While I was engaged in my cold war of wits with princes and spies, Kaelen Dusk was fighting a much more tangible battle. A battle against his own limitations. The week leading up to the examinations was, for him, a crucible of sweat, pain, and relentless, stubborn effort.
He had no formal combat training. He had no affinity to rely on, no House resources to draw from, no private tutors to guide him. He had only the raw, wiry strength of his under-crust body, the reflexes of a man who had spent his life dodging falling rocks, and a core of iron stubbornness that refused to acknowledge the possibility of failure.
Every morning, hours before the sun would have risen on a normal world, Kaelen was in one of the Academy's smaller, open-air training yards. While other students were still asleep, he was running. He ran until his lungs burned and his legs felt like lead. Then he would move on to physical conditioning, doing push-ups until his arms gave out, lifting heavy stones he found at the edge of the training yard, mimicking the back-breaking labor that had been his entire life.
He was trying to teach himself how to fight by watching the other students. He would stand at the edge of the main training grounds, his eyes wide, as noble scions practiced their elegant dueling forms. He saw the fluid grace of the Elven archers, the explosive power of the Pyralis fire-weavers, the intricate spell-casting of the Glaciem mages. He tried to copy their movements, to replicate their stances.
The result was a clumsy, awkward parody. His body, built for brute force and endurance, was not made for the delicate footwork of a duelist. His mind, straightforward and practical, could not grasp the complex theories behind spell-casting. He was a cart horse trying to imitate the movements of a racehorse, and he knew it. The frustration was a bitter pill. He was stronger than many of them, he knew that. He could probably lift more, endure more. But in a real fight, their skill, their magic, would cut him down before he even got close.
One pre-dawn morning, as he was panting for breath after another failed attempt to replicate a complex sword form with a heavy tree branch, a gravelly voice cut through the darkness.
"You're wasting your time, boy."
Kaelen spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. Master Theron Ashvale stood there, a silhouette against the faint glow of the distant capital. The combat master was dressed in simple training gear, and he was watching Kaelen with his one good eye, his scarred face unreadable in the gloom.
"M-Master Ashvale," Kaelen stammered, immediately straightening up, his face flushing with embarrassment at being caught.
"I've been watching you for three days," Ashvale growled, walking closer. "Every morning, you're out here, trying to be something you're not. You're trying to fight like them." He jerked his head in the direction of the main dormitories. "Like a noble. Like a duelist. You can't. Your body isn't built for it. Your mind isn't trained for it. You're trying to write poetry with a sledgehammer."
Kaelen's face fell. It was the truth, and hearing it from the one man whose respect he desperately wanted to earn was like a physical blow. "I… I have to learn," he said, his voice thick with frustration. "It's the only way I'll pass the combat trials."
Ashvale stopped in front of him, close enough that Kaelen could smell the faint scent of ash and old leather that clung to him. "No," the old warrior said, his voice surprisingly soft. "The only way you'll pass is by being what you *are*. You're not a noble duelist. You're not a graceful swordsman. You're a survivor. You've spent your whole life surviving in a place that tries to kill you every day. So stop trying to fight like them. Fight like *it*."
Kaelen stared at him, confused. "I don't understand."
"A duelist fights with honor. A survivor fights to win," Ashvale explained, his one good eye boring into Kaelen. "A duelist sees a sword. A survivor sees a sword, a rock, a handful of dirt to throw in his opponent's eyes, and the weak point in the floorboards he can trip him on. A duelist stands his ground. A survivor knows when to run away so he can come back and hit his enemy from behind with a bigger rock. You've been taught to survive. That's your training. Use it."
The words hit Kaelen with the force of a revelation. He had been so focused on his weaknesses—his lack of formal training, his lack of grace—that he had completely overlooked his strengths. His instincts. His resilience. His willingness to do whatever it took to not die.
"Show me," Ashvale commanded. "Attack me."
"But… you're the Combat Master," Kaelen protested.
"And you're a student who needs to learn. Attack me. Try to land one hit."
Kaelen hesitated for a second, then nodded, his determination hardening his face. He dropped the tree branch. He took a deep breath and charged. He didn't try any fancy moves. He just ran at the old warrior, aiming to tackle him with all his weight and strength.
Ashvale didn't move. At the last second, he simply shifted his weight, and Kaelen, a charging bull, found himself flying past him, his momentum carrying him stumbling across the training yard. Ashvale hadn't even seemed to exert himself.
"Predictable," Ashvale grunted. "Again."
Kaelen tried again. And again. And again. Each time, Ashvale neutralized his attack with an almost lazy efficiency, using Kaelen's own momentum against him, tripping him, sidestepping him, once even just sticking a foot out and sending him sprawling. Kaelen was quickly covered in dust and bruises, his frustration mounting.
"Stop thinking like a fighter!" Ashvale barked. "You're not trying to beat me in a match! You're trying to survive! The environment is a weapon! Your body is a weapon! Use your head!"
On his next charge, something clicked in Kaelen's mind. He feinted a tackle, then, as Ashvale shifted to counter, Kaelen dropped to the ground, scooped up a handful of loose gravel and dirt, and flung it directly at the old man's face.
Ashvale, caught by surprise, instinctively raised a hand to shield his good eye. And in that split second of distraction, Kaelen surged forward, not with a punch, but with a low, brutal shoulder-check to the warrior's knee.
It wasn't a clean hit. It wasn't powerful. But it was solid. Ashvale grunted, his leg buckling slightly. Kaelen had landed a hit.
He scrambled back, expecting a furious retaliation. Instead, when Ashvale lowered his hand, he was smiling. A true, genuine smile that transformed his scarred face.
"There," the old man said, his voice filled with a rough pride. "Now you're thinking. It was dirty. It was dishonorable. And it worked. That's how a survivor fights."
As the first rays of the triple sunrise began to crest the horizon, a new sound was heard in the training yard. It was the sound of laughter. Isabella Pyralis, out for her own early morning run, had stopped to watch the spectacle. She was leaning against a stone pillar, her arms crossed, a look of genuine delight on her face.
"Not bad, under-crust," she called out, her voice ringing with amusement. "You fight like a cornered sewer rat. I like it."
Kaelen's face burned, but this time it was from a mixture of pride and embarrassment.
Isabella pushed off the pillar and sauntered over, her amber eyes sparkling. "You want a real challenge? Spar with me. I promise I'll only break a few of your bones."
Kaelen looked from the grinning Pyralis heiress to the smiling Combat Master. He lost the spar, of course. He lost spectacularly. Isabella moved like a wildfire, her attacks fast and overwhelming. But, using the dirty, opportunistic tactics Ashvale had just encouraged, he managed to land one solid, bruising blow to her ribs before she sent him flying.
She laughed, a loud, delighted sound. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. We should do this again sometime. It's more fun than beating up my idiot cousins."
As Kaelen picked himself up off the ground, aching in places he didn't know he had, he felt a profound shift inside him. He had found a path. It wasn't the glorious, honorable path of the heroes in the stories he'd heard. It was a dirtier, more brutal path. It felt wrong, like cheating. But it also, in a way he couldn't explain, felt right. It felt like home.