The classrooms weren't rooms.
They were arenas with desks.
---
The Sword Track's first session met in a circular space beneath the east spire. White stone pillars curved around the open pit like teeth. Above us, stained-glass banners let sunlight bleed through red and blue and silver.
Thirty students.
Iron to Silver rank.
Half noble-born. Half "merit entrants."
All hungry.
I stood near the far edge. Not hiding. Just away from the crowd.
Swords were required.
Aura was not.
Yet the air was *full* of it.
No one flared theirs openly. But everyone was leaking — letting a thin mist of pressure curl around them like smoke from a covered fire.
Some of it was fear.
Most of it was warning.
---
I recognized the boy from House Sylvarne again.
He stood straight-backed two rows ahead. His uniform was clean, boots polished. His sword was plain — black hilt, no crest. But his aura curled like coiled lightning just behind his skin.
He turned once.
Saw me.
This time, I nodded.
He nodded back.
---
Someone cleared their throat.
Cassian.
Of course.
He entered late, casually. Hair tied high. His aura wrapped tight around his right arm — showing off precision. Not power.
He passed me slowly.
Muttered:
"Still here? Thought you'd vanish before daybreak."
I didn't respond.
He kept walking.
---
The instructor arrived second.
A man with a limp, a pale scar across his throat, and no house crest.
His sword was wooden.
But it rang like metal when he set it down.
He didn't give us a name.
He just said, "Draw."
And thirty swords came free as one.
---
We stood in silence.
Then he pointed to the arena center.
"Duel Circle."
A ripple passed through the class.
Not nerves.
Anticipation.
He pointed again.
Two names.
"Westenra. Sylvarne."
---
I stepped forward.
So did the other boy.
We met in the center, two blades drawn.
He spoke first.
"Name's Kalen."
"Atlas."
A pause.
Then: "Don't hold back."
"I won't."
---
The instructor snapped his fingers.
No countdown.
No stance calls.
Just the ring of sound.
---
Kalen moved first.
Fast. Side-step. Rising cut aimed for the ribs.
I twisted past it and angled my blade up, catching his shoulder.
Cloth tore.
No blood.
He smiled.
"Good."
Then he flared.
Not wildly — with shape. Aura coiled around his arm, condensed to the edge of his sword.
He cut high. Then low. Then spun.
I met the last strike mid-spin, blocking edge to edge.
The stone cracked beneath our feet.
---
My aura was quieter.
It didn't flare.
It bled.
Outward. Subtle. Wrong.
The others watched as the ring darkened faintly under my boots.
Not heat. Not shadow.
Something else.
Kalen stepped back. His breath hitched.
He wasn't afraid.
But he noticed.
---
I dropped into Fang One.
Diagonal guard. Body loose.
He hesitated.
I struck.
Not hard.
Not fast.
Just... precise.
---
The impact slid his sword back an inch.
Aura snapped.
He recoiled.
And the ring split under his left foot.
He stumbled. Nearly fell.
I didn't press.
I stepped back.
Lowered my sword.
The instructor raised his hand.
"Break."
---
Kalen straightened.
He didn't look angry.
He looked intrigued.
He approached me, breathing even.
"You're holding back."
"So are you."
Another silence.
He nodded once.
"Good."
Then walked off.
---
Cassian said nothing.
But his eyes didn't leave me.
Not once.
---
Later, after dismissal, I walked the upper halls alone.
Until I passed her.
---
She stood near the indoor garden archway, speaking with another girl I didn't recognize — tall, dark coat, faint silver brooch.
The girl speaking was different.
Not by posture.
By... absence.
She stood straight. Arms behind her back. Not a wrinkle in her coat. Her hair, black as coalglass, was pulled into a long braid that gleamed beneath the torchlight.
But it was her eyes that struck.
Cold.
Not cruel.
Just uninterested.
---
She looked at me once.
I don't know why.
But it felt like being judged by something older than a name.
Then she turned away.
---
I didn't speak.
But I remembered her.
Even if the others didn't yet.
---
Back in my quarters, I drew the sword.
Set it across my knees.
And felt the silence that followed me wherever I went.
The Fang was still quiet.
But the pulse in my wrist said otherwise.
It was waking again.