The ancient marble columns lining the Academy's western hall groaned under the force of magic and steel. Dust plumed into the air with every thunderous blow, and the masses of novice mages blurred beneath the frenetic dance of two brothers locked in mortal combat.
Erevan light on his feet and cautious, breathing hard despite the chill of the evening wind that seeped through broken windows. Across from him, Arthur Drakhoras—tall, imperious, and armed with a long sword, silver and crackling with light violet Aether—smirked with cold assurance.
"Still think yourself worthy?" Arthur taunted, eyes glinting. He lunged, the blade singing as it cleaved through stone-carved column. Sparks erupted where it bit into stone. Erevan met the strike with his own steel, one handed sword, grayed blade that didn't have a shine but sharp nonetheless. The clash resonated like thunder in a storm.
They traded blows, each measured spark illuminating Arthur's twisted satisfaction and Erevan's grim determination. Erevan's style was raw power: broad, sweeping arcs that chipped the floor. Arthur's strikes were precise jabs of magic: each blow aimed to cleaved and end. Students fled in the distance, their panic, stricken faces ghostlike behind shattered glass.
Gouges cut through pillars. Ruined benches littered the floor. When Arthur unleashed a triple slice of Aether, two deflected, one grazing Erevan, he roars in pain, clutching his left arm, crimson blossoming through his dark leather gloves. Yet he charged forward, fury eclipsing pain. The light of the Hall flickered as if the Academy itself gasped.
Their clash spilled onto a grand spiral staircase. Each step bore deep grooves from their relentless combat. Erevan's breathing came in ragged bursts. Arthur led by a half-step, eyes alight with triumph.
"Daerik," Arthur shouted as he mocked the name Erevan once bore. "You'll never escape the overwhelmingpower of my blade."
Erevan steadied himself, every muscle coiled.
Arthur laughed, a cold, metallic sound. He summoned a volley of Aether slashes, the air cracking like whipcord. Erevan's sword found each in mid-flight, fracturing the magical blades into motes of violet light. Still, the one of his slash tore a ragged cut across his side. Metal rang on metal as he spun, returning blow for blow, until their blades locked. Their eyes met: brother against brother, steel against steel, motive against motive.
The final slash cleaved through the railing. Splinters shattered across the stairwell. Arthur's victory grin faded as the ground gave way beneath them and they tumbled free.
They landed atop the eastern roof under an orange sky. Jagged tiles crunched beneath their boots. The Academy's spires loomed, silent witnesses. Below, the boarding halls glimmered with emergency ward lights, and clusters of students pressed against windows and balconies, transfixed.
Erevan rose first, out of breath. Streaks of blood stained his white shirt. He drew his blade with practiced calm. Arthur stared down at him from a fair distance, hair falling like a golden waterfall, aura flaring ever more violet.
"You lost the ground," Arthur observed. "You'll lose the fight."
He summoned Aether in both hands, weaving rippling arcs of crackling magic around his sword. Erevan gripped his sword, crouched, ready.
With a roar, Arthur struck the roof's surface. Three Aether slashes erupted in quick succession. Erevan blocked the first two, sparks flickering across his blade. The third struck true—deep in his left arm again, numbness blooming. He stumbled but refused to fall his will firm, he launched himself forward through the storm of magic slashes.
They stood within arm's reach. The wind carried the distant bells of the Academy's wards. Erevan's blade dripped red in his blood. Without sight Arthur's chest plate bore a fresh nick. Neither spoke for a heartbeat, as though the world paused to watch.
Students gathered on lower roofs and balconies, their panic-stricken faces lit by the emergency lanterns. Shouts echoed through the corridors beyond; professors and wards patrol raced upward.
Erevan studied Arthur's stance: feet wide, shoulders squared, aura flaring with raw Aether. But he saw a flicker of uncertainty beneath the arrogance. Arthur's breath came too fast—just enough for Erevan to sense a weakness.
Arthur snarled, breaking the pause. "You never deserved the family name. Mage Slayer... what a joke. You're nothing but a murderer in hiding."
Erevan's jaw clenched. "I did what was necessary."
Arthur's hand crackled with violet energy. He lunged.
Arthur's assault was a maelstrom: a dozen rapid Aether-infused cuts that raked across the roof. Erevan parried desperately, sparks painting ghostly trails. A sweeping slash caught Erevan on the shoulder, shaking the pain he pushes forward managed to twist free.
Arthur pressed on, relentless. Erevan's block faltered under the barrage. Panic rose in him, Arthur was suddenly stronger? The shift in aura, Arthur's aether was now fueled by willpower, but darker and more desperate.
Erevan's sword hand trembled. He found an opening, but Arthur stepped backward, eyes blazing, aura pulsing like a heartbeat in stone. When Erevan overextended, Arthur's sword flicked low, nearly cutting through his leg, he dodges but this sends him crashing on one knee.
Before Erevan could recover, Arthur drew back his blade for the killing strike-
Erevan lashed out, his blade spun free from his hand, hurling the blade-first at Arthur's face. In the split second the sword arced, Arthur's strike cleaved passed Erevan and hit the roof tile behind him. The sword caught Arthur's side and the blow forced him to drop his guard, eyes widening in shock.
Seizing the moment, Erevan's boot slammed into Arthur's jaw. The force sent him sprawling away, sliding across the tiled roof until he skidded to a stop. He rolled, muscles tensing, then froze as Erevan landed lightly before him, blade leveled at his chest.
With an upward slash, blood was drawn. Arthur stared at the cut, dawn of confusion wrestling with rage. Erevan did not move. Even the wind held its breath.
Arthur exploded back to life. His Aether flared brighter than ever. "You think this ends here?" he barked, summoning swirling arcs of violet slashes.
Erevan bounced backwards and stood still. His chest rose and fell slowly. Then, with a soft hum, segmented plates of silvery metal erupted from the tiles around him. One by one they snapped into place and forming shielding plates forged of metal.
Arthur's slashes struck the metal plating—each blow ringing like a hammer on anvil, but failing to penetrate. Sparks flew, the violent light reflecting in his eyes. He pushed with all his might; the plates creaked but held firm.
"Pathetic," Arthur sneered. With a shout, he extended his Aether outward. A pulse of violent energy hammered against the rooftop. Erevan stepped back as he observed, and the plates flexed, absorbing the shock.
In the confusion, a crackling volley of enchanted bullets spat from the eastern roof entrance. They hummed with rapid-fire Aether magic, a hail of precision focused force. Each bullet struck the metal plates, ping, ping, ping—bouncing off in blazing showers of sparks.
Arthur whirled, eyes darting. "What the... ?"
He raised his sword defensively; bullets ricocheted from blade to blade as he deflected them across the rooftop.
From behind Arthur's line of sight, the metal plates lifted into the air, rotating and combining into a massive gauntlet hovering midair. The steel fist clenched slowly, glowing royal blue along its surface.
Arthur slashed upward, dispersing the gauntlet's fingertips—yet, for a moment, the armor's palm loomed over him, a silent promise of crushing force. Arthur leapt back, adrenaline propelling him clear, landing in a crouch as the metallic hand fell to the tiles with an roof shaking as a section of it caves in.
Before Arthur could recover, a sharp report cracked from behind. A fierce figure emerged from the dust, Noir, magic rifle resting casually on his shoulder. His dark hair catching and reflecting the orange sunshine as he approached with a revolver to Arthur's head, barrel glowing with a blue hue.
Arthur froze, heart pounding. The magic revolver's cylinder clicked. Its barrel tracked him with unerring aim.
Noir's voice was cold amusement. "You move fast," he said, eyes narrowed in a smile that didn't touch his tone.
Arthur's sword lowered a fraction. "Noir," he spat.
Erevan lowered his blade as he fell to his knees. Metal plates shifted, sliding back into the rooftop's cracks as though dissolving. His breathing steadied, every muscle still tense.
Noir holstered the revolver. "You're interfering," he told him, tone neutral.
Erevan exhaled. "He's not going to listen to reason."
Noir raised a brow. "Academy rules, big bro, if there is conflict on academy property, intervention is sanctioned." He paused, looking to Arthur. "Stand down."
Arthur's shoulders quivered, rage wrestling with caution. Finally, he sheathed his sword slowly. "This isn't over," he hissed."Daerik, ... I'll kill you, Celestine won't protect you forever."
Erevan looks at him without a word from his lips. Arthur gets up.
Noir shrugged. "You're both lucky the instructors aren't here. Next time… maybe they'll watch."
Silence settled over the rooftop. Below, students whispered behind sealed windows. The torn banners stirred dishonored pride. Erevan removed the torn pieces of his shirt.
Blood welled from his arm and side. He pressed a hand to the cloth wrapping his wounds. Noir knelt beside him, inspecting the cuts with clinical detachment.
"I'll live," He said, glancing at Arthur. "You… might've blinded him with those magic bullets."
"I'm working here." Said Noir as he applies an ointment to his wounds.
Erevan ignored him. His gaze stayed on Arthur—still breathing heavily, fists clenched, eyes full of unreadable emotion.
He limped forward towards Erevan. He faces him as their eyes do battle.
Arthur's hand twitched at his chest. But then he exhaled, shoulders slouching. "Erevan, you don't have a chance of winning if we fought on, you'll die during the trials." This time he was serious, cold.
The brothers stood across the sunlit tiles, wounds fresh, pride battered. Between them lay the broken bond and a silent understanding: the war of this brotherhood was far from over.