Aerin woke to Kael pounding on his door.
"Ranking matches! Today! Get up!"
Aerin dragged himself out of bed. His body still ached from Master Thorne's lesson. Everything hurt.
"What ranking matches?"
"The ones that decide if you stay in S-Class or get kicked down!" Kael burst through the door the moment Aerin unlocked it. His usual grin was strained. "You didn't see the notice board?"
"I was unconscious for most of yesterday."
"Right. Well, every S-Class student fights today. Win and you move up. Lose badly and..." Kael trailed off. "Just don't lose badly."
---
The Combat Arena was packed with every student in the academy. Not just S-Class—everyone wanted to watch.
Aerin stood with the other S-Class students in the center. Forty of them total. Most wore expensive uniforms tailored perfectly. Their grimoires looked new, well-maintained.
He was still wearing the same uniform from three days ago. Still had bloodstains on the collar.
Examiner Veld stood on the platform. "Single elimination bracket. Fight until someone yields or can't continue. Healers standing by. First match—Aerin Arclight versus Marcus Delvine."
A boy with slicked-back black hair and a sneer stepped forward. Rank 23. Earth magic specialist from House Delvine.
"The famous Arclight," Marcus said loud enough for everyone to hear. "Let's see if you're worth the fear."
They entered the arena. The crowd pressed closer to watch.
"Commence!"
Marcus's grimoire flared open—pages glowing molten orange. He slammed his palm against the ground.
"From the depths where stone remembers—EARTHEN SPEAR GARDEN!"
The arena floor exploded.
Dozens of stone spikes erupted in a deadly pattern—tall as a man, thick as tree trunks, blunt and brutal. They rose unpredictably but with perfect precision, forming a forest of stone blades that filled the entire arena. The ground cracked.
Aerin's eyes went wide. Move—I need to move
He jumped left. A spike erupted where he'd been standing. Rolled right. Another spike missed his head by inches.
One spike erupted directly beneath him.
CRACK.
The blunt stone slammed into his stomach . Blood sprayed from Aerin's mouth— metallic, bitter. The impact launched him into the air, his body was spinning like a broken doll thrown in te air.
The world tilted. Sky became ground and ground became sky.
He crashed down hard. His back hit stone. Air exploded from his lungs. For a moment he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only taste copper[blood] and pain.
Get up. GET UP. MOVE— Aerin shouts at himself.
The ground beneath him rumbled.
Aerin's eyes snapped open. Threw himself sideways—
But it was too slow.
Another spike erupted right beneath him. The stone caught his shoulder joint with a POP. His arm dislocated. Pain Red-hot and numbing shot through his entire left side.
Aerin hit the ground again, shoulder screaming, unable to breathe properly. Black spots in his vision.
The crowd was roaring. A wave of sound that crashed over him.
Marcus stood in the center of his spike forest, smiling. Confident. Already victorious.
"What, giving up already—BEGGAR?"
Aerin tried to speak. His voice came out as a whisper. "No... not yet."
He bit down on his right thumb. Hard. Teeth breaking skin. Blood welled up—metallic and warm.
He pressed his bloodied fingers against the ground.
Threads of blood seeped from his thumb into the earth—thin crimson lines spreading through the cracks between stones, invisible to everyone watching. A new spell!
"Blood that seeks and finds—CRIMSON TRAIL."
Suddenly Aerin could feel it. Everything happening underground. Every piece of gravel. Every grain of sand. Every shift in the earth. The hollow spaces where Marcus's magic gathered before erupting—like feeling someone's pulse through their skin.
Marcus didn't understand what he was doing. He thrust both hands down, grinning. "EARTHEN SPEAR GARDEN!"
More spikes rose—dozens of them, erupting in a wave meant to overwhelm.
But this time Aerin felt them coming.
Felt the earth shift beneath him a full second before the spike erupted. Rolled left—the spike burst through empty space. Another spike—he felt the magic gathering, dodged right. A third—jumped backward, the stone missing his feet by a hair.
Marcus's confident smile faltered. "What-how are you-"
Aerin made a sharp gesture with his bloodied hand.
The blood threads underground responded. They shot upward through the hollow cores of every stone spike in the arena, vibrating the pillars at their resonant frequency—the exact frequency that would shatter stone.
Crack.
CRACK CRACK CRACK CRACK-
Every spike in the arena shattered simultaneously. Tons of stone exploding into dust and fragments. The entire arena floor disappeared into a massive cloud of debris that rose twenty feet high, blocking all sight.
The crowd gasped. Shouts of confusion. No one could see what was happening.
Marcus stumbled backward through the dust cloud, coughing, arms up to protect his face. "What did you-impossible, you can't-"
A shadow moved through the dust.
Aerin charged. Silent. Fast. His dislocated shoulder screaming with every movement but he ignored it. Pain could wait.
Marcus raised his hands desperately. "**From the depths where—**"
"Blood that binds and bleeds—CRIMSON THREADS!"
Crimson wires shot from Aerin's fingers like striking snakes. They wrapped around Marcus's wrists—tight, cutting off circulation. Around his throat—not choking, Around his torso, his arms, his legs.
The threads tightened. Marcus's spell died in his mouth, words choked off, magic cut short.
Aerin didn't stop moving. He used the threads like grappling hooks—pulled himself forward with brutal efficiency. Jumped off a fragment of broken spike. Used the momentum. Flew through the air straight at Marcus.
Time seemed to slow.
Aerin's foot connected with Marcus's face.
CRACK.
The impact echoed across the arena. Marcus's teeth snapped and fell out . His body lifted off the ground from the force. His grimoire flew from his hands and skidded across broken stone.
Marcus crashed down hard.Lay still for a moment.
The dust began to settle.
Aerin landed. Came up smoothly with a blade of hardened blood—crystallized, sharp as steel—pressed against Marcus's throat.
"Yield."
Marcus's face flushed red—pain, humiliation, rage, disbelief all at once. Blood ran from his nose. His words came out broken. "You-you can't-"
Aerin pressed the blade closer. Just enough to draw a thin line of blood across Marcus's throat. "Wait!."
"I... I yield!" Marcus's voice cracked. "I yield!"
The crowd erupted. Not cheering—shocked muttering, gasps, disbelieving whispers.
"Did you see that?"
"He destroyed every spike at once—"
"How did he know where they'd come from?"
"Those threads—what kind of magic—"
Aerin stepped back. Let the blood blade dissolve into droplets that fell like rain. He was breathing hard—harsh, ragged breaths. His dislocated shoulder screamed. Blood still trickled from his mouth. But he was standing.
He'd won.
"Winner: Aerin Arclight," Veld announced. His voice was carefully neutral, but something flickered in his eyes. Interest. "Healers, attend to both fighters. Next match in five minutes."
A healer rushed over—a girl with kind eyes and gentle hands. Lyssa. She knelt beside Aerin, placed her glowing hands on his shoulder.
Warm light spread through the joint. It popped back into place with a sickening click, then the pain faded to a dull ache.
"Thank you," Aerin managed.
"You should rest before—"
"Next match," Veld's voice cut through the arena like a blade. "Aerin Arclight versus Prince Theron Valdris."
The crowd roared. A wave of sound that shook the air.
Aerin's blood went cold. He looked up at the bracket board with dawning horror.
Prince Theron Valdris - Rank 2.
Kael appeared at his side, grabbed his arm hard. "Forfeit. Right now. You're injured, exhausted, and he's ranked second in the entire academy—"
"I know."
"No, you don't know!" Kael's voice was desperate. "Theron doesn't fight to win. He fights to destroy people. To humiliate them. To prove he's better. If you go out there like this, he'll—"
"I know." Aerin pulled free gently. His body felt like lead. One fight had drained him more than he'd expected. His grimoire felt heavy. His arms trembled.
But forfeiting meant admitting he didn't belong here.
He walked back into the arena.
---
From the opposite side, Prince Theron entered.
The crowd's roar intensified. Chanting his name.
Tall. Lean but powerfully built. Perfect golden hair pulled back in a short tail that caught the light. His uniform was immaculate—pressed sharp enough to cut, the royal crest embroidered on his shoulder in actual gold thread that glinted. He moved like water, like wind, like someone who'd never been told no in his entire life.
Lightning crackled between his fingers—not wild, but controlled. Precise. Deliberate. yellow-white energy dancing from knuckle to knuckle.
"The Arclight heir." Theron's voice carried across the arena like a proclamation. Trained since birth to command armies. "I've heard so much about you. The beggar with the cursed sword." He smiled—beautiful, cold, steel wrapped in silk. "Let's see if you're worth the legends they whisper."
Aerin said nothing. His mind was already working. Calculating distances. Angles. Looking for any weakness, any opening, any chance.
There was none.
"Commence!"
Theron's grimoire flared with brilliant blue light—like holding a piece of the sky. He murmured—almost too quiet to hear, but his voice still carried the weight of absolute authority:
"Storm's mercy, heaven's wrath—LIGHTNING CLOAK!"
Lightning erupted across his entire body in an instant. [Not attacking-coating.]A second skin of pure crackling energy that made his hair stand on end and his eyes glow white-blue. The air around him hummed with barely restrained power. The ground beneath his feet vibrated slightly as he prepared to launch.
He vanished.
Not teleported. Just moved too fast to see.
Aerin's eyes went wide—
BOOM.
A fist wrapped in lightning slammed into Aerin's stomach.
The world exploded. Sound disappeared. Air left his lungs in a violent rush. His feet left the ground. Time stretched-for one horrible moment he was weightless, suspended-
Then he flew backward like he'd been hit by a Truck.
Aerin crashed into the arena wall so hard the stone cracked. Spider-web like fractures spread from the impact point. He dropped to his knees.
Pain. Everywhere. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could only taste blood.
Move. MOVE. He's coming— Aerin thought to himself.
Lightning crackled.
Theron appeared directly in front of him.
Then came the onslaught.
Punch.
CRACK. Ribs cracked.
Punch to the Jaw
Kick.
Elbow.
The world spun for aerin Blood flew everywhere.
Each blow faster than Aerin could track. Each one wrapped in crackling lightning that burned and shocked simultaneously—cooking flesh and overloading nerves at the same time.
Aerin threw up his guard desperately. Blocked—
His arms went instantly numb. Electric shock coursed through them—muscles seizing, locking up, refusing to obey. His hands trembled violently, then gave up completely. Dropped.
A lightning-wrapped kick caught his ribs on the already-broken side.
Pain exploded through his chest—sharp, stealing what little breath he had left.
Aerin tried to create distance. Gasped out: "
Blood that binds—CRIMSON THREADS!"
The crimson wires shot toward Theron.
They evaporated the instant they touched his
Lightning Cloak. Turned to steam.
Theron laughed-genuine, delighted, having the time of his life.
"Is that all? Come on, Arclight! You beat Marcus in under two minutes!" Another punch—Aerin's head snapped back. "Surely you have more than this!" A knee to the stomach—Aerin doubled over, vomiting blood.
Theron grabbed him by the hair. Yanked his head back to make him watch.
Lightning concentrated in Theron's free fist. The energy grew denser, brighter, compressing until it turned from yellow to darker. The air around it screamed with electricity crackle.
"Let me end your suffering," Theron said almost gently. Like he was being kind. "This is mercy."
Aerin spat blood. His vision was blurring—edges going dark. Everything hurt. Ribs broken. Jaw probably fractured. Couldn't feel his arms. Couldn't breathe right.
But somewhere deep inside, beneath the pain and exhaustion and fear, something burned.
Something that refused to die.
"Mercy?" Aerin's voice came out rough, broken, He looked up. Met Theron's eyes with his own. "You don't know what that word means, Your Highness."
Theron's smile froze.
"You've never suffered a day in your perfect life," Aerin continued. Words coming faster now, fueled by something dark and desperate. "Never gone hungry. Never been alone. Never had to fight just to exist. You call this mercy? You don't even know what real fighting looks like."
The crowd had gone silent. Watching.
"You want to see desperation?" Aerin pressed his thumb against his grimoire. Blood welled up. "I'll show you what it looks like when you have nothing left to lose."
"Sangreal!"
The cursed sword manifested in his hand. Reality seemed to ripple around it. Black blade darker than shadow.
Thump-thump.
The heartbeat echoed across the arena. Deep. Primal. Ancient.
The crowd fell completely silent. Even Theron stopped moving.
Aerin raised Sangreal. Drew the edge across his left forearm in one smooth motion. A long, deep cut. Blood welled up immediately—dark red, almost black, too much blood.
He squeezed his arm over the blade. Let the blood flow. Let it pour.
Sangreal drank.
Hungrily. Desperately. Like something starving finally fed.
The crimson veins on the blade pulsed once—
Then erupted.
They shot from the hilt like lightning in reverse—racing up Aerin's arm, spreading across his shoulder, his chest, his neck. Burning. Searing. Agony and power mixed together until he couldn't tell them apart.
His heartbeat synchronized with the sword's pulse.
THUMP-THUMP.
Power flooded through him like water broke free through a dam.
His exhaustion vanished—burned away in an instant. Pain dulled to a distant ache he could ignore. Broken ribs didn't matter. Fractured jaw didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the clarity.
Everything became sharper. Clearer. Slower.
The world slowed down just enough that he could finally see it—every movement, every shift in weight, every attack, every breath, every heartbeat.
Aerin looked up. His right eye had turned completely blood-red. Veins of crimson traced across his temple, down his neck. The crimson lines on his arm pulsed with his heartbeat—visible, hungry.
Theron's smile widened into something feral. His eyes lit up with genuine excitement.
"INTERESTING."
He struck.
A lightning-fast punch that would have shattered every bone in Aerin's face.
But this time—
Aerin saw him coming.
Saw the micro-shifts in Theron's stance. Saw his weight transfer. Saw the punch coming a full half-second before it arrived.
He dodged ,Like he'd done it a thousand times.
Theron's fist passed inches from his face—so close Aerin felt the heat, felt the electricity make his hair stand up.
But it didn't touch him.
Aerin twisted. Swung Sangreal upward in a vicious arc.
Theron's eyes widened. He threw up his lightning-wrapped forearm to block—
CLANG.
The clash sent sparks flying. Black metal meeting crackling energy. The impact created a shockwave that rippled across the arena floor-dust exploding outward in a perfect circle,.
They held there for a heartbeat. Blade against lightning.
Then they separated. Jumped back simultaneously. Landed in perfect mirror stances.
Circled each other slowly.
The crowd was going insane. Screaming.This was the kind of fight people would talk about for years.
Then they moved.
Fast.
Theron attacked with a flurry—fists, kicks, elbows, knees. Each blow faster than the eye could follow. Each one wreathed in lightning that left afterimages in the air. A storm of violence.
But Aerin met them. Every single one.
Blocked each punch with Sangreal's flat—the blade absorbing the electric shock. Dodged the kicks by a hair's breadth.
For the first time in the entire fight, they were equal.
Back and forth across the arena. Attack and counter. Neither giving ground.
The crowd couldn't even scream anymore. They could only watch in stunned silence.
Theron threw a right straight-, powerful, meant to Crush.
Aerin saw it coming. Sidestepped left. Twisted his torso. Built momentum. Swung.
SLASH.
Sangreal's edge caught Theron's back. Not deep—the Lightning Cloak protected him. But enough to draw blood. A clean red line across his perfect uniform.
First blood.
Theron stumbled forward. Caught himself. Stopped moving.
Turned around slowly.
His eyes were wide. Not with pain. With excitement. Like he'd just found something he'd been searching for his entire life-A worthy rival.
Blood ran down his back. He touched it. Looked at his red fingers. Started laughing.
"You... you actually cut me." His voice was breathless with wonder. "No one's drawn my blood in days."
He dropped into a squat. His body began to vibrate—muscles tensing, power building. Lightning intensified around him until it was almost blinding. Lightning crackling so violently the air itself began to tear.
The temperature in the arena spiked. People in the front row backed away, shielding their faces.
Theron let out a laugh—wild, manic, alive.
"INTERESTING! FINALLY! FINALLY SOMEONE INTERESTING!"
He jumped up.
Using lightning as propulsion—pure energy blasting from his feet. He launched himself twenty feet into the air. Higher than any human could jump. Higher than should be possible.
At the apex of his jump, he flipped. Pulled both fists back. Lightning gathered around them—more and more and more, compressing, condensing, building until both fists were wrapped in spheres of energy .
"THUNDER GOD'S DESCENT -MJÖLNIR'S FALL!"
He came down.
Like a meteor. Like a falling star. Like divine judgment made of flesh.
Both fists pointed at Aerin. The air around him screamed—a sound like tearing metal and breaking thunder mixed together.
Aerin looked up at the descending apocalypse. Felt Sangreal pulse in his hands.
We might die.
Thump-thump. The sword answered. Then we die fighting. Aerin wispered to himself
Aerin crossed Sangreal in front of him horizontally. Braced his legs. Lowered his center of gravity. Fed more blood to the sword—felt the crimson veins drink deeper, pull harder.
The world went white.
BOOOOM!
The impact was catastrophic.
The arena floor didn't just crack—it exploded. A crater fifteen feet wide formed instantly beneath them. The shockwave expanded outward in a perfect circle—shattering every window in the arena, sending students in the front three rows tumbling backward, cracking the walls.
For one impossible moment, Aerin held- His sword pressed against Theron's Fists.
Sangreal drank in some of the lightning—absorbed it. His arms trembled but didn't break. His legs held.
Then the secondary shockwave hit.
BOOM.
Both of them were thrown backward like ragdolls.
Aerin hit the ground hard.Skidded across broken stone for twenty feet. Finally stopped.
Theron landed on his feet somehow. Slid back. Caught himself. Stopped.
They both stood. Both breathing hard.
The crowd was on their feet. Chanting both their names.
But then Aerin felt it.
The drain.
His heart began beating erratically—too fast, then too slow, Breath coming uneven—gasping, choking. Sangreal was drinking too much blood now-the crimson veins pulling continuously, desperately, endlessly.
His vision blurred at the edges. The red tint faded slightly. His legs trembled. The power was leaving. Bleeding out of him like water through a cracked cup.
No. Not yet. Just a little more..
His legs gave out. He dropped to one knee.
Theron saw it. Saw him struggling. Saw the exact moment the power failed.
The prince straightened slowly. Smiled. It wasn't cruel—just satisfied. Like watching an experiment conclude as predicted.
He raised one hand. Lightning gathered in his palm—pure, condensed, refined into a single shape. An arrow of crackling energy two feet long, so bright it hurt to look at directly.
"This is my strongest spell," Theron said. His voice carried across the silent arena. Every word clear. "The one I've been saving for someone worthy. Consider yourself honored, Aerin Arclight."
He drew the lightning arrow back like a bow. Energy crackled. The air bent.
"ZEUS'S JUDGMENT—DIVINE ARROW!"
He released and the arrow flew.
It wasn't fast. It was instant. One moment in Theron's hand—the next moment already halfway across the arena. It left a trail of destruction behind. The sound came after—a crack of thunder so loud it physically hurt, literally.
Aerin saw it coming through his fading vision.
He grasped Sangreal with both hands. Every muscle screaming. Raised the blade with the last of his strength. The crimson veins on his arms thickened-pulling even more blood, burning through his life force like paper in a fire, taking everything he had left and more.
His vision was going dark. Heart stuttering. But his hands didn't shake.
The arrow came close.
Aerin swung downward with every ounce of strength remaining in his body.
Sangreal's edge met the lightning arrow at the perfect angle.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. The arrow pushed. The blade held. They were frozen—energy and metal, magic and curse, battling in the space of a single moment.
Then-
CRACK.
The arrow split.
Down the middle. Perfectly bisected.
Both halves flew past Aerin on either side—missing him by inches—and slammed into the arena walls behind him.
BOOM. BOOM.
Twin explosions. Stone vaporized. Smoke and dust filled the air.
The crowd's roar died in their throats.
Aerin stood there, Sangreal raised, both halves of Theron's strongest spell destroyed behind him.
For one perfect moment, he looked invincible.
Then the crimson veins faded completely.
Power drained away. Blood stopped flowing. The connection severed.
Aerin dropped Sangreal. The sword clattered on stone.
He collapsed. Knees hit first, then hands, then his whole body.
Blood pooled beneath him—too much blood. He'd given too much.
His breath rattled. Heart beating irregularly. Vision fading to black at the edges, then spreading inward.
Theron walked over slowly. No rush. The fight was over.
He stopped beside Aerin. Looked down at him with something like respect. Then reached down. Grabbed a fistful of Aerin's hair. Yanked his head back roughly to look at him.
"You split my strongest spell," Theron said quietly. "No one's ever done that before."
Crack.
His lightning-wrapped fist hit Aerin's face.
Crack.
Again.
Crack.
Again.
Aerin's head snapped back with each impact. Blood flew. His vision went completely white.
Examiner Veld appeared. Caught Theron's wrist mid-swing. "Enough.This match is over."
Theron let go. Aerin collapsed face-first onto the stone.
"Winner: Prince Theron Valdris."
The crowd erupted. Screaming. Chanting Theron's name. Celebrating.
But Aerin couldn't hear it anymore. Couldn't hear anything except the ringing in his ears and his own stuttering heartbeat.
I lost.
Not just lost. Destroyed.
He'd used Sangreal. Used that power. Given everything he had.
And it still wasn't enough.
Healers rushed over. He felt their magic wash over him but couldn't focus on it. Couldn't focus on anything except the taste of blood and defeat.
Somewhere in the crowd, someone said: "What a waste. He shouldn't even be here."
Another voice: "His family's cursed. He'll go mad just like his ancestor."
Laughter.
Kael's voice cut through it—raw, furious: "SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU, SHUT UP!"
But Aerin couldn't focus on that either. All he could hear was Theron's voice echoing in his head:
Consider yourself honored.
Like defeating him was a gift.
Like he should be grateful for the beating.
Darkness took him.
---
Aerin woke in the infirmary hours later.
White walls. Clean sheets. Sunlight through the window making everything too bright.
Kael sat beside his bed. His eyes were red and swollen. He'd been crying.
"Hey," Kael said quietly. His voice was rough. "You're awake."
Aerin's throat was dry. Speaking hurt. "How long?"
"Four hours. You lost a lot of blood. The healers said..." Kael's voice cracked. "They said another minute and you might've died."
Silence.
"The ranking?" Aerin finally asked.
Kael looked away. Couldn't meet his eyes. "Thirty-seventh. Out of forty."
Near the bottom. One more loss and they'd kick him down to A-Class.
"After you passed out..." Kael's hands clenched into fists. "People were saying things. Terrible things. That you were cursed. That you'd go mad like Valefor. That you shouldn't be allowed to stay."
"Maybe they're right."
"No." Kael's voice was fierce. He grabbed Aerin's shoulder—not hard, but firm. "They're not. You hear me? They're not right."
"Kael—"
"I don't care about your family name. I don't care about that sword. I don't care about any of it." Kael's eyes were blazing. "You're my friend. You're a good person. And screw anyone who says different."
Something tight in Aerin's chest loosened.
"You barely know me," Aerin said quietly.
"I know enough." Kael's voice softened. "I know you held back in Master Thorne's lesson so you wouldn't seriously hurt people. I know you helped that girl who was down instead of finishing her. I know you tried to fight Theron even though you were exhausted and injured because you refused to quit."
He leaned forward. "That's the person I know. And that person is worth being friends with."
Aerin felt something burn behind his eyes. Blinked hard. Couldn't stop it.
A tear ran down his face.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"Don't mention it. That's what friends do." Kael stood up, wiping his own eyes quickly. "Rest. I'll bring food later. And tomorrow..." His jaw set with determination. "Tomorrow we start training. Real training. Because next time you face Theron, you're going to be so much stronger he won't know what hit him."
Kael left before Aerin could respond.
Aerin lay in the quiet. Let the tears come. Not from pain.
From gratitude.
He'd never had a friend like this. Someone who saw him at his absolute worst and stayed anyway.
It felt like something worth protecting.
Worth fighting for.
Worth living for.
---
That night, long after visiting hours ended, someone entered the infirmary.
Soft footsteps. Barely audible.
Aerin was half-asleep. Opened his eyes.
Seren stood beside his bed. Silver hair catching moonlight through the window. Her usual mask was in place, but something in her eyes was different. Softer.
She didn't speak. Just set things on the bedside table. Medical supplies. Bandages. An expensive healing potion—the kind nobles used, worth more than a month's meals.
"You didn't have to come," Aerin said quietly.
"I didn't come for you. I was just... passing by." Her voice was carefully neutral.
"The infirmary is on the opposite side of campus from Crown Dorms."
Her jaw tightened slightly. "Go back to sleep, Arclight."
"Why do you care?"
Seren was quiet for a long time. Moonlight painted her silver. Finally: "I watched your fight. Against Theron."
"Then you saw me lose."
"I saw you get back up. Three times. Most people stay down after the first hit from someone like him." She turned toward the door. "That technique—giving blood to your weapon—it was reckless. Dangerous. You almost killed yourself."
"It still wasn't enough."
"It was a start." She paused at the doorway. Didn't look back. "Rest. You'll need your strength."
"For what?"
"For getting stronger. For proving them wrong about you." Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. "For not becoming what they expect you to become."
She walked away. Her footsteps faded.
Aerin looked at what she'd left. The expensive healing potion. The fresh bandages.
And beneath them, partially hidden—a cloth napkin with silver thread embroidered in the corner.
A crescent moon.
He picked it up carefully. Held it in the moonlight.
She'd said she didn't care.
But she'd come anyway.
In the dark, alone, Aerin let himself hope.
Maybe he wasn't as alone as he thought.
---
In a small office across campus, Lyssa sat at her desk and wrote a report by candlelight.
Her gentle face was troubled. Conflicted.
Subject: Aerin Arclight
Observations: Blood exhibits extreme unusual properties. During healing, subject's blood actively resisted absorption of healing magic—attempted to convert and absorb it instead. Consistent with historical Arclight bloodline records.
Combat Analysis: Subject demonstrated bonding with legendary artifact "Sangreal." Power manifestation observed—significant enhancement to physical capabilities. Crimson vein patterns suggest deep symbiosis forming.
Threat Assessment: Subject defeated Rank 23 student decisively despite injuries. Held own against Rank 2 student for extended period. Split Prince Theron's strongest known spell. Growth rate abnormal.
Psychological Profile: Shows mercy to defeated opponents. Loyal to allies. Refuses to quit despite overwhelming odds. Strong moral compass—may resist corruption longer than ancestor.
Recommendation: Accelerate timeline. Subject becoming stronger rapidly. Window for intervention closing.
Concern Level: CRITICAL
Personal Note: Subject thanked me after healing. Showed genuine kindness. Friend (Kael Verin) demonstrated fierce loyalty—cried for subject's wellbeing. Another student (Seren Moonveil) visited secretly after hours with medical supplies.
Subject is forming bonds. This complicates matters.
She stopped writing. Stared at those last words.
This complicates matters.
That was the problem, wasn't it? It was easier when targets were just names. Just threats to eliminate. Just necessary sacrifices for the greater good.
But Aerin had looked at her with genuine gratitude when she'd healed him. Had said thank you like he meant it. Like he saw her as a person, not just a healer.
Kael had cried. Actually *cried* for his
Some lives must end so the world can live, Lyssa reminded herself. The mantra she'd been taught since childhood.
But as she sealed the report and addressed it—not to the academy, but to them, to the Ashen Hand—her hands trembled slightly.
She sent it with the night messenger and tried not to think about Aerin's smile when he'd thanked her.
Some things were easier if you didn't think about them at all.
---
In the Headmaster's tower, Arvell stood by his window and watched three separate figures moving through the darkness.
Kael, leaving the infirmary, wiping his eyes.
Seren, slipping back toward the Crown Dorms, something small clutched in her hand.
And a messenger, leaving through the academy's back gate with a sealed letter.
Arvell's ancient eyes followed the messenger until he disappeared into the night.
"So it begins," he murmured. "The Ashen Hand moves faster than I anticipated."
He turned back to his desk. Pulled out a drawer. Inside lay old letters, old promises, old debts.
And a single black feather—the calling card of an organization that hadn't been active in seventy years. Not since they'd helped hunt down the Crimson Emperor.
The Black Swan Society.
Arvell picked up the feather carefully. "Old friends," he said to the empty room. "I'm calling in our debt. The game has begun again, and this time I won't let history repeat itself."
He began writing letters. Urgent ones. To people who owed him favors from decades past. To allies scattered across the continent. To those who remembered the truth about Valefor's war.
Because war was coming. The same forces that had pushed Valefor to desperate measures were moving again.
And this time, two young people from enemy bloodlines were caught in the center of it all.
"Choose wisely, young Arclight," Arvell whispered, sealing the first letter. "The world will not forgive a second Crimson Emperor. But perhaps..."
He looked out at the moon—full and bright and watching.
"Perhaps it doesn't need to fear one either. Not if you find what your ancestor could not. Not if you succeed where he failed."
The letters were sent by dawn.
The pieces were moving.
The board was set.
And Aerin Arclight—exhausted, broken, ranked thirty-seventh out of forty—had just become the most important player in a game he didn't even know was being played.
A game where the stakes weren't just his life.
But the fate of magic itself.