The sounds of the crowd echoed about him like boom of a tempestuous sea.
The last day of the Gauntlet had finally come.
The arena pulsed. The student, instructor, and citizens-filled seated stands were packed. Banners waved in the sunny breeze, each properly illuminated with light magic bringing their colors to life-even camping familiar colors of gold for Brightblade and silver for Zephyrwind. The sunlight off of the shiny white marble walls of the arena shone - nearly blinding.
Each shout, each cheer, each chant resonated within Kairen's bones. He could sense the air itself quivering. His heart pounded pounding to the rhythm of the sound-rapid and steady, whirling through everything loudly enough to pierce his ears.
He stood at the southern gate, mere few steps from the battlefield. The sword-a practice sword made of unlustered dull steel-did indeed feel heavy and small in his hand weightlessly bearing down on shreds of his own skin a promise and a curse.
He dipped his eyes down to the light dancing on the blade, trembling and quivering-with the light and the sign of its quality skewing them both. Perspiration was building on his forehead while each finger was bouncing and shaking, with no relation to the others. Still, his hold would not slip. He could not tell if it was the rhythm of bravery or fear ever fading driving him to grasp all the same.
The sand in front glimmered with heat. And above the roar, he spotted her.
His mother.
Elara Zephyrwind.
There she was, in the mid level on the western stands, small and in a blue shawl, staring, hands cinched up against her chest. He could see her expression even from across the field. Feeling. Pride. Fear. Hope.
It became difficult to swallow.
He wanted to wave. He wanted to smile -- to reassure her. But his arm wasn't moving. His stomach was churning, there was a storm happening. All of the memories -- the practice snafus, the silent laughs, the burn across his back, that only he felt when no one was around to see -- all of it were forcing down on him.
He took a shuddering breath. "Don't think," he whispered to himself, as he thought to. "Just breathe."
"Zephyrwind?"
He turned.
A soft voice from behind him—tentative, almost anxious. "Lia, from the Support Path, was standing held close to her chest in both hands a brownbag of herbs. Her robe of a healer was rumpled and her eyes were crossed with worry
"Lia" Kairen replied tightlipped and produced a weak smile. "What are you doing here? You should be at the healer hovel.
She quickly shook her head, and her braid bounced. "I-I was hoping to see you before you left eout there." Her voice quivered. "P-please be careful. P-Kaelan Brightblade, he not like the other people. His m-magic has power. Too much power. I saw him in the first match. He smashed stone wall barrier with one blow."
Kairen blinked. "That bad, huh?"
Lia clenched her teeth. "I'm serious, Kairen. Don't try to compete with his power. Just… just survive, okay?"
Her voice shattered him — the tone in which she said survive, not win.
He nodded slowly. "I'll be okay. You're too annoying."
Her brow furrowed. "That's what everyone always says before they do something stupid."
Kairen produced a tiny laugh. "Then I'll attempt to do something smart for once."
She was like she did not want to hug him but was afraid. Her fingers crossed each other. "I'll be watching," she murmured. "From the healer's tent. You'd better return in one piece."
He nodded once more, his smile tiny but genuine. "I will. Thanks, Lia."
Her gaze held a moment longer before she turned away from him and darted off, vanishing into the opening of the stone arch.
After she was gone out of sight, silence filled the space which her presence had just held. Only the pulse of Kairen's own heartbeat could be noted in the absence.
Then a resonant voice, deep and commanding:
"Finalists! To the center!"
That was Rayan - senior combat instructor and referee - whose voice resonated with that same authority and magic which rang through the tunnels.
Kairen's fingers gripped fiercely on the hilt of the sword.
This was it.
No turning back.
He stepped out of the darkened tunnel and was surrounded by brilliant beams of sun.
The arena was vast and exposed - golden sand went in every direction, interrupted only by a few pillars of stone from previous contests. The heat radiated with residue of magic, and the stands were a collective smear of faces, voices, color.
And in the center standing patiently with easy calm was Kaelan Brightblade.
Kaelan looked perfect, at least with his impeccable practice armor, as he stood stock still and rigid. He resembled a statue in rock, even with his wide smile, to the point it was hard to see him as human. His long golden hair shone brightly in the sunlight, as if he had a halo above him. Kaelan was tall and rigid, and he emitted pride, power, and confidence.
Kairen was a few strides away, trailing the tip of his blade through the golden sands.
Kaelan leaned to one side; the grin still increased, "Well, well. The miracle commoner made it to the finals."
No words from Kairen.
Kaelan moved in slowly. "You actually believe you can stand here, before everyone, and get the victory? Over me?"
"I'm not here to prove anything to you." Kairen said, voice obuious even as he spoke softly.
Kaelan laughed. "Not to me, huh? Well, then who? Your mother, perhaps?"
Kairen's heart lurched.
Kaelan's smirk cut sharper. "She's right there in the stands, you know. Excellent view. Must be difficult — seeing her son getting ready to get smashed into the sand."
The crowd jeered — mostly nobles, the ones who enjoyed Kaelan's theatrics.
Kairen's face burned on the heat creeping up his neck. His jaw clenched.
He made his voice firm. "You chat a lot, Brightblade. Hope you can still breathe when I quiet you down."
That elicited a response — gasps, some cheers, even from Kaelan's bench.
Kaelan's eyes flashed—briefly the smirk vanished. "You've got courage," he said low. "I wonder, how far that will carry you."
The air between them crackled with static—two storms meant to collide.
He was so distanced from the center of the arena when the voice came from one of the healers' tent, "Ugh. My head is still ringing."
Dain dragged himself to a sitting position, placed the heel of his hand against his head, squinted at the white ceiling, rolled his head, and glanced at Ilya, who sat opposite him, as composed and unfazed as usual, but with his arm in a sling.
"We won?" he murmured softly.
"We drew," Ilya said matter-of-factly, though somehow beneath her even tone he could feel disappointment.
"A draw?" Dain grinned, slumping back. "Nice! I'll take it."
He paused. "Wait, who's up next?"
The healer, sorting bandages nearby, glanced at him. "Final match — Zephyrwind versus Brightblade."
Dain froze. "Wait— Kairen's fighting him? Right now!?"
He swung his legs off the bed. The healer put up a hand. "You shouldn't be moving—"
But Dain was already halfway to the door. "Nope! Not missing this one!"
Ilya sighed, shaking her head. "You're impossible."
Out in the distance Dain bolted up the stairs, forcing his way through the crowd, and finally made it up as far as the front row. He cupped his hands in a megaphone and yelled, "KAIREN! YOU GOT THIS, BRO!"
Then, in perfect timing, he bellowed again:
"HEY BRIGHTBLADE! YOUR HAIR LOOKS LIKE BUTTER!"
The student section erupted in laughter. Kaelan halted mid-step, his temple vein twitching.
Kairen almost choked keeping himself from laughing. The tension had relaxed just enough so he could breathe once more.
Dain waved from the crowds. "GO GET HIM!"
Kairen lifted his sword a fraction in recognition. It wasn't much, but it meant the world to him.
High above, on the balcony of their teacher, stood Professor Kellan, arms crossed, but motionless. His piercing eyes tracked each step below. Beyond him, the other teachers whispered, making silent wagers, speculating about the contest. But Kellan remained silent. His attention was fixed on the boy in the arena — the boy with the mark.
At his side, he saw her — Elara.
She hung over the rail, hands trembling, color washed from her face, but stoic. He had seen that face before, a long long long time ago, on the field with her husband.
A harsh breath left him. "Elara…" he breathed, almost too soft to be heard.
Old guilt squeezed in his chest. He gritted his jaw.
"Let's see what you're made of, kid," he growled, narrowing his eyes. "Show me the fire of your father."
On the sand beneath, Kairen and Kaelan were in complete silence. The wind changed, bringing with it the smell of dust and sorcery. The shouting of the crowd hit a deafening pitch — all voices screaming, chanting, anticipating.
Kairen's heart slowed, then accelerated again. The world seemed to shrink — only him, Kaelan, and the vast empty stretch of sunlight between them.
He could feel something — weak but true — smoldering under his shirt. The mark. Not hurting, just hot. Almost as though it were alive, observing.
His breath was slow and deep.
This is it.
He wasn't fighting for applause.
Not for his dad's name.
Not to show people wrong.
He was fighting because he'd had enough of running from himself.
He drew up his sword, holding it aloft. The metal sparkled, reflecting a glint of the sun.
Kaelan grinned slowly and started to whirl his staff with one hand, saying, "Try to survive a minute at best. I would not want the battle to be done so fast."
Kairen exhaled through his nose, softly but forcefully, saying to Kaelan, "Lets see who is standing.
The crowd bellowed back — a wall of living sound.
Rayan approached, lifting his arm. His resonant voice boomed out across the arena, slicing through all noise.
"Final match of the Gauntlet!"
The sound rolled louder. Kairen's chest shook with it. He glanced up at the crowd — at his mother's tearful face, at Dain wildly waving, at Lia folded hands close to the tunnel.
Each face melted into light.
Rayan's hand dropped. His voice boomed like a drumroll across the grass.
"Let the final battle begin!"