Morning sunlight streamed into the combat arena, casting long shadows across the sand and stone. The scent of dry dust and old leather hung in the air.

Professor Kaelthorne strolled along the assembled line of students, cracking her knuckles and wearing the expression of someone who had just remembered why she enjoyed teaching.

"Well, this should be entertaining," she said, hands clasped behind her back. "Everyone armed and ready? Good."

She hadn't waited for confirmation.

Weylan grinned. She'd made it clear beforehand that anyone foolish enough to arrive without a weapon, despite her very specific instructions, would fight bare-handed. For added incentive, she'd informed them that the protective enchantments on the arena would be adjusted, just for them.

Most students had brought their own gear, a few had borrowed from the well-stocked racks inside the arena's arsenal. Weylan had brought his enchanted shortsword. He didn't plan to bother hiding its abilities. Sooner or later, people would see what it could do. Something in the air told him he wouldn't finish the semester without a real fight, maybe not even the week.

Valen Aldrich stood further down the line, one hand resting theatrically on the gilded hilt of his rapier. Nearby, the priestesses and Ulmenglanz had each chosen a quarterstaff. Kane spun a long-handled warhammer with one hand like it weighed nothing. Darken, with his usual smug composure, held a small round shield, a metal buckler, and nothing else. Weylan wasn't sure if that was a joke or a threat.

The rest of the class was armed with a mix of standard swords, clubs, and a couple of elegant spears.

Kaelthorne reached the end of the line and turned to face them.

"Today, I want to see how you handle yourselves with weapons," she announced. "We'll run a round of duels, ten points for each win. Rules are simple, any melee weapon, your own or borrowed. No ranged magic, touch spells only. Buffs on yourself are allowed. Three clean strikes win. If I call a hit, it counts. The duel pauses, you salute, and resume. Protective wards are set to maximum, so don't hold back."

She gave that a moment to settle, then gestured toward a stone pedestal at the side of the arena. A large chalice rose from a hidden compartment in the floor, black smoke curling from its rim.

"Draw your tokens. All tokens have symbols, there are two of every symbol. You can guess the rest."

Students lined up to draw. Weylan approached with a shrug and plunged his hand into the smoke. He pulled out a black metal disk, etched with a silver triangle.

The moment he turned, he nearly bumped into a grinning Valen Aldrich holding up an identical token.

"Fate has a sense of humor," the noble said brightly.

While the others searched for their duel partners, Weylan made his way over to Faya. "May I pet Sir Cloverton for good luck?"

She nodded solemnly and held out the verdant hare. Weylan reached out and stroked the chimera's leafy fur. The moment Malvorik's voice echoed in his mind, he just barely avoided flinching.

<Weylan, listen closely. Do not draw your Assassin's Knife inside the arena.>

Maintaining a polite smile, he took the hare into his arms and kept petting it, using the motion to mask his reaction.

<I have rune-hacked the arena's clairvoyance enchantments, and tested their abilities on you and your equipment. Your enchanted swordstaff is fine. But the knife… It's problematic. I underestimated that weapon of yours. It carries properties that might bypass the arena's protective wards. You can't access them at your level, as it seems to be designed to draw power from its owner. But if you draw it here, the enchantments will sound the alarm.>

Weylan nodded gently and murmured, "Who's a good hare? You are, yes you are." Then, under his breath, "How did you even…"

<How did I hack their enchantments? They're still using the old apprentice-grade access runes I learned in my first year as a mage. Those runes are meant to be replaced. It's like using the pass-phrase 'Open' for the Mage-Lock enchantment of your vault.>

He gave the hare a final pat, then handed it back to Faya with a grateful nod.

A few minutes later, he faced Valen Aldrich at the center of the arena. Kaelthorne gave the signal.

Weylan drew his shortsword in a low arc. Aldrich pulled his gleaming rapier free with a flourish, light catching along the etched runes on the blade.

Their first exchange was brief, three strikes, two parries, one disengage.

Aldrich raised an eyebrow. "You do know how to hold a sword. I owe Erik a gold coin."

Weylan smirked. "Glad to be of service."

"Let's pick up the pace, then."

The second clash came fast. Weylan moved low and quick, Aldrich danced with long, elegant footwork. Their weapons flashed and collided, steps echoing sharp against the arena stones.

Then Aldrich's rapier flared, not with fire, but light. It left a shimmering trail with each swing, a spectral afterimage that lingered just long enough to confuse the eye.

Weylan ducked, parried, and stepped back, but not fast enough.

The next blow came from a direction he hadn't anticipated. He tried to pivot, but the gleaming afterimage tricked his senses.

A searing red line appeared across his throat, the signature flare of the arena's protective ward.

"Strike one for Weylan!" Kaelthorne called.

They saluted, then reengaged.

This time, Weylan focused not on the light, but on Aldrich himself, the tension in his shoulders, the placement of his weight.

The moment the next feint came, Weylan spotted the trick, the light trail continuing the false movement while the real strike curved low. He shifted, twisted, and parried.

"You're using a skill feat," Weylan said with a grin.

"Light Illusion Feint," Aldrich confirmed. "My first Journeyman-tier skill."

Weylan's grin widened. "Nice. Now I understand how that works."

The blade in his hand flickered, shadows folding around it until it turned into a black scheme, its edges bleeding darkness, until it left faint wisps with each motion, like ink in water.

He moved.

Midmotion, his sword split, its shadow continuing forward with the same arc while the real blade veered sideways. Aldrich lunged for the false motion.

Weylan's real blade struck his chest.

"Strike one for Aldrich!"

The noble staggered back, eyes narrowed.

"You copied my technique?" he asked.

Weylan shook his head. "I have the same kind of feat, just tuned to shadows instead of light. Same principle, different flavor. I couldn't yet figure out how to use it. Until now. Thanks for showing me."

Aldrich's smile returned, thinner now. "Then let's see how your shadows hold up against my light."

Kaelthorne leaned forward slightly, arms still crossed.

Now it was getting interesting.

They clashed again, blades ringing out, lines of shadow and light dancing in a chaotic blur. Both activated their skill feats simultaneously, and the area between them filled up with swirling illusions and after-images. Where both met, one of the illusions was cut and disappeared. Sometimes shadows cut light, sometimes light broke shadow.

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Illusory blades struck at angles neither had used, forcing each to rely on instinct as much as experience. Aldrich lunged, using a glowing blade of light as a distraction. Weylan sidestepped, just enough to avoid the real strike. His counter changed direction twice. With two shadow blades slicing at Aldrich's overextended arm. The noble bent his arm to parry in the direction he expected the real strike, but one of the shadows hid the real blade. It sliced his arm right at the wrist, leaving an angry line of light on the protective ward.

"Strike two for Aldrich!" Kaelthorne called.

Aldrich didn't flinch. He rebounded quickly, countered with his own feint. Weylan dodged as little as possible to stay near enough to counter at once. The exchange sped up until both combatants stopped using feints. Circling each other, they concentrated on pure swordsmanship. Aldrich blocked Weylan's shortsword and used some technique to hold and then move it aside. The assassin used three quick steps to get distance, but Aldrich followed him flawlessly. The blades kept locked together, then the noble swiped aside and tried to twirl his rapier around to get a cut in. Weylan followed the movement and kept control of the connected blades, but then felt an impact on his cheek and was blinded by a sparking blue flash.

"Strike two for Weylan," Kaelthorne called out, then added: "You do remember this is a mage duel, do you? And don't pretend you've never seen a Shock Grip spell."

Weylan blinked confused as the two stepped apart. Aldrich grinned: "I still owed you a slap."

They circled again, both breathing hard, eyes locked.

Then Weylan moved.

With a flick of his wrist and a mental command, the grip slid out of the bag of holding effect inside the guard. In a heartbeat, he held a staff the length of a quarterstaff, crowned with his blade. He changed his hold and triggered the hidden latch at the hilt. A second blade extended from the opposite side, transforming the weapon into a double-bladed swordstaff.

Gasps echoed from the watching students.

Weylan spun it into a low arc, pressing his new reach advantage. Aldrich stepped back, surprised, but just for a second. Using impressive footwork, he stayed outside the reach of Weylan's whirling swordstaff, then without warning, closed the range, and struck forward with a sudden, narrow thrust.

A flare of red light appeared on Weylan's chest, just above his heart.

"Final strike!" Kaelthorne announced, her voice sharp with excitement. "Victory to Aldrich!"

Both combatants stepped back and saluted, breathing heavily.

Kaelthorne clapped once. "Excellent work. Both of you showed expert application of advanced weapon feats. Ten points each."

Weylan nodded, chest rising and falling. He'd lost, but got his points anyway. And he'd learned a lot.

Skill increased: Acrobatic Dodge (Apprentice VIII)

Skill increased: Sword Staff (Journeyman IX)

Aldrich smirked as he stepped away. "Next time, bring a longer stick."

Weylan grinned back. "Next time, bring a friend. You're going to need reinforcements."

* * *

The arena quieted as Kaelthorne called the next pair.

"Kane versus Alina. Step forward."

Weylan, still catching his breath from the last duel, turned in his seat. This would be interesting.

Kane walked out with his usual relaxed stride, bare arms flexing as he rested his long-handled warhammer over one shoulder. The head of the weapon gleamed.

Alina was already at the center, quarterstaff in hand, expression as sharp as her tongue. Her armor wasn't flashy, just padded robes and reinforced gloves, but she radiated stubborn confidence.

Kaelthorne raised a hand. "Three strikes to win. You may begin."

Kane made the first move.

He didn't charge, he advanced, controlled, waiting for Alina to lash out.

She didn't disappoint. Her staff flicked forward, fast and clean, aimed at his head. Kane blocked it with one forearm, letting the staff clang against the bracer, then swung his hammer in a wide arc.

Alina leapt back, dancing out of range with the agility of someone used to dodging heavier opponents. She retaliated immediately, slamming her staff at the warhammer, moving it out of the way, then stepped closer. The unexpected aggressive move surprised Kane and enabled her to touch his arm. She cast a spell she had just learned a day ago: "Stunning Grasp!"

Mirabelle gasped in the audience. Alina had managed to learn a new spell already? Even before her?

Faya petted her grass haired familiar and smirked. "Surprised? She's been working on the level one stun spell for weeks now. It's from a codex of our church, so the hard work of adapting it to our methods has already been done."

Kane's body jerked slightly as the light pulsed, but he kept moving.

"You resisted?" Alina hissed. "Of course you did."

He grinned. "What shall I say, I have a constitution-based build."

Then he lunged.

Alina ducked the swing, but the hammer smashed the edge of her staff, sending vibrations through her arms. She growled, twisted, and spun behind him, smacking the back of his leg.

"Strike one for Kane!" Kaelthorne called.

He grunted, reset, and came at her again.

This time, she led the exchange, pushing the tempo with rapid jabs and light-footed dodges. Kane held firm, deflecting most of her strikes, but Alina was too fast to lock down.

Until she slipped. Just a misstep, damp stone, poor angle, but it gave Kane the opening.

His hammer moved like a falling star.

She barely got her staff up in time, the force knocking her flat.

"Strike one for Alina!"

She rolled back to her feet, scowling.

They circled again.

Kane struck from high this time, forcing Alina into a duck-and-slide move that brought her dangerously close. She tried a sweep with her staff, but he jumped. Surprisingly light on his feet, and brought the hammer down as he landed.

The wards flashed.

"Strike two for Alina!"

During the next exchange, Kane sped up suddenly, mist rising from his skin as potion reserves were consumed. He pushed her staff aside and his backswing hit so hard, it threw her backward and to the ground.

"Final strike. Victory to Kane!"

He offered her a hand.

Alina slapped it away, then sighed and took it anyway and pulled herself up. "Fine. You're faster than you look."

"You're tougher than you look," Kane replied. "I had to go out much more than I expected. I'm a combat mage, you're a healer. I should have been able to wipe the floor with you. Respect."

* * *

Kaelthorne's voice rang out once more.

"Erik versus Ulmenglanz. Step forward."

A few murmurs rippled through the students. This would be an odd matchup, noble sword versus dryad staff.

Erik jogged into the ring, his usual smirk in place. He had chosen a standard arming sword, its surface etched with mana lines that glimmered faintly with frost-blue energy.

Ulmenglanz entered from the opposite side, barefoot and calm. She held her quarterstaff in both hands, a living extension of her will. Her green eyes were unreadable, and the wind seemed to hush slightly as she took her stance.

Kaelthorne raised a hand. "Begin."

Erik didn't hesitate. He whispered a quick incantation and activated Frosttouch, sending pale blue light crawling along his blade.

Then he moved.

His first strike was fast and clean, and though Ulmenglanz blocked it, the moment the frost-enchanted blade touched her staff, a visible shudder rippled through her.

The arena wards flashed.

"Strike one for Ulmenglanz!" Kaelthorne called.

The dryad exhaled slowly. Not in pain, but in restraint.

"Ice magic. You dare to use ice magic against a dryad," she said menacingly.

She charged. He put one leg back and held the sword firm in her way, a flawless counter block. She didn't slow, but grabbed his sword with her bark covered hand and pulled him out of balance.

He stumbled, tried to pull back, but her grip didn't budge.

Her other hand grabbed his arm below the wrist. Turning around, she lifted him off the ground and hurled him over her shoulder like a sack of flour. He landed hard, rolled, and was immediately struck with a double handed strike of her staff.

And again.

And again.

"Wait, I yield…"

She didn't hear him.

Every blow triggered the ward's flare, signaling a hit.

By the time she stepped back, breathing evenly, Erik was lying on his back, arms splayed, blinking at the sky.

Kaelthorne called out, sounding almost amused, "Victory to Ulmenglanz. Next time please remember to give your opponent a moment to recover between hits. At least during training."

Faya clapped politely. Alina winced. Mirabelle scribbled something in her notebook that might have been a tactical diagram, or a warning.

Erik groaned. "Remind me… never to duel a dryad."

Ulmenglanz helped him to his feet. "I apologize. Ice magic was invented to battle dryads and plant-beings," she said. "We tend to react poorly when confronted with it."

Erik coughed. "You fought like a hurricane."

She smiled. "I learn from nature, which can be brutal and without mercy."

* * *

Kaelthorne raised her voice once again.

"Mirabelle versus Darken O'Mighty. Step forward."

Mirabelle looked unassuming at first glance. Rosy-cheeked, round-faced, with a crown of brown curls bouncing around her shoulders. She wore a forest-green cloak fastened with a bronze brooch shaped like a hearth-flame, the symbol of her goddess. Beneath it, her practical robes were reinforced with leather bracers and a sturdy belt lined with pouches. She held a simple quarterstaff. But her stance was grounded, her grip firm. There was resolve in her eyes.

Whispers immediately spread through the watching students. The bookish Mirabelle against Darken, a close combat mage who once described his combat style as "elegantly unhinged." It was hardly a balanced match.

Mirabelle walked into the ring with her quarterstaff clutched tight in both hands, face calm and serious.

Darken strolled in with a casual wave, round shield in his left hand and nothing in the other. No weapon, no wand. Just that smug grin and an unnerving glint in his eyes.

Kaelthorne raised a hand. "Begin."

Mirabelle didn't charge. Her lips moved without sound, hidden behind her vertical held staff.

Darken advanced.

He smirked as he closed the distance, assuming she was buying time or positioning herself defensively. Then his advance slowed, as did all of his movements. He blinked, confused, as each motion dragged.

Mirabelle stepped forward with sudden ferocity and swung her staff. He saw the attack coming, but could not lift his shield in time.

Thwack.

The ward on Darken's head flashed.

"Strike one for Darken!" Kaelthorne called.

Darken's smirk faltered. "Subtle. You created a slowness field on your position, then retreated. I should have seen that coming."

"You should have," Mirabelle said simply.

From then on, she went into a defensive stance. Her reach advantage with the staff kept him at bay, each swing methodical and controlled. Darken tried to maneuver inside her guard, but a deft swing of the staff held him back.

He tried a more aggressive approach. His shield caught one strike, then two, but the third slipped past and caught him in the side.

"Strike two for Darken!"

He hissed through his teeth and backed off.

Then he lunged, his hand glowing with one of his dark enchantments, aiming for a touch attack.

Mirabelle stepped back, twirled her staff, and jabbed at his extended had. He had to hastily abort his advance.

He tried again, more carefully. She slid away. Her defense was measured and tight, offering no real opening. He found no recklessness to exploit.

Darken lowered his hand slowly and straightened.

"I concede," he said, his voice sounding honestly amused. "Not worth getting brained by a librarian."

Kaelthorne nodded. "Victory to Mirabelle. Ten points."

Mirabelle exhaled, staff still raised.

Darken bowed to her, oddly respectful.

"Very well played," he said.

Kaelthorne's voice carried again. "Next match!"

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