The arena is already full.
Too full.
Circular stands surround a combat zone carved directly into stone. The ground is scarred with old fractures, blackened by hundreds of past duels.
This isn't where you learn.
This is where you decide.
I sit high in the stands.
Around me, students from every year. First-years. Second. Third. Some talk nervously. Others watch in silence. The older ones barely speak.
They understand what this means.
Professors are scattered throughout the stands. Standing. Arms crossed. Faces unreadable.
At the center, slightly elevated, sits Liora de Valbraise.
Straight-backed. Impassive.
Oryn is already in the arena.
Posture perfect. Chin raised. Confident.
Too confident.
His eyes sweep the stands, as if confirming everyone is watching.
Brask enters from the opposite side.
No noble stance. No arrogance.
He just walks forward.
Shoulders tight. Eyes locked ahead.
I clench my fists without realizing it.
They stop a few meters apart.
An arbiter steps forward.
"Official duel. Fire and mana authorized. Direct spells permitted. Surrender or incapacity."
He looks at Oryn.
"Understood?"
"Obviously."
Then to Brask.
"Understood."
"Yes."
The arbiter steps back.
A heavy silence settles over the arena.
"Begin."
Oryn attacks immediately.
A fireball erupts from his palm — fast, precise. It detonates inches from Brask's face, forcing him to retreat sharply. Heat slams into him.
Oryn is already advancing.
Second fireball.
Third.
He sets the tempo. He forces Brask to move.
Brask rolls aside. The stone blackens where he stood moments earlier. He rises and channels.
A short flame wraps around his fists.
Not impressive.
Effective.
He charges.
Oryn smiles and ignites the ground in front of him. A line of fire bursts upward, cutting off Brask's approach. Brask jumps at the last second, pushes through the heat, lands heavily beyond it.
They collide.
Flaming fist against reinforced forearm.
The impact echoes.
Sparks scatter.
Oryn takes a step back, surprised.
He retaliates instantly — spinning kick, followed by a burst of fire at the ground.
Brask is thrown backward. He rolls, rises, coughing dust.
The stands rumble.
Oryn raises both hands. Fire swirls around him.
"Well?" he calls out. "Is that all?"
He sends a crawling wave of flames racing across the arena floor like a living predator.
Brask retreats, leaps onto a jagged block of stone. Heat licks at his boots.
He's breathing hard.
But his mana is holding.
He wastes nothing.
Brask slams his fist into the ground.
A shockwave of fire bursts outward, forcing Oryn's flames to recoil. Not enough to extinguish them.
Just enough to create an opening.
Brask moves.
Oryn tries to reposition—
Too late.
A fire-reinforced punch crashes into him.
Sharp impact.
Oryn absorbs it, retaliates with a flaming knee into Brask's abdomen.
Brask folds—
But he doesn't fall.
They exchange blows at close range. Fire lights their faces. Every strike costs mana. Every second drains them.
Slowly…
Oryn grows frustrated.
He jerks backward and slams both hands into the ground.
The arena ignites.
Circles of fire bloom beneath Brask's feet. He jumps, dodges, rolls—
He still gets burned.
His jacket smokes.
His skin too.
"On your knees, commoner!" Oryn roars.
Brask growls.
His fire shifts.
Denser. Shorter. More controlled.
He stops trying to overpower.
He adapts.
He pushes through a burning zone.
His fist slams into Oryn's jaw.
The noble staggers.
Brask doesn't give him space.
Punch. Elbow. Headbutt.
Oryn tries to detonate the ground beneath them—
Too late.
Brask grabs him.
Hurls him violently out of the flaming circle.
Oryn crashes into stone, rolls, struggles to rise.
He attempts one final attack.
A concentrated fireball.
Too dense.
Too fast.
Brask doesn't retreat.
He takes it head-on.
Flames engulf him.
The stands hold their breath.
When the fire dissipates—
Brask is still standing.
His mana absorbed the worst of it. His body trembles. Smoke rises from his clothes.
But he stands.
Oryn steps back.
Brask steps forward.
One step.
Then another.
He strikes.
A reinforced punch—
No fire this time.
Straight into the throat.
Oryn chokes.
Drops to his knees.
Brask grabs him by the collar.
"Look at them," he whispers. "Look carefully."
He forces Oryn's head up.
The stands.
The students.
The professors.
The deputy headmistress.
Oryn trembles.
"You wanted everyone watching?" Brask continues. "Good."
He releases him.
Oryn collapses.
He tries to rise.
His flames don't respond.
His mana is gone.
The arbiter steps forward.
"Incapacity. Victory to Brask Helor."
Silence.
Then whispers.
Oryn remains on the ground.
Not just defeated.
Stripped.
I feel no joy.
Only weight.
Brask steps back, breathing hard. Now that the adrenaline fades, his body shakes.
But he remains upright.
Liora de Valbraise rises.
"The duel is concluded."
Her gaze shifts to Oryn.
"Assist him."
Two supervisors enter the arena.
Oryn is helped up. For a brief second, his eyes meet mine.
The contempt is gone.
The smirk is gone.
Something else remains.
Hatred.
Brask leaves the arena under the stares of the crowd. Some students look away. Others watch him differently now.
I meet him near the wall.
He leans against it, breathing heavily.
"You won," I say.
He gives a tired smile.
"Barely."
He closes his eyes briefly.
"You know what happens now, right?"
"Yes."
He opens them.
"They're going to hate me."
I study him.
"You humiliated a noble in front of the entire Academy."
He shakes his head slightly.
"No. He humiliated himself."
I nod.
Around us, conversations slowly resume.
But nothing feels the same.
Oryn didn't just lose a duel.
He lost his position.
And as I watch Brask still standing despite everything, I understand something simple:
Here, victory doesn't protect you.
It exposes you.
And from today on…
no one will pretend not to see us anymore.