The morning the Academy gates opened, the sky looked half-asleep—soft gold leaking through gray. Students poured across the bridge like a living current: nobles in crisp uniforms, commoners in whatever they could afford, everyone pretending not to stare at everyone else.
Taren Veyr tugged at his collar and pretended not to care either. The new fabric still felt strange on him. It wasn't the uniform that bothered him; it was the tiny silver crest sewn inside the cuff—a noble's mark. He kept it hidden, same as always. Let people think what they wanted. It was easier being underestimated than being treated like he was something special.
He slipped through a group of laughing first-years and stopped at the courtyard edge. The stones of the training circle shimmered faintly, alive with Aether. It smelled of dust, oil, and that faint metallic tang that always came before a duel. He smiled. This was the part of the world that made sense.
"First evaluations begin at the third bell!" someone shouted.
Perfect. Enough time to watch the prodigies show off before he embarrassed himself.
He found a low wall and sat, spinning a flicker of fire between his fingers. The flame obeyed just long enough to show off, then sputtered out. Typical. Control wasn't really his thing.
A gust rolled through the yard. He squinted up—and saw her.
Serin Lyra.
Every rumor about her looked suddenly believable. Tall for her age, posture like a blade drawn from a sheath, the faint crest of House Lyra pinned to her shoulder. Even the air seemed sharper near her. Students parted without thinking, the way grass bends when wind passes.
She moved with the calm of someone who already knew she belonged here. He couldn't decide if it irritated or impressed him.
When her gaze swept the courtyard, it caught on him—just long enough for him to grin. Reflex. The kind of grin that says I see your crown, and I don't care.
Her brows lifted a fraction. Dismissive. That tiny expression hit harder than a shove.
"Next pair!" the instructor barked. Names echoed, clipped and loud.
"…Taren Veyr and Serin Lyra."
Of course. Fate had a sense of humor.
Taren hopped down from the wall, stretching like he'd been waiting all morning for this. Serin stepped into the circle opposite him, wind tugging lightly at her hair, expression carved from marble.
"Try not to set the courtyard on fire," she said.
He smirked. "Try not to blow away the audience, princess."
A few students snorted; others whispered. Nobles didn't usually get spoken to like that, especially not by someone wearing scuffed boots.
The instructor dropped his hand. "Begin!"
---
The world snapped into color.
Taren's fire burst from his palms, a swirling ribbon of heat that scorched the air. Serin met it with a cutting arc of wind, the two forces slamming together in a flash of white.
He moved first—always did—charging through his own smoke. She pivoted, graceful, precise. Her gale caught his sleeve, twisting him off balance, but he rolled with it, heat flaring under his skin.
"Too slow," she called.
"Just warming up."
He slammed his palm into the ground. Flame raced along the etched sigils, circling her feet. She lifted a hand; the wind spiraled upward, snuffing half the ring. For a heartbeat, the two elements didn't fight—they danced. Fire curved toward wind, pulled as if by gravity. A thin spiral of gold and blue spun between them, humming softly.
The spectators leaned forward. Even the instructor stopped shouting.
Then it was gone—snuffed like a candle.
Both stood frozen. Serin's eyes widened a fraction; Taren's breath came ragged, part exhaustion, part disbelief.
"What was that?" he muttered.
She shook her head once. "You tell me."
The instructor cleared his throat. "Enough! Match—drawn. Report to your mentors."
Taren grinned again, the grin he wore when he didn't know what else to do. "Guess it's a tie, Your Highness."
"It's Serin." Her tone was cool, but not as sharp as before. She turned, cloak snapping in the wind, leaving him blinking at the empty space she'd occupied.
---
That night, he couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that spiral—the place where fire had bent, not broken. He'd fought dozens of duels, won a few, lost more, but nothing had ever listened to him like that moment had.
Somewhere else in the dorm towers, Serin stood on her balcony, wind curling around her wrist like a question. She kept replaying the same instant: the warmth of his fire touching her wind without burning. Impossible. Unacceptable. Intriguing.
The world outside hummed softly with the breath of Aether. Neither of them knew it yet, but the hum had changed key.
---
> In every age, something stirs when opposites meet.
Sometimes it's only trouble.
Sometimes it's destiny pretending to be trouble.