The training yard was silent when Kael arrived.
The sun hadn't yet broken the horizon, but the air was thick with anticipation. Word had spread like wildfire: a common-born servant was dueling Rowan Everfall — the crown's golden boy, the Academy's rising star.
Students lined the perimeter, hushed whispers buzzing through the cold morning like insects. Some came out of curiosity. Others came for blood.
Kael tightened the straps on his leather gloves. Across the yard, Rowan stood tall and calm, dressed in simple training gear, a wooden blade resting against his shoulder.
They met in the center. The Academy's duel arbiter, a scarred veteran named Instructor Brel, glanced between them.
"Rules are simple," Brel said. "No magic. No fatal strikes. First to yield, or unconsciousness. Understood?"
Rowan nodded. "Understood."
Kael gave a small nod. "Yes, Instructor."
Brel stepped back. "Begin."
The Dance of Blades
Rowan moved first.
A blur of practiced precision, his wooden sword slicing toward Kael's side in a clean arc.
Kael barely blocked in time. The blow sent a jolt through his arm, but he held his ground.
The crowd murmured — not because Rowan attacked, but because Kael was still standing.
They circled.
Kael's mind raced. He remembered Rowan's style from the novel — aggressive, fluid, designed to dominate from the first moment. But in those pages, Rowan had never fought him.
Kael ducked low, striking for Rowan's ankle. Rowan leapt back, countering with a feint to the shoulder that nearly caught Kael off guard.
Wood clashed. Sparks of pain flared in Kael's wrists. His lungs burned, and sweat blurred his vision.
Rowan smiled. "You're good. Rough around the edges, but… sharp."
Kael gritted his teeth. "You sound surprised."
"I am." Rowan surged forward. "No one unmarked by fate should move like you."
The words struck deeper than any blade.
He knows. Not what Kael was — but that he was something wrong in the story.
Kael countered with a desperate parry and twisted into a move he hadn't practiced — instinct guiding him more than memory. The blade slammed into Rowan's ribs. He stumbled.
The crowd gasped.
But Rowan didn't yield.
He grinned, straightened, and lunged again. Faster now. Sharper. Testing Kael with every strike.
This wasn't a duel anymore. It was a question.
Who are you?
And Kael didn't know the answer — not anymore.
**********
The End of the Match
Kael faltered — one misstep, and Rowan's blade was at his throat.
Instructor Brel stepped forward. "Yield."
Kael's breath came in ragged bursts. He lowered his sword. "I yield."
Rowan stepped back, lowering his own weapon slowly, eyes still locked on Kael. "Not bad… for an extra."
Kael blinked.
Rowan turned to the crowd and raised Kael's arm. "Give him the respect he's earned."
Cheers erupted — uncertain at first, then swelling with genuine energy. The Academy wasn't used to seeing someone claw their way up. It respected strength, no matter where it came from.
As they dispersed, Rowan lingered by Kael's side.
"I don't know what game you're playing," he said under his breath, "but this world doesn't change for anyone. It devours people like you."
Kael met his eyes. "Then I'll break the rules."
Rowan studied him for a moment… then smiled.
"Good luck, Kael. You're going to need it."