The courtyard of the academy buzzed like a living storm. Young nobles and common-born alike stood in neat lines, staffs and grimoires in hand, each waiting to test their skills in the dueling ring. The instructors stood along the sides, watching with sharp eyes.
Elian adjusted his uniform and exhaled. He had spent the morning replaying the simulation in his mind—the healing light, the fleeting glimpse of a woman pierced by an arrow, and the way he had fainted afterward. He didn't fully understand it, but he could still feel the echo in his chest. A faint warmth. A quiet thrum, like a heartbeat inside a heartbeat.
What happened to me? And… why does it feel so familiar?
The Instructor's Command
"Today," Instructor Ravel boomed, "you will demonstrate your combat abilities. Precision, power, control—all will be evaluated. Remember, duels end when one party yields or can no longer continue. No lethal attacks."
His voice was deep, commanding, the kind that made even the most arrogant nobles straighten their backs. He glanced at the roster in his hand, then called:
"Elian Vershart. Lyra Alstein. You're up."
Whispers shot through the crowd.
"Lyra? She's one of the strongest in this year's intake…"
"And who's Elian again? The one with the broken magic ball?"
"Ah, this will be quick."
Elian stepped forward calmly, ignoring the voices. He didn't care what they thought. He wanted to test himself—to understand.
Lyra, radiant with confidence, strode across the ring. Sunlight caught her silver hair, her posture flawless, her chin lifted. She looked like someone born to command respect. And yet, when her sharp eyes met Elian's calm golden ones, something inside her shifted—though she didn't let it show.
"So," she said casually, rolling her shoulders, "try not to embarrass yourself."
Elian smirked faintly. "I could say the same to you."
Her brows twitched. She wasn't used to that kind of response.
The Duel Begins
The instructor raised his hand.
"Begin."
Lyra wasted no time. Flames bloomed around her fingertips, swirling into a chain of fiery lances. With practiced grace, she flicked her wrist, and three bolts shot forward in a rapid arc.
Gasps rose from the crowd. "So fast!"
Elian didn't counter. Instead, his eyes locked on the incoming trajectory, his body moving with uncanny precision. He sidestepped the first, ducked the second, and leaned just enough for the third to pass by with the heat grazing his cheek. His movements weren't flashy, but they were exact.
Lyra blinked, momentarily caught off guard. He read them… perfectly?
Seizing the moment, Elian raised his hand. A small flame flickered to life in his palm—weak compared to hers, no larger than a candle. The crowd chuckled.
But Elian didn't aim for power. He focused, narrowing his eyes, calculating wind, distance, and angle. He flicked his wrist—
The tiny flame shot forward like a dart, grazing Lyra's sleeve just enough to burn the edge of the fabric without touching her skin.
The crowd fell silent. Then, whispers.
"What the…? That accuracy…"
"He aimed that weak spell so perfectly?"
"Impossible. That wasn't luck."
Lyra glanced at the charred edge of her sleeve, then back at Elian. Her lips curved, half annoyance, half intrigue. "So, you're not a complete beginner."
Elian smiled faintly. "Told you not to underestimate me."
Lyra's eyes narrowed, and she moved again. Fire roared to life in both hands now, a storm of blazing arcs. She wasn't going to let him play games.
Elian braced himself, raising his hand. He tried to summon flame again, but in that instant—
Thump.
His chest pulsed, harder this time. His vision blurred. The world slowed.
"My child…"
The voice was soft, warm, familiar, like a lullaby echoing in his mind. His hand trembled, and suddenly, the flame in his palm flared—not orange, but a strange mixture of silver and black light. It shimmered unnaturally, glowing brighter for a heartbeat.
The audience gasped. Even Instructor Ravel's eyes widened.
"What is that…?"
"That's not standard magic!"
The aura pulsed once more, sending a faint ripple through the dueling field. The training dummies along the edge rattled as if pushed by invisible wind. Lyra froze mid-step, her eyes widening in shock.
"That… wasn't human magic," she whispered.
And just as quickly, the glow vanished. The silver-black light flickered out, leaving only the faint smell of singed air. Elian staggered, dropping to one knee, panting softly. His chest ached, but there was no pain—only confusion.
He looked at his hand, trembling slightly. What… was that? That wasn't my flame. That wasn't even human magic…
Instructor Ravel raised his voice sharply. "Enough! Duel suspended." His gaze fixed on Elian, sharp and unreadable. "You… you are something unusual."
The crowd erupted in whispers.
"Did you see that light?"
"It wasn't fire. It wasn't anything I've seen…"
"What is he?"
Elian slowly stood, meeting Lyra's eyes across the field. She didn't look triumphant. She didn't look smug. She looked curious—almost captivated.
And for the first time, Elian realized: the mystery wasn't only his. Others had seen it too.
The question burned in his chest, louder than the whispers around him:
What is happening to me?