Beneath the dome, the air rippled with heat and tension. The obsidian floor bore its history in scars, fissures, burn marks, and blood ground into the stone. Every duel here left ghosts behind. Cadets lined the arena, their bodies tense as they moved through their combat formations.
Above, two shadows wheeled through the haze. One burned crimson, a comet of ancient wings, Kaeroth. The other was sleek and vast, a storm forged into being, Vornokh. Their presence alone bent the wind. But it was the field below that held every gaze, every trembling breath.
Thaelyn’s body screamed. Every muscle burned from drills that had stretched through the dawn and bled into morning. Sweat soaked through her leathers; her pulse thundered in her ears. Across from her, Darian adjusted his stance, firelight sparking from the edges of his palms.
“Again,” Commander Dareth barked from the balcony above, his voice carrying over the roar of distant dragons.
Thaelyn forced herself upright, twin wooden blades trembling in her hands.
“Come on, Thaelyn,” Darian said under his breath. “You’re fading and need to take a break.”
“I’m not done.” Her throat felt raw.
Darian grimaced. “You don’t have to prove?—”
“Ido.”
She lunged before he could finish, blades striking with all the ferocity her exhaustion could muster. Darian deflected, twisting out of her reach. Heat flared from his hand, grazing her arm. The sting barely registered through the ache spreading down her side.
When he knocked her flat with a sweep of his foot, the impact tore a gasp from her lungs.
“Enough,” Professor Velnari called.
Thaelyn rose on shaking legs. She hated the pity in Darian’s eyes almost as much as she hated her own weakness.
Commander Dareth’s voice cut through the haze. “Switch partners. Thorne, you take Thaelyn.”
Thaelyn rose from the ground slowly, trembling, blood dripping from the split in her lip and running like a red thread down her chin. Her side throbbed with each inhale, bruises blooming beneath her leathers as ink spilled over parchment. She looked not like a warrior, but something worse, a girl made of fury and refusal, of splintered breath and unyielding will.
Thaelyn spat blood into the dirt. She wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Her ribs throbbed with every breath, but something sharper burned behind her eyes. She raised her wooden blades, both trembling slightly in her grip, and planted her boots on the stone. She didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. Then she lunged. Her hand trembled as she lifted her blades. Her body screamed to rest, to fold, to crawl away from the pain. But something sharper than pain burned behind her eyes.
Thorne met her with infuriating calm. Pivot. Twist. A sweep ofhis leg. The world tilted. She hit the ground with a bone-deep thud. Air fled her lungs. Pain laced her ribs like wire. In one fluid motion, he stepped aside, turned with a twist of his hip, and swept her legs out from beneath her. She hit the ground hard, breath punched from her lungs. A fresh flare of pain ripped through her side.
Thorne’s voice followed, a blade of ice. “You lunge without breath. You burn energy without purpose. Do better.” His eyes were unreadable, a mask he wore like armor. He held the wooden practice blade with maddening ease, like it was nothing more than an extension of his breath. “Again,” he barked.
A growl rose in her throat as she forced herself upright. “Stop treating me like some disobedient dog, ”
He stepped forward, shadow cutting across her. “Then fight like someone worth training.”
She roared and charged, wild now, all anger and raw defiance. Her blades struck the air like thunderclaps, unrefined and blazing. Thorne danced around her, refusing to be caught. Then, with chilling precision, he twisted, ducked, and swept.
“Again,” he said simply.
She exhaled through her teeth. “You’ve made your point.”
He didn’t move. “You haven’t.”
Thaelyn struck with fury; Thorne met her with precision. Each blow reverberated through her bones. He moved as if the air bent for him, silent, fluid, inevitable. Her every strike found the edge of his control and died there.
“Too heavy,” he said, blocking her next blow. “You’re chasing power instead of balance.”
She tried. Gods, she tried. Her body was unraveling faster than her will could hold it together. He disarmed her once, twice, each time letting her pick her weapon back up. The pity in that gesture felt worse than pain.
When she came at him again, desperate and reckless, he turned sharply, too sharply. His elbow connected with her ribs. The sound it made wasn’t loud. The pain that followed was. A white-hot bolt tore through her side. She dropped to one knee, the world spinning. Her breath came shallow, ragged.
“Damn, my rib, ” She swung up, striking his chest with the hilt of her blade. “Don’tyoustop!”
His eyes darkened. “You can’t even stand?—”
