The courtyard buzzed like a hive shaken by a sudden blow.
Ashren's words still hung in the air, heavy and real: a fight. Not another theory session.
A real fight.
Tarin was practically vibrating where he stood, his grin wide and ugly, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Kisaya's eyes burned with a quiet, sharpened focus, her stance already balanced and ready. Even the quiet ones—Neval and Ilkar—straightened their backs. Darek, who usually laughed at everything, had gone silent. He wasn't smiling now.
The air around us tightened. The courtyard wasn't a place of learning anymore.
It was a battleground waiting to be claimed.
This was what they'd been waiting for.
Ashren pulled six clay tablets from a worn satchel.
"You'll come forward one by one and draw a tablet" he said, voice calm but carrying across the courtyard.
"Each tablet bears a symbol—moon, spear, or serpent. Those who draw the same symbol will face each other in combat."
He held the tablets up for us to see: rough, worn, marked by nothing more than simple etchings.
"Moon will fight first. Then spear. Then serpent."
He raised a hand, steady and deliberate, signaling for the group to focus.
"Kisaya will not draw" he said. "She has already trained against guards hardened by real battle. I know her abilities firsthand. I trust everyone understands."
No argument. No need. But for a brief moment, I caught Kisaya lowering her gaze—disappointed.
She wanted to fight, like some of us.
Tarin moved first, walking with a swagger he didn't bother hiding. He plunged his hand into the pile, drew out a tablet, turned it over, and smirked at the symbol carved into it. He show it to Ashren, who gave a small nod. Tarin returned to his place, clutching it like a trophy.
But something felt off—he was gripping the tablet just a bit too tightly.
One by one, the others followed. Hands closed around the rough clay—tight, eager, sure.
I waited, silent.
When my turn came, there was no choice left. Only a single token remained in the instructor's hand.
I stepped forward, took it with a steady grip, and turned it over in my palm.
The symbol stared back at me, carved deep into the clay.
The moon.
I turned it slowly in my hand, the rough edges scraping against my skin, leaving faint lines that burned sharper than they should have.
Ashren called the names, his voice steady with every word:
"Moon: Ereshgal vs. Ilkar."
A pause—thick with expectation.
"Spear: Tarin vs. Neval."
"Serpent: Darek vs. Erenai."
Each pairing cracked through the air like a whip. A few students shifted; others tightened their grip around their tablets.
Ashren clapped once, snapping every gaze back to him.
"The rules are simple" he said. "Yield, fall unconscious, or be unable to continue. No surrender without resistance. You are here to fight, not to bow."
He let the weight of his words settle over us—a reminder that mercy would not be given freely. Only earned.
Around us, the courtyard seemed to hold its breath.
I looked across the clearing.
Ilkar met my gaze—a silent, steady stare. No fear. No defiance.
Just something buried deep, locked behind a wall I couldn't read.
Not hesitation. Not anger.
Good.
It would make proving myself easier. Showing them—the chosen ones—that I wasn't beneath them. That I never had been.
And yet, that certainty tasted sharper than I expected.
The instructor handed each of us a wooden training sword.
We stood three, maybe four meters apart, weapons in hand—the space between us humming with the silence before impact.
I rolled my wrist once. The weapon was lighter than I liked.
But it would serve.
Ashren's voice sliced through the morning:
"Begin."
Ilkar lifted his hand immediately and began tracing a rune in the air. His fingers moved fast—sharp, rushed strokes. He was trying to finish the symbol before I could close the distance. Before it was too late.
I didn't hesitate.
I moved.
My feet slammed against the ground, one after the other, driving me forward with everything I had.
I was fast—faster than Ilkar could react.
My body moved before my mind could catch up. The sword struck his hand—hard, precise—knocking it off course and halting his tracing.
His breath caught, his body recoiled, and the focus in his eyes vanished all at once.
A clean hit. Sudden. Disruptive. Enough to stop him before he could do more.
Ilkar gasped, the breath knocked from his lungs.
His tracing hand jerked back as if burned, and he doubled over, one knee collapsing beneath him.
Pain etched across his face—not just from the blow, but from the backlash of the unfinished rune.
I stepped back, lowering my sword slightly.
"Can you continue?" I asked, calm.
He blinked up at me—surprised.
Then he nodded once, steadying his breath.
"Yes."
Tarin spoke from the sidelines, his tone hard and filled with venom.
"Ilkar, really? Slapped down by the king's leftover? That must be your proudest moment." Darek snickered.
I didn't look at him—didn't need to.
My knuckles tightened around the hilt of my sword. White, silent pressure. Nothing else.
Ilkar rose again, slower this time, his breath ragged. He looked dazed, unsteady—like his limbs hadn't fully decided to obey him. His stance was open, shaky. Vulnerable in every way a fighter shouldn't be.
But he stood.
And that, at least, meant something.
We moved.
From the first clash, it was obvious.
Ilkar was trying, but he couldn't keep up. His swings were slower, his reactions duller. He was off balance—open, exposed.
Each strike pushed him back, step by step.
Each feint carved new gaps in his guard.
I didn't have to think—my body moved on its own. Sharp. Certain.
It was instinct.
Built from constant training—and recently, pushed to the edge by brutal practice.
Each day heavier.
Each hour more demanding.
The need to rise above the chosen burned in every swing.
And now—it was all pouring out.
Ilkar faltered.
Defending more than striking.
I pressed harder.
Then something cracked.
Not in Ilkar.
In me.
It hit like a storm surge—fast, hot, violent.
Rage. Raw and real.
It punched through my veins, hammered against my ribs.
My breathing shortened.
My vision narrowed.
My hands wanted blood.
I didn't know why—but I burned inside.
I lunged—fast and brutal.
My foot slammed into his thigh.
My elbow cracked against his shoulder.
The edge of my training sword drove into his ribs—sharp and merciless.
I wasn't thinking.
But every blow landed with perfect precision.
Faster. Heavier. Meaner.
Like something had taken hold of me.
I used everything.
My fists. My knees. The hilt of the sword. My shoulder.
Anything that could break him down.
Anything that could remind them:
I belonged.
Even if the gods stayed silent.
Ilkar tried to block, but it didn't matter. I was already beyond restraint.
Blow after blow—not to win, but to dominate.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew this wasn't just me.
But I didn't stop. Until finally—He dropped.
Unconscious.
Fell to the ground in front of me.
I stood over him, chest heaving, sword trembling in my hand.
And for a moment, the world was very, very quiet.
Kisaya's voice broke the silence first, rushing toward me:
"Eresh—are you alright?"
I couldn't answer.
I didn't know what to say.
I stared down at my hands.
Trembling.
What was that?
Before the question could sink its teeth in, Ashren spoke—calm and clear:
"Ilkar traced and activated his rune—right before you lost control. We all saw it. Your anger grew because of his ability. His rune affects emotions. He amplified yours."
His gaze sharpened.
"Remember: emotional control matters as much as skill. Rage blinds. Calm kills."
They watched me.
Some with concern, others with something colder.
When I returned to my place, a few stepped back.
Small movements.
Reflexes.
Like they didn't want to be too close.
In case I snapped again.
I said nothing.