Morning arrived not with a gradual softening of night, but with a sharp, decisive brightness that cut across the academy grounds like the opening of a blade. The sky was clear for the first time in days, the sun rising cold and bright over the cliffs of Aurenheim. It felt less like dawn and more like a summons.
Serene woke before the bells. She lay still for a moment, staring at the faint cracks in the ceiling of her dorm room, listening to the distant hum of early footsteps echoing down the hall. For all her calm breaths, her heartbeat pulsed a little too loudly in her ears.
Today was the Duel Evaluation.
She rose quietly, washed her face with water cold enough to sting, and tightened her braid with slow deliberation. Her ribbon rested at her wrist, tucked close beneath her training glove. She adjusted her uniform, smoothing the creases, then knelt to retrieve her practice blade from where it rested against the wall.
The steel felt heavier than usual.
Not frightening.
Not burdensome.
Just real.
When she stepped out into the corridor, the air was thick with unspoken tension. Trainees moved with unusual quiet. Some whispered names of their opponents. Some avoided speaking at all. Lira joined her just before the staircase, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.
"You slept?" Serene asked.
"Barely," Lira admitted. "You?"
"Enough."
Lira exhaled, visibly relieved by the steadiness in Serene's tone. "If it helps… Arin Fenn seems fair."
"It does help," Serene said honestly. "Thank you."
They descended the steps together, the stone cold under their boots.
The courtyard was already alive. Instructors stood scattered around the periphery, clipboards in hand, postures alert. The Duel Rings had been prepared at dawn — three circular arenas carved into the pale stone, ropes marking their borders, wooden stands set up for observers. The space felt heavier than the battlefield simulations, sharper than the obstacle courses.
This was one-on-one.
No teams.
No shields to hide behind.
Just blade, stance, breath.
Taren spotted Serene and waved, though his face was paler than usual. "I think I'm going to throw up. Is throwing up allowed?"
"No," Kael muttered as he passed, adjusting the strap on his gauntlet. "Not unless you want to mop the arena after."
Taren groaned into his hands.
Serene looked toward Ring Two—her assigned arena. Arin Fenn was already there. He stood straight but relaxed, tall and broad-shouldered, his sandy hair tied back loosely. His eyes met hers across the ring, and he gave a small nod—calm, respectful, neither mocking nor overly friendly.
Lira squeezed Serene's hand briefly. "You'll do well," she whispered.
Serene nodded. "And you'll watch, yes?"
"Of course."
The bell rang sharp and final across the courtyard.
Commander Eira stepped onto the central platform, her presence anchoring the restless energy around them. Her gaze swept over the students, landing briefly on each ring.
"You enter the arena by choice," she said. "You stand in it alone. You endure because that is the foundation of a knight's discipline."
Silence clung to every word.
"You are not tested on victory," she continued, "but on control. Precision. Composure. If you lose yourself to panic, pride, or anger, you fail. If you maintain your ground—even in defeat—you pass."
Kael's hands tightened at his sides.
Taren whimpered faintly.
Serene inhaled slowly.
Eira lowered her arm.
"Begin."
The courtyard burst into motion.
In Ring One, the first pair stepped forward, blades drawn, breath sharp with anticipation. Their clash rang out across the stone like the crack of lightning.
Serene watched only briefly before turning toward her own arena. She walked with measured steps, posture straight, eyes forward. When she crossed into Ring Two, the air shifted. The world felt narrower, the noise around her fading into a distant hum.
Arin gave a respectful bow. Not theatrical. Not dismissive. Just correct.
Serene returned it with equal precision.
The instructor overseeing their ring stepped between them briefly, raising a hand.
"Only blunt blades," he said. "Controlled strikes. Stop when told. Do not aim for the head, throat, or joints. Acknowledge hits. Do not argue."
Both nodded.
He lowered his hand.
"Begin."
Arin moved first.
Not aggressively—simply stepping forward to test distance. Serene mirrored his advance, adjusting her stance. He was taller, his reach longer, his center of gravity heavier. She would have to work differently. She could not overpower. She could not match speed with brute strength.
She shifted her footing.
Arin's first strike came from the right—clean, deliberate. Not too fast. Not showy. A test.
She blocked it, the impact vibrating along her wrist. He pressed lightly against her guard, checking her stability. She held steady, angling her blade to redirect.
He stepped back, reassessing.
Good.
He fought with thought, not ego.
The next exchange was quicker. His blade swept low—she shifted her weight just in time. Her counter was precise but lighter than she intended; her earlier fatigue made her wrist tremble faintly.
Arin noticed.
He did not exploit it.
He changed angles, forcing her to adapt. Serene responded the way she had practiced—quietly, consistently, refusing to panic even when her stance began to burn.
Strike.
Block.
Step.
Breathe.
His strength wore on her more quickly than she wished. Her arms ached with each block. Her grip tightened to compensate. Sweat gathered at her brow.
But she did not break.
Arin lunged once—deliberately slow—and she intercepted with a hard parry, redirecting his force just enough to destabilize his footing. He recovered quickly, but his eyes flicked to hers in faint surprise.
She had technique.
She had control.
She did not falter.
The instructor circled slowly, watching.
Arin adjusted his stance and stepped in again, blade angled high. Serene raised her guard—and the moment her arms lifted, her ribs twinged sharply where yesterday's bruises still lingered.
Her breath caught.
Arin's strike tapped her shoulder before she could fully block.
"Point," the instructor said.
Serene inhaled. Not disappointment. Just awareness.
Arin stepped back respectfully.
The duel resumed.
Serene pushed through the ache, regaining her balance. Her counters grew smaller but sharper, conserving energy. Each movement was deliberate, measured, disciplined.
Arin pressed again—this time faster—but Serene pivoted, her footwork smoothing into natural rhythm. She narrowly deflected another strike, redirecting it with precision even as her muscles trembled.
For a brief moment, the noise of the courtyard vanished.
Just breath.
Just steel.
Just discipline.
Arin shifted weight for a final push. Serene saw the opening a fraction too late. The blunt edge tapped against her forearm.
"Point. Duel ends."
Arin stepped back immediately, lowering his blade.
Serene lowered hers with equal calm.
Not victory.
Not defeat.
Just a lesson carried honestly.
"You held your ground," Arin said quietly. "Well fought."
Serene bowed her head once. "You as well."
The instructor marked something on his parchment. He didn't look at her, but his voice was even.
"Passed."
She exhaled slowly, the breath leaving her chest in a quiet release.
Not triumph.
Not pride.
Just steady relief.
Around her, other duels continued. Kael's duel erupted in loud, sharp strikes, his movements fierce but increasingly reckless. Taren's duel filled with apologetic yelps and unexpected bursts of clumsy courage. Lira watched from the stands, hands clasped tightly together, her gaze finding Serene instantly.
Serene stepped out of the ring, exhaustion sinking deep into her bones. Her arms felt heavy, her ribs ached, her breath trembled softly.
But she had not broken.
She had not panicked.
She had not stopped.
The sun climbed higher, casting bright gold across the rings.
It was done.
Tomorrow, training would continue. Tomorrow, another challenge would wait. Tomorrow, she would endure again.
But for today—
She had stood in the ring.
She had faced what was placed before her.
And she had passed.