voice crisp, confident, carrying across the courtyard.
Without hesitation, she shifted into a fighting stance—balanced, precise, every muscle coiled like a spring ready to strike.
Gareth's eyes narrowed, studying her form, noting the controlled strength in her posture, the way her every movement screamed lethal efficiency.
A low murmur ran through the trainees, skepticism and surprise blending together.
"She's going against Ember?" one whispered, disbelief lacing the words.
"Ember's gotten so thin… she doesn't stand a chance," another muttered, eyes wide.
Even in their doubt, the tension was palpable, a quiet storm building around the two warriors.
Gareth stayed silent, observing, analyzing—not ready to judge yet, but fully aware that this duel would reveal more than mere skill.
Jaless huffed, frustration clear in his voice. "Oi! She just walked past us like we weren't even there!"
Ember said nothing, gripping only a short sword, her eyes fixed, calculating each step with quiet intensity.
Mira Nightborne advanced, dark gloves gleaming, and effortlessly deflected every strike Ember launched, her movements fluid, precise, unyielding.
Blades clashed again and again, sparks flying, Ember's strikes barely scratching the surface as Mira's skill made it look almost effortless.
But Ember didn't waver—she analyzed, adapted, and waited for the slightest opening, letting her mind outmaneuver brute strength.
Finally, with a sudden feint and swift repositioning, Ember sliced across Mira's cheek, a thin line of red appearing almost impossibly fast.
Mira froze for a heartbeat, then slowly lowered her stance, her eyes shifting toward Thyssara Nightspire.
Kneeling, she spoke with respect and weight: "My lady… the girl has passed our expectations."
Thyssara's silver eyes softened slightly, a somber smile touching her lips as she addressed Ember directly.
"You passed. You may now join the Sixth Division… OUTERMARCH."
The courtyard fell into stunned silence, awe and disbelief rippling through every trainee present.
Gareth's jaw tightened, admiration and calculation mixing in his mind—this girl had just proven herself against absolute mastery.
A young man stepped forward, bowing slightly. "I am Mirt Droson," he said, voice steady, though a faint tremor betrayed his nerves.
He moved to the center, standing still, waiting for instruction, shoulders squared, chest tight with anticipation.
Thyssara Nightspire's silver eyes narrowed sharply, jaw tightening at the sight of a male in her court. Anger radiated off her in waves, cold and absolute.
Mira Nightborne's gaze flicked to Mirt, her eyes flashing with pure hate, lips curling as if tasting his audacity was bitter.
Mirt Droson assumed a fighting stance, a humble, almost nervous smile on his face, his hands steady despite the tension.
With a sharp snap of her fingers, Thyssara's voice rang like a whip: "Begin."
Mira exploded forward, faster than the eye could follow, a blur of shadow and deadly precision.
Before Mirt could react, she grabbed him, hoisting him briefly into the air before smashing a fist against his jaw with horrifying force.
The impact was grotesque—his jaw shattered and fell, leaving a sickening wet sound as blood sprayed across the stone beneath him, spattering the shocked onlookers.
Cries echoed from the crowd as Mira continued her assault, each strike controlled, precise, and merciless, leaving Mirt Droson staggering, bleeding profusely, body battered, eyes wide with shock and terror.
By the time Mira pulled back, he was half dead, crimson streaks running down his face and chest, limbs trembling, and the stench of iron and broken bone thick in the air.
Every other male trainee froze, pale and horrified, the brutality of Mira's skill—and Thyssara's silent authority—imprinted into their minds like a warning carved in fire.
Gareth's eyes remained fixed on Mirt Droson, bloodied and broken on the courtyard floor, every movement of Mira Nightborne etched into his mind.
Why… he wondered silently, heart hammering, didn't she hold back even a little?
Her strikes weren't just fast—they were precise, calculated, absolute. Every blow delivered maximum damage, leaving nothing to chance, nothing to mercy.
He clenched his fists subtly, a shiver running down his spine.
She could have ended this without breaking him like that… yet she didn't. She wanted to show him exactly how powerless he was.
Gareth's mind raced, analyzing the implications, the raw power of her Veil, the control in her muscles, the ruthlessness in her movements.
This isn't just a fight… this is a warning to all men here. A declaration. A death sentences to every men with hope of a good future here. A no set in stones.
The courtyard remained tense, silence thick, as every trainee absorbed the full weight of Mira Nightborne's lethal perfection—and Gareth's mind worked to understand it all.