The courtyard rang with voices and the scrape of feet on packed earth. One by one, the children stepped forward to spar, while the others shouted encouragement or jeered from the sidelines. The man stood at the edge with his arms crossed, offering the occasional correction but mostly letting them clash and learn for themselves.
"Next pair—Brenn and Lyra," he called.
Brenn, a stocky boy with sandy hair, cracked his knuckles with a grin. Lyra, slighter and sharp-eyed, rolled her shoulders as though she had been waiting for this moment.
"Try not to cry when I knock you flat," Brenn taunted.
Lyra only smirked, lifting her hands. "Try me."
The man raised his arm, then dropped it. "Begin."
Brenn wasted no time, rushing forward with earth magic coursing at his feet. Stones jolted from the ground in a crude but heavy projectile, thudding toward Lyra. She sidestepped quickly, almost dancing, then flicked her hand. A streak of flame hissed across the air, catching Brenn's sleeve. He yelped, batting it out.
The children roared with laughter.
"Come on, Brenn!" shouted Tovin. "Don't let her roast you!"
"Shut up!" Brenn barked, red-faced, and slammed his foot down. A shock of stone erupted beneath Lyra's step, knocking her back. She tumbled, rolled, then sprang upright again with fire whirling around her fingers.
Their duel grew faster, earth and flame colliding in bursts of dust and heat until Brenn, finally, overextended. His stone wall shattered under a concentrated jet of fire, and he staggered. Lyra dashed forward, flame still dancing in her palm, and stopped just short of his chest.
"Yield?" she said sweetly.
Brenn groaned, brushing dirt off his shirt. "Fine. Yield."
The children erupted in cheers and teasing laughter. Lyra bowed dramatically, basking in the noise, while Brenn sulked back to the side.
The man's voice cut across the chatter. "Good. That's how you learn. Strength isn't enough—you must think."
Before the excitement faded, he raised his hand again. "Next. Elira and Orren."
At the sound of her name, a hush passed through a few of the children. Elira—quiet, dark-haired, her expression unreadable—stepped forward reluctantly. Opposite her, Orren grinned broadly, twirling his hands to summon gusts of wind.
"This'll be quick," Orren said, confidence brimming.
Elira said nothing. She only lifted her hand, light gathering faintly at her fingertips.
The man dropped his arm.
Orren struck first, a blast of wind sweeping across the courtyard, sending dust and loose cloth whipping. Elira barely moved, her hand tracing a slow pattern. A shield of pale light shimmered into being, the wind breaking harmlessly against it.
Gasps rippled among the watching children.
"Whoa, did you see that?" Miren whispered. "That's not normal light magic…"
Orren's grin faltered, but he pressed on, throwing another gale, sharper, laced with cutting force. Again, Elira's shield pulsed, bending the wind aside. She stepped forward, calm as a shadow, then flicked her wrist. A ray of light cracked across the air, striking the earth inches from Orren's foot and leaving the dirt scorched white.
He stumbled back, swallowing hard. "I—I yield!"
Elira lowered her hand without a word.
The courtyard fell silent for a heartbeat, the children staring at her with a mixture of awe and unease. Even the man's eyes lingered on her longer than usual before he nodded slowly.
"Well done. Control like that is rare."
Unseen by them, from the shadow of the hall, the mistress watched. Her gaze was sharp, calculating, lips curved in a faint smile.
"So," she whispered to herself. "That girl… interesting."
The laughter and chatter resumed, the children none the wiser.
But Elira felt it—that weight of eyes from afar.
The courtyard buzzed as Serik stomped back into the circle, water dripping from his hair. The children teased him mercilessly, some clapping Anira on the back, others laughing at Serik's sputtering complaints.
Among the giggles and chatter, a slim girl with pale silver eyes and dark braids stood quietly, hands folded behind her back. She hadn't sparred yet. Kairo noticed how she didn't join the laughter—she only tilted her head slightly, watching the match with an unreadable calm.
"What's her name again?" Kairo whispered to Igron.
Igron shrugged. "Elira. Doesn't talk much. I think she's waiting for her turn."
Elira blinked, meeting Kairo's gaze for the briefest moment. Then she looked away, silent as ever, as though her thoughts were somewhere far beyond the courtyard.
The instructor barked again, pulling everyone's attention back. "Next match!"