"You. I challenge you to a duel."

The words did not echo, they simply settled, low and solid, into the field like a stone cast into a still pond. And just like that, the entire space quieted.

The clang of training swords stopped mid-air; Arthur and Alex froze where they stood, their bout interrupted by the sheer strangeness of what had been said. The quiet murmur of spectators, the low chuckles and sneers that had filled the background like static, all dissipated into silence. Even Dawson, who had up until now worn the self-satisfied grin of someone utterly certain of his position, stood frozen, as if he was not quite sure he'd heard correctly.

Alex appeared beside Jacob almost immediately, as if summoned by instinct rather than intention, his expression lined with concern as he crouched and helped him to his feet. His voice was sharp, low, pressed with urgency. "What in the world are you doing, Jacob?"

But Jacob didn't respond. He didn't even acknowledge the question. His eyes remained locked on Dawson, not with the look of a man issuing a bold proclamation or seeking redemption, but with a quiet and simmering resentment that didn't flare or rage, it just sat there, steady and rooted, heavy in his chest and heavier in his gaze.

When Alex saw that look, he understood, there would be no walking this back. The challenge had been made, and even if Jacob hadn't shouted it, even if it hadn't been dressed in theatrics, it had come from a place so unshakably certain that no words would pull it back now.

Dawson blinked, then scoffed, his confusion replaced by incredulous disdain, and whatever performative cruelty he had worn earlier gave way to something sharper, more personal.

"You… you want to challenge me?" he repeated, his voice climbing not in volume but in scorn. He gave a dry, humorless laugh. "This isn't even funny. Are you suicidal, or are you just mocking me? You who can't even swing a sword properly, you want to duel me?"

He took a step forward, slow and deliberate, his eyes glinting with a kind of scornful amusement that came not from malice alone but from certainty, a certainty that this wasn't going to be a fight so much as an exhibition.

"I've been training since I was four," he continued, his voice gaining strength now, fed by the attention of the silent crowd behind him. "Years of drills, real combat, instructors, blood, failure, and you what? You read a few books and decided you're ready to step onto the field?"

Another step, and another, until he was just a pace away, until his presence began to loom and then, without hesitation, Arthur moved, placing himself between the two of them in one smooth motion, his sword unsheathed and held diagonally across his body, calm but unmistakably poised for violence.

"One more step," Arthur said, his voice low but absolute, "and I'll cut you down where you stand."

Dawson halted, blinking at the cold finality of Arthur's tone, and though he didn't retreat, he didn't advance either. For all his bravado, he wasn't a fool.

Jacob, still breathing a little harder than normal, wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, then turned his head slightly without taking his eyes off Dawson.

"Alex," he said, quiet but firm. "Any recovery potion you have I want it. Now."

Alex stood there for a second, caught between disbelief and a reluctant sense of admiration. On one hand, it was foolish, no it was reckless. There was no scenario where Jacob could win this duel. He lacked everything, skill, strength, precision, balance, even the instinct to anticipate an opponent's movement. There wasn't even a contest here; it would be a one-sided affair, brutal and swift, and everyone watching knew it.

But on the other hand…

There was something stubbornly admirable in Jacob's stance, in the way he refused to back down, not because he thought he could win, but because losing quietly was the one thing he couldn't bring himself to accept.

"Alex… please."

Jacob's voice was quieter now, not desperate, but resolute in a way that surprised even him, and though the earlier surge of anger, the hot, blinding kind had since cooled into something steadier, something heavy and deliberate, the desire hadn't vanished.

It was still there, pulsing like a second heartbeat beneath his skin. He had acted in a moment of fury, yes, but even with the haze lifted, the conclusion remained unchanged: he wanted to fight Dawson. He had to.

Even if it meant losing.

He couldn't keep standing there, letting someone like Dawson throw insults at him without consequence. It wasn't just pride, it was something deeper, more instinctive. It was the unbearable sense that if he stayed silent, if he let this pass, then he'd be confirming all their assumptions, admitting to everyone watching that there was truth in what Dawson had said. That Jacob Skydrid was pathetic. That he was weak. That he was not worth even the mockery being thrown at him.

But he was better than this. He had to be. He was a Skydrid, not some nameless whelp dragged in off the street. He had talent. He had promise. Why did Dawson speak as though he were above him, as though everything Jacob had been told his entire life was some elaborate lie? What had Dawson done that made him feel so justified?

Alex exhaled slowly, staring at Jacob for a long moment, as though trying to find something behind his expression, some doubt, some regret, but whatever he saw must have settled it for him, because without another word, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small bottle of deep green liquid, holding it out with an almost reluctant flick of the wrist.

"Sure," he said, his voice flat with something between amusement and warning. "Knock yourself out."

Jacob took the vial without so much as a glance, popped the cork, and drank it all in one smooth motion. The effect was nearly instantaneous: the trembling in his limbs eased, the tightness in his chest faded, and the exhaustion that had clung to his bones like wet cloth evaporated.

The potion worked quickly, better than he expected, Alex hadn't given him something cheap. That in itself was a gesture.

Still, Jacob's eyes didn't leave Dawson. Not for a moment.

And Dawson, for his part, hadn't looked away either.

Alex stepped back and moved towards Arthur, reaching for his arm as he leaned in with a half-smile that never quite reached his eyes. "This should be fun," he muttered, before pulling them both out of the circle that was slowly forming.

Jacob walked to the center of the field without ceremony, and Dawson followed a few paces behind. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. The crowd, composed of Dawson's comrades and a few scattered onlookers who had been drawn by the tension, closed in to form a loose ring around them, an unspoken boundary forming without rules, without declarations.

It was clear from the way they stood, the slight shifts in weight, the sidelong glances, that Dawson wasn't the only one who felt amused, even insulted, by the challenge. To them, it was ludicrous. Jacob couldn't even stand properly half an hour ago, and now he thought himself fit to duel? Against Dawson of all people?

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Jacob gripped his sword with both hands, his fingers tense around the worn leather hilt, and kept his eyes locked on Dawson's face, searching for any change, any trace of surprise or concern, but there was none. Dawson stood loosely, arms relaxed, his posture almost careless, as though this was a sparring match with a younger sibling he had no intention of hurting.

He didn't even draw his blade, his stance unguarded, casual, faintly mocking.

There was no signal, no referee to call the start, no formal announcement. It just began. One moment they were both still, waiting, watching, and then Jacob ran forward.

It was not fast. Not even close.

There was no grace to his motion, no technique or precision, only a raw, impulsive drive that pushed his body toward Dawson like a thrown stone, and the swing that followed was much the same: wide, heavy, predictable, fueled by the kind of anger that cared more about landing than landing well.

It was a clumsy, wide arc, a swing any competent fighter could have parried with ease, but Dawson didn't even bother to meet it with steel. Instead, with a calm shift of weight and a fluid step back, he let it pass harmlessly through the air, untouched and unchallenged. He didn't lift his blade. He didn't even unsheathe it.

"Jacob Skydrid," Dawson said, his voice calm, almost performative, "In five hundred moves, I declare that your blade will touch neither my body nor my sword. Prove me wrong, if you can."

The words weren't shouted, yet they carried across the field with absolute clarity, every syllable soaked in pride, in contempt so quiet and measured it didn't need to be loud. And just like that, Jacob's fury stirred again, rising in his chest, his arms, his legs until it became motion.

He attacked without rhythm, without aim, his sword cutting through the air again and again, each strike powered by sheer anger and little else. He knew nothing of footwork, nothing of timing or distance, he only knew how to swing, and so he did, again and again, as though brute repetition could break through the barrier of skill that stood before him.

He slashed horizontally, and Dawson would lean just enough to let it pass.

He brought the blade down in a vertical chop, and Dawson would pivot to the side with a detached elegance, always just outside of reach.

The boy's sword remained untouched in its sheath.

That was the worst part.

Dawson hadn't even drawn his weapon. He didn't need to. It was a deliberate insult, and Jacob understood it for exactly what it was. Every dodge, every sidestep, every shrug of motion that avoided contact, each one was another way of saying: you don't matter.

And then the chanting began.

He didn't hear it at first, not until the voices rose in eerie synchronization, their rhythm almost celebratory, as though they were counting down to some invisible spectacle. When he finally processed the words, his footwork faltered, and he nearly stumbled forward.

"Move four hundred and ninety-five!" they cried, like a choir echoing across the grass.

His heart lurched. Had he really swung that many times?

Four hundred and ninety-five, and not once had he even brushed Dawson's clothes. Not a scrape, not a whisper of contact.

Grinding his teeth, Jacob lunged in close and swung upward, trying for Dawson's hand, hoping that maybe proximity would limit the boy's room to maneuver, but Dawson shifted slightly to the left and let the blade pass as if it were nothing more than a gust of wind.

"Four hundred and ninety-six," came the chorus.

Jacob's grip tightened. In frustration, he let the weight of the sword drag him forward, and then, in a wild, instinctive motion, he let go of the hilt, dropped low, and drove his fist toward Dawson's chest with everything he had left.

A childish move. An untrained move. A desperate one.

Dawson tilted his head, bent down, and let the punch miss entirely.

"Four hundred and ninety-seven."

Jacob collapsed onto one knee, panting hard, but still moving. He snatched up his sword with clumsy urgency and swung again, this time from the side, aimed high, toward Dawson's head.

With a sudden burst of lightness, Dawson leapt straight up, his body rising smoothly above the arc of the blade, and landed a few feet away with the practiced grace of someone who wasn't just good, but used to being watched.

The crowd roared.

"Four hundred and ninety-eight."

Jacob clenched his fists and rose to his feet, his breath unsteady, his fingers trembling slightly as they tightened around the hilt of his sword. He squared his stance, adjusted his footing, and locked his eyes on Dawson, eyes filled with frustration, fatigue, and a kind of stubborn, silent anger that refused to fade no matter how many times he failed.

Dawson met his gaze with a quiet smile and tilted his head, calm and unhurried, like a teacher giving one last hint to a failing student. "Two more moves, Skydrid. Plan them. Make them count."

Plan? Jacob hadn't been able to plan a single move since this started. His attacks had been a string of angry improvisations, wild slashes and clumsy feints powered more by instinct than thought. He knew it. He hated it. And every miss, every untouched blow, dug deeper into his pride than the last.

But still, he had two chances left.

Without waiting another second, Jacob pushed off the ground and charged forward, the weight of his exhaustion dragging behind him like a shadow.

He swung his blade in a wide arc toward Dawson's left, his whole body following the motion, and as the boy dodged, smooth and practiced, Jacob released the sword from his grip, letting the momentum carry it through the air in a final, desperate attempt to catch him unaware.

This was the one. It had to be. The plan was simple, direct, and it should have worked.

But it didn't.

Dawson had already seen it coming, had seen everything, from the stiff way Jacob's muscles tensed before the swing to the subtle looseness that followed it, the telltale signs of a release. Even Jacob's eyes had betrayed him, flickering too early toward the moment the blade would fly free.

And so, with almost theatrical ease, Dawson sidestepped again.

The sword passed by him harmlessly.

The crowd didn't wait.

"Five hundred!" they shouted in unison, their voices filled with delight and mockery, their anticipation released all at once like pressure from a bottle.

Jacob stumbled to a stop, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he glared at Dawson, who now turned to face him fully, a smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You got five hundred tries," Dawson said lightly, "so it's only fair I get the same."

He still didn't reach for his sword.

Instead, he raised his fists.

He moved in quickly, too quickly for someone who hadn't even begun to take the fight seriously, and Jacob barely had time to raise his arms, using the flat of his blade to brace for the first strike.

But the punch didn't come straight.

It curved at the last second, slipping past Jacob's block and slamming into his ribs, knocking the air out of him and forcing his body to fold over in pain. He didn't have time to recover. The second blow came from below, a sharp uppercut into his exposed gut that made his stomach twist violently, and for a moment, Jacob could do nothing but cough and gag, tasting bile at the back of his throat.

Still, Dawson didn't stop.

He swept Jacob's legs out from under him, sending him crashing onto the field, and before he could even raise a hand in defense, Dawson straddled him and shoved his arms aside with ease, pinning him down.

"Five hundred's a bit much," Dawson said calmly, his tone almost casual now, as though they were back in class, discussing numbers over lunch. "I think I'll just keep punching your ugly face until I feel better."

And that's exactly what Dawson did.

He struck Jacob again and again from above, each punch landing with dull, unforgiving force, sending jolts of pain radiating through his already battered body. Jacob twisted beneath him, squirming like an animal caught in a trap, doing whatever he could to escape the weight pinning him down.

He flailed, swung upward with wild fists, shouted in anger and desperation, even tried to bite at Dawson's arm when it came too close, his movements frantic, disorganized, and utterly ineffective.

It was pitiful, and it was hopeless.

For every frantic attempt Jacob made to throw him off, Dawson answered with another blow, each one heavier than the last, each one widening the gashes on Jacob's face, loosening another tooth, deepening the swelling around his eyes, or bending his nose at an unnatural angle.

The blood came freely now, seeping into the dust beneath him, thick and warm and metallic. The pain filled every corner of his body, smothering thought and reason alike. But it didn't numb him. It didn't knock him out. If anything, it made him more aware, more awake, more furious.

Still, it didn't change the outcome.

He was too slow, too untrained, and far too weak to do anything but endure it.

Eventually, though it couldn't have been more than a few minutes, despite feeling far longer, Dawson finally stopped. He stood up slowly, exhaled, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, then looked down at the broken figure sprawled beneath him.

Jacob lay there, barely conscious, his chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven gasps, his face almost unrecognizable beneath the bruises and blood. And still, his eyes tried to stay open.

Dawson spoke without venom, only certainty. "For the kind of insult you threw at me by challenging me like that... if you weren't a Skydrid, I'd have killed you. Remember that."

With that, he turned and walked away, not bothering to look back.

But Jacob, through blood-crusted lashes and the haze of pain, kept his gaze fixed on Dawson's retreating figure. Even now, even like this, the rage inside him hadn't been extinguished. It burned hotter than ever, feeding on humiliation and blood and failure.

Jacob, he would remember this.

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