The arena felt different in the morning light.
Not louder.
Not brighter.
Just… sharper.
The sand had been raked smooth again, hiding yesterday's blood, yesterday's struggle, yesterday's grit. The banners hung still, barely stirring, the embroidered crests of Aurellian catching the sun like slivers of a broken crown. The air was unnaturally clear, a kind of clarity that made everyone breathe shallowly, as if the day itself might snap if pushed too hard.
First-years lined the left side of the arena.
Second-years stood on the right.
The space between them felt like a gorge carved by something ancient and merciless.
Serene stood with her group, spine straight, torn ribbon retied neatly at her wrist. Her ribs throbbed beneath her uniform, but she kept her face steady.
Rowen was beside her, silent as ever, gaze fixed on the sand. Lira hovered close, fingers brushing nervously against her herb pouch. Taren fidgeted with the hem of his tunic. Alden adjusted his spear grip for the fiftieth time. Kael cracked his knuckles so loudly that even some third-years flinched.
Above them, the terraces were full—upper years, instructors, visiting generals, even a few nobles who had traveled overnight after hearing the rumors.
A Rite duel hadn't happened in a century.
People would kill to witness this.
Commander Eira stepped into the arena center with a rolls of parchment. The murmur died instantly.
"No formations," she said, voice ringing clear. "No zones. No banners."
The air shifted. Even breathing seemed to hesitate.
"Today is the Duel Phase. One-on-one. Skill alone."
Serene felt the first-years stiffen beside her. Yesterday had been strategy. Coordination. Smart bodies forming smart lines.
But duels were different.
This was personal.
Eira continued, "Each duel is sixty seconds or until one combatant yields, is incapacitated, or is disarmed."
She let her eyes sweep across both groups. When her gaze passed Serene, something sharp and unreadable flickered there.
"Combatants will be selected by rotation. Order is not negotiable."
Taren whispered, panicked, "Rotation means… we can't choose the order?"
Kael grinned. "That means chaos."
Alden's voice was soft but grim. "That means someone weaker might go first."
Serene remained silent.
Eira raised the parchment. "The duels begin now."
The entire arena seemed to exhale in one long, trembling breath.
A ceremonial bell tolled once—deep, metallic, final.
The crowd leaned forward.
Eira called out the first name.
"First duel:
Second-Year Arven Telor
versus
First-Year Mira Fenleigh."
Mira froze.
Her fingers twitched around the practice blade she carried. Her shoulders were still raw from yesterday's banner run. She looked tiny against the massive arena.
Serene stepped toward her. "Mira."
Mira's throat bobbed. "I… I'm fine."
"You are," Serene said. "Because you're fast. Don't meet his strength. Make him chase you."
Mira nodded, but fear still trembled through her breathing.
Rowen spoke quietly beside Serene. "She can do it."
Serene didn't answer, but she hoped—hoped so hard it hurt.
Mira stepped into the ring.
Across the arena, Arven Telor—a second-year with a powerfully built frame and a reputation for crushing first-years in practice rings—rolled his shoulders lazily, as if warming up for something trivial.
Eira raised her hand.
"Begin."
Telor surged forward immediately, fast and brutal, his strikes heavy enough to knock Mira's blade aside with the first impact. She barely avoided the second blow, rolling across the sand before scrambling up again.
The crowd roared.
Serene felt her heart clench. Mira was fast, but Telor was experienced. He pressed her relentlessly, each strike heavier, closer.
"Move, Mira!" Kael shouted.
Alden whispered, "She needs an angle—she needs an opening—"
Taren covered his mouth with shaking hands.
Lira's eyes filled with helpless tears.
And Mira—small, swift, trembling—kept moving.
She dodged.
She ducked.
She sidestepped.
She bought seconds with speed.
But Telor was a storm.
One heavy strike clipped her wrist. Her blade slipped. She caught it—but not fast enough.
Telor's final blow knocked the weapon clean from her hand.
The bell rang sharply.
Eira raised a hand.
"Second-year victory."
Mira gasped, clutching her wrist. Telor walked away without looking back.
The first-years were silent.
Serene walked to Mira and helped steady her. "You did well."
Mira shook her head. "I failed you—"
"You endured sixty seconds with someone twice your strength," Serene said. "That is not failure."
But Serene felt the weight settle.
One loss.
One step toward collapse.
The rotation continued.
"Next:
Second-Year Jorin Vale
versus
First-Year Halden Myre."
Halden swallowed. He was gentle, scholarly. His strongest strike barely matched Taren's.
He walked into the arena anyway.
Thirty seconds later, he was on his back, weapon flung across the sand.
"Second-year victory."
Another blow.
"Next:
Second-Year Kira Dalsen
versus
First-Year Emery Thale."
Emery was a Spirit Division cadet—nimble voice, weak arms.
She lasted eighteen seconds.
The losses stacked quickly.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
The first-years' shoulders drooped.
Their breathing tightened.
Taren muttered "We're dying—this is an execution—"
Lira whispered prayers under her breath.
Alden stood stiff, jaw clenched.
Kael punched the wall. "They're picking our weakest first. Of course they are."
Serene watched in silence.
Her face calm.
Her eyes burning.
This was exactly what she expected.
The academy was fair only on paper.
After six losses, the crowd began to expect humiliation.
Second-years laughed.
Upper years whispered wagers.
Instructors watched without flinching.
Then Eira called a new pair.
"Next duel:
Second-Year Varyn Crest
versus
First-Year Taren Vayne."
Taren went deathly still.
"Me?" he squeaked.
Kael clapped his back. "Try not to die."
"That's not helpful!"
Alden steadied him. "Stay low. Don't take direct hits."
Lira tied a quick wrap around his wrist. "Come back."
Serene met Taren's eyes. "Remember the marsh."
His breath hitched. "I fell in the marsh."
"Yes," Serene said. "But you got up."
He swallowed once. Hard.
Then walked into the arena.
Across the sand, Varyn Crest—a second-year infamous for breaking spears during practice—twirled his blade effortlessly.
The bell rang.
Taren screamed something incomprehensible and charged forward like a man possessed.
Kael's jaw dropped.
Alden facepalmed.
Lira gasped.
Rowen exhaled, "Oh gods."
Taren swung wildly.
Varyn dodged with insulting ease.
Taren stumbled forward—
and tripped over his own foot—
and somehow managed, through pure chaos, to slam directly into Varyn's gut with his entire weight.
Varyn wheezed.
The crowd blinked.
Taren, panicking, flailed upward—
and accidentally knocked Varyn's weapon out of his hand.
Silence.
Taren froze.
The arena froze.
Varyn stared at his own empty hand like someone had stolen reality from him.
Serene whispered, "Did he just—"
Kael roared with laughter. "He DISARMED him by ACCIDENT!"
Taren gaped. "I… won?"
Eira raised her hand.
"First-year victory."
The arena erupted.
Half in disbelief.
Half in laughter.
Half in outrage.
But it was a victory.
A ridiculous.
Messy.
Chaotic.
Glorious victory.
Taren ran back to them, limbs shaking.
Kael lifted him off the ground. "You absolute disaster of a hero!"
Lira hugged him so tightly he squeaked.
Alden looked like he was witnessing a miracle.
Rowen's mouth twitched—the closest thing to a smile.
Serene simply said, "Well done."
But inside—
Hope sparked.
One win.
One foothold.
One reminder that the Rite wasn't over.
Eira called the next names.
"Next duel:
Second-Year Silas Korr
versus
First-Year Kael Drakov."
Kael's grin widened like a beast spotting prey.
"Time to repay yesterday."
He stepped into the arena.
The crowd leaned forward.
Serene's heart thudded once—
Kael bowed, cracked his neck, and said loudly,
"Let's make this interesting."
Serene exhaled slowly.
Kael's duel was beginning.
And the Rite was far from decided.