The practice yard behind Arclight Academy was already humming with life as I arrived, breathless and five minutes early. Dawn stained the sky pink and gold; frost rimed the flagstones, sparkling beneath my shoes. Students spread across the grounds, warming up with practiced swings, magical wards flaring in controlled bursts. I clutched a practice blade that felt far too heavy.
Maybe she'll forget. Maybe she's the type who's late. Or better yet, maybe this was a mistake and I'll be reassigned to a less intimidating partner. Like a friendly scarecrow.
A shadow fell over me. Mireille Astor stood poised at the edge of the dueling ring, every line of her posture rigid. Her sword was already unsheathed, the polished steel catching the sun's first rays like a blade of ice. She hadn't changed expression since yesterday—reserved, focused, unreadable.
"You're early," she observed. "I expected you to be late."
I shuffled, trying to look casual. "Early is just... safer."
She tilted her head. If she heard something amusing, it didn't show. "Pick your stance."
I took the most basic form I remembered from the webnovel: right foot forward, blade tucked back, arms tense. I probably looked like a lost tourist holding an umbrella.
"One round. Don't hold back," she commanded, moving with a predator's grace.
I gulped.
The bout began fast. Mireille let me attack first, her expression bored, which made swinging at her even harder. I took a tentative step and slashed. She sidestepped, blade catching mine so gently I almost dropped it from shock. Then she moved—one clean, fluid motion—and I was flat on my back, sword arm hooked behind me.
I tried to laugh. "Guess I need a rematch?"
Her eyes flickered. "You need to stop telegraphing your moves. Focus."
We reset. Round two. This time I ignored my instinct to retreat, channeling what little I remembered about footwork. I lasted three hits before she disarmed me again.
"Better," she admitted. "But you're hesitating. Why?"
She studied me for a moment longer, gaze piercing. Finally, she turned away, muttering something under her breath that I couldn't catch.
I exhaled, feeling less like a duelist and more like a test dummy.
While I retrieved my blade, Seraphina Duskvale arrived, her hair gleaming in the morning sun. She offered Mireille an innocent smile, arms full of scrolls.
"Riven, I need your signature for the potion storage forms," she announced, as if we did this every day.
Mireille's eyes narrowed. "Is this urgent?"
"Terribly." Seraphina's smile didn't reach her eyes.
I thought about refusing, then remembered how many poisons Seraphina could brew if she felt slighted.
"Of course. Where do I sign?" I asked, determined to be as neutral as humanly possible.
Seraphina handed over the scrolls, her fingers brushing mine for just a moment too long. "Try not to trip over yourself in practice," she said, voice honey-sweet, before glancing at Mireille with a polite, warning nod.
After she left, Mireille watched me, silent.
"Popular," she remarked dryly, as if the word was an accusation.
The bell for second period rang. Mireille sheathed her blade. "I've submitted your name as my dueling partner for the semester."
My jaw dropped. "You… did?"
Her expression was unreadable. "You need discipline. And you're not as weak as you think."
As she walked away, I caught a glimpse of Elane watching from the shadow of a pillar, eyes fixed on me with anxious fascination.
For a moment, I wondered if I should worry.
But I was too busy trying to keep up with the pace of my new not-so-invisible life, already racing to my next class—where four more pairs of ears would be waiting, listening to every unfiltered thought that crossed my mind.
[End of Chapter 2]