The moment the Arena Master's whistle cut through the air, Cassian surged forward with the controlled grace of a trained noble swordsman. His blade swept in a clean, diagonal arc—a calculated opening strike meant to measure her reaction rather than harm her.
Mavis parried it.
Not cleanly—her arm trembled with the force—but she parried.
Cassian's eyes widened just a fraction.
Then narrowed.
"So the rumors were true," he said lightly, stepping back with a flourish, sword glinting under the afternoon sun. "The forgotten Van Buqeat sister can fight."
The crowd whispered at the mention.
Mavis felt irritation flare.
But she didn't rise to the bait; she tightened her grip, adjusting her stance.
Cassian tilted his head mockingly. "You don't deny it? Admirable. But then again, Alya always did say you were obedient."
Mavis rolled her eyes. "We're starting with insults already?"
He smiled—sharp, princely, practiced. "I merely expected… less. A shut-in girl locked away by her father for years? My, you're exceeding every expectation."
Her sword snapped forward in a fast thrust. Cassian twisted, barely avoiding it.
And for the first time, the smile thinned.
"Oh?" he hummed.
He pushed forward again, movements smooth—truly smooth, dangerously refined. His blade carved a disciplined pattern, each strike flowing into the next: slash, pivot, upward sweep, feint, slash.
He was good.
Annoyingly good.
This wasn't like fighting monsters near the fog—those creatures were massive, telegraphed, brutal. Cassian was controlled, strategic, trained. His footwork was textbook Fides aristocracy—meant to break opponents mentally and physically.
Mavis blocked a third strike, slid backward in the sand, breath uneven.
Cassian chuckled under his breath. "This is a test, girl. Don't die."
"I'm not the one swinging like a man possessed."
He laughed again—this time less politely. "Possessed? No. Merely invested."
He lunged.
Mavis barely rolled away, sand scraping her palms.
Cassian's boots slammed into the ground inches from her face.
"You're slow," he said simply.
She rose quickly, sword raised. "You talk too much."
"And you stare too much," he countered, amusement dripping from his voice. "I've seen the way you look at the princess. Bold of you. Hopeful, even."
Mavis froze for half a second.
Cassian's grin widened.
"Ah. There it is. Nerves."
A chill traveled down her spine.
He swept forward, blade inches from her throat. She dodged and countered instinctively—faster than she thought he expected—but Cassian deflected the strike with one hand and forced her back with alarming ease.
"You really shouldn't get ideas," he continued, following her retreat effortlessly. "Seraphina isn't interested in little ghosts everyone forgot existed."
He parried another strike with a flick of his wrist.
"And even if she was," he added, voice lowering, "she's mine."
Mavis's teeth clenched.
Jerry, from the stands, hissed so loudly Alya had to slap a hand over him.
Cassian noticed.
His grin sharpened. "Touch a nerve? Good. Angry opponents make mistakes."
Mavis inhaled.
Slow.
Steady.
Focus.
She rushed forward, sliding under his guard—not letting the words stick, not letting the smug tone bury itself in her spine. Her blade swept upward, aiming for his ribs.
Cassian blocked.
Barely.
His composure cracked for the first time.
"Oh?" she asked quietly. "What happened to slow?"
His eyes flickered.
She pressed in again, forcing him back with quick, precise strikes—ones she'd seen memebers of the hunting parties attempt, movements meant to disarm monsters by instinct rather than formal training.
Her stances weren't beautiful.
They weren't noble.
They weren't graceful.
But they were effective.
Cassian had to step back. Twice.
The crowd gasped.
Whispers spread.
"Is she pushing him back?"
"How? He's supposed to be the strongest here."
"That footwork—what even is that style?"
Alya yelled, "THAT'S MY SISTER!"
Mavis nearly tripped at that.
Cassian certainly heard it.
And for a moment—just a moment—his expression warped into something cold.
he murmured, voice low, edge creeping into his voice. "You are pathetic."
Mavis snapped, parrying another strike.
"You think your sister cares? No one cares," Cassian said. "They forgot you existed for years. Why would they care?"
His next swing came at an angle meant to intimidate.
Mavis blocked.
He swung again—harder.
She blocked.
Again.
Another.
She winced, arms rattling from the force, but she didn't fall.
Cassian's smirk faltered.
Sweat pricked at his temple.
"You're annoying," he said.
"You talk too much."
"You fight like a savage."
"And you fight like you're scared."
He snarled.
The shift in him was sharp—his noble posture cracking, jaw tightening, shoulders tensing. He stepped in too aggressively, losing precision, losing rhythm.
Mavis caught it immediately.
She deflected two strikes with practiced instinct, pivoted, and slashed low at his thigh.
He jumped back—barely in time.
The audience gasped louder.
Jerry hissed, "DESTROY HIM!"
Alya slapped him again.
Cassian's breath quickened. His chest rose and fell harder.
His princely mask slipped entirely.
"You—" he seethed, teeth bared just slightly, "—you insignificant—"
He swiped at her again, but it was less clean, less calculated.
Sloppy.
Mavis ducked, came up behind him, and tapped his shoulder with the flat of her blade.
A clean hit.
The crowd erupted.
Cassian froze like he'd been struck by lightning.
The Arena Master lifted his arm—
But before he could announce anything, Cassian twisted sharply, spinning into another attack. Mavis barely jumped back in time.
"Cassian!" the Arena Master barked.
He didn't listen.
He swung again—wildly, desperately.
Mavis parried, stumbling back.
"A second clean hit ends the match," the Arena Master warned.
Cassian snarled, "Shut up."
Mavis narrowed her eyes. "You're losing it."
"You humiliated me."
"You humiliated yourself."
His blade came down toward her shoulder.
She blocked but the force rattled her to her core.
Cassian stepped in close enough that only she could hear him.
"You should've stayed forgotten."
Mavis pushed back with everything she had.
Cassian skidded backward—farther than he expected.
He blinked.
Shock flared across his face.
Then anger.
Rage.
If he continued like this, he'd break the rules.
Everyone in the stands knew it.
Seraphina stood abruptly, voice sharp and commanding.
"Cassian. Stop."
He froze.
For just a heartbeat.
Then—
His eyes slid toward Seraphina in silent rebellion.
He didn't lower his sword.
Mavis watched the shift—the dangerous, ugly twist in his gaze.
He was losing control.
And he was about to break.
The Arena Master shouted again, "Cassian of Fides! Stand down!"
Silence trembled across the arena.
Mavis steadied her stance.
Cassian's knuckles whitened around his blade.
He inhaled.
Exhaled.
Then, suddenly—too suddenly—he stepped forward, head tilted in a courteous bow.
The tension snapped.
He forced a smile.
"Of course, Headmaster. My apologies."
The Arena Master frowned but nodded.
Cassian straightened, face emptied of emotion once more.
Mavis kept her sword raised.
Cassian stared at her.
Dead calm.
Too calm.
It was the kind of calm a person had right before doing something unforgivable.
He lowered his stance.
Tilted his blade.
The Arena Master inhaled—
Before he could speak—
Cassian flicked his foot, kicking a cloud of sand straight into Mavis's eyes.
Gasps exploded through the arena.
Mavis recoiled instinctively, vision blurring with pain.
Cassian stepped in, blade poised for the finishing strike.
The Arena Master shouted, "STOP!"
Alya screamed.
Jerry hissed like a demon.
Seraphina surged forward from her seat.
Everything froze for one suspended second—
Cassian's blade inches from Mavis's chest—
And Mavis blind, off-balance, and unable to see what was coming next.