The mud sucked at Cassian's boots. Gray slurry, churned earth mixed with residual mana. It smelled of ozone and wet iron.
Cassian stood opposite Elian. Ten paces.
He knew the sequence. *Cassian draws. Cassian screams. Cassian dies.* The memory sat in his head like a bruise, tender and unavoidable.
He shifted his grip. Right hand on the hilt, left hand open. He tried to settle into a noble stance—feet shoulder-width, chin up—but his knees wanted to bend, his shoulders wanted to hunch. The body remembered the office; the mind remembered the script. Neither matched the sword.
Elian wore rough-spun gray, stained at the hem. He didn't look at Cassian's eyes. He looked at the center of his chest.
"I don't want to do this," Elian said. Flat. No anger. "Yield."
Cassian glanced at the stone balcony above. Three instructors. The Headmaster's hand rested on the railing. The ward surrounding the courtyard flickered—a violet stutter in the air. Safety protocols were offline. They weren't intervening. This was a test.
*Exile means death.* The thought wasn't a sentence; it was a reflex. He saw his father's study, the map of the borderlands marked in red ink. The Vane enemies waited outside these walls.
Cassian tightened his stance. It felt wrong.
Elian sighed. He stepped forward.
No warning. Elian moved like a mechanism closing. The blade came up in a straight line. Aimed for the wrist.
Cassian raised his left arm.
Steel bit into flesh.
Pain spiked up the radius. Sharp. Clean. Then the muscle beneath the wound jerked. It didn't spasm; it *moved*. The flesh surged inward, contracting around the blade edge.
Cassian tried to pull back. His arm didn't obey.
The skin around the cut turned gray, hardening like cured leather. It clamped onto the steel. Elian twisted his wrist to withdraw. The blade stayed stuck, embedded in Cassian's forearm by his own tightening tissue.
"You're hurt," Elian said. His voice tightened. "Let go. You'll lose the arm."
Cassian couldn't speak. His breath hitched. He stepped in, dragged by the connection. He swung his head.
Forehead against nose. Cartilage crushed. Blood sprayed, viscous and dark across Cassian's face. It smelled like copper pennies.
Elian stumbled back. He wrenched the blade free with a wet tearing sound. Cassian's arm hung useless. The wound had sealed into a thick, ropy scar. The skin around it was numb, dead weight.
On the balcony, an instructor reached for a spell component. He stopped. His face went pale. He looked at the Headmaster. The Headmaster shook his head. *Watch.*
Behind the wards, a student retched.
Elian wiped blood from his eyes. He looked at the arm. The composure cracked. He wasn't looking at a rival. He was looking at a malfunction.
"Infirmary," Elian said. "Go."
Cassian tried to speak. His throat felt raw. "I'm... fine."
The words slurred. The numbness was spreading up his wrist. He tried to flex his fingers. The pinky didn't move. The thumb responded slow, like moving through water.
"You're mutilated," Elian said. He raised his sword again. The tip shook. "Stay down."
Cassian dropped his sword. It landed in the mud with a wet slap.
He walked past Elian. He didn't look at the instructors. He focused on the arm. The scar pulsed with a faint heat. The pain was gone, replaced by a cold stiffness. He had bought survival with function.
He stopped beside Elian. Close enough to smell the iron on his breath.
"Next time," Cassian said. His voice cracked. The numbness made his jaw feel loose. "Not... the arm."
He kept walking.
Behind him, no one breathed.
Cassian pushed open the gate. The cold air hit his face. He looked at his left hand. The fingers twitched, independent of his will, before settling back into stillness. The pinky hung limp.
He wrapped his right hand around the left wrist. He needed to stop the shaking. He needed to find out what his body had become before it decided to change again without permission.
The mud squelched under his boots. He didn't look back.