Chapter 100

Chapter 100: Chapter 100

The gunshot echoed across the arena, and the combat exhibitions roared to life.

The first-year matches were first to take the sand, and the crowd settled into their seats with the eager anticipation of spectators who knew they were about to witness something extraordinary. The early matches were a blur of motion and steelbyoung wolves testing their mettle against each other, their techniques still rough but their determination undeniable.

A Shadowmoon first-year named Petra Halvik faced off against a Silvermoon girl named Sable Voss. Petra was stocky and powerful, his strikes heavy and deliberate. Sable was lighter on her feet, dancing around her opponent with the grace of a leaf on the wind. For two rounds they traded blows, neither gaining a clear advantage. In the third, Sable’s speed won out—she ducked under a wild swing and caught Petra across the ribs with a blunted blade, earning the winning point. The Silvermoon section cheered. The Shadowmoon students applauded respectfully.

Tomas Greer of Shadowmoon faced Lena Halvik of Silvermoon next. Tomas was a brawler, all raw power and aggression. Lena was a technician, her movements precise and economical. She let Tomas exhaust himself in the first round, dodging his heavy strikes with minimal effort. In the second, she struck—a quick combination to his midsection that left him gasping. In the third, he yielded. Silvermoon took another victory.

Then it was Marek’s turn.

He stepped into the circle with the quiet, implacable presence of a mountain. Across from him, Celeste Michigan of Silvermoon rolled her shoulders and grinned. She was tall for a woman, nearly Marek’s height, and her arms were corded with muscle. She carried a pair of short axes, their blades blunted but still formidable.

"Ready to lose, Shadowmoon?" she called.

Marek didn’t answer. He just raised his sword and waited.

The bell rang.

Celeste attacked first a whirlwind of axes that would have overwhelmed a lesser fighter. But Marek was not a lesser fighter. He blocked the first strike, sidestepped the second, and caught the third on the flat of his blade with a clash that echoed across the arena. Celeste’s eyes widened. She had expected him to fall back. Instead, he advanced.

Marek fought the way he did everything else quietly, methodically, without fanfare. He didn’t waste energy on flashy techniques or crowd-pleasing flourishes. He simply wore his opponent down, blow by blow, until there was nothing left to fight.

By the third round, Celeste was flagging. Her axes had grown heavy in her hands. Her breathing was ragged. Marek, by contrast, looked like he could keep going for hours. He caught one of her axes on his sword, twisted it from her grip, and leveled his blade at her throat.

"Yield," he said quietly.

Celeste stared at him for a moment. Then she laughed a surprised, genuine sound. "I yield. Well fought, Shadowmoon."

Marek lowered his sword and offered her his hand. She took it.

The Shadowmoon section erupted. Finn was on his feet, screaming himself hoarse. "That’s my roommate! That’s my roommate right there!"

Marek returned to the waiting area with his usual stoic expression, but Nyra saw the slight curve of his lips. "You were amazing," she said.

"I did what I had to."

"Modest as always."

"Learned from the best."

Finn was next.

He stepped into the circle looking considerably less confident than Marek had. His opponent, Mira Voss of Silvermoon—the same girl who had brewed the healing salve in the potions exhibition—stood across from him with a serene smile. She carried a slender rapier, its tip blunted but still wicked-looking.

"Try not to bleed too much," she said sweetly. "I’d hate to have to heal you after I defeat you."

"Try not to cry when I win," Finn shot back, though his voice wavered slightly.

The bell rang.

Mira attacked immediately a blur of silver steel that forced Finn onto the defensive. He scrambled backward, barely managing to deflect her strikes. She was fast. Much faster than he had expected. Her rapier darted in and out like a serpent’s tongue, testing his defenses, finding the gaps.

"Finn, keep your guard up!" Ragnar’s voice boomed from the senior section.

"I’m trying!" Finn yelped, ducking under a strike that would have caught him across the throat.

The first round went entirely to Mira. Finn spent most of it running and dodging, unable to mount any meaningful offense. The Silvermoon girls cheered. The Shadowmoon students watched with bated breath.

But in the second round, something changed.

Finn stopped running.

He planted his feet, raised his sword, and met Mira’s next attack head-on. The clash of steel rang out across the arena. Mira’s eyes widened. Finn pressed forward, his strikes growing bolder, his movements more confident. He had spent the first round studying her patterns—the way she favored her right side, the way she dropped her guard slightly before lunging. And now he was using that knowledge against her.

"Come on, Finn!" Nyra shouted. "You’ve got this!"

He caught Mira’s rapier on his blade and twisted, sending it spinning from her grip. She gasped. He leveled his sword at her chest.

"Yield?" he asked, grinning despite his exhaustion.

Mira stared at him. Then she smiled—a genuine, warm smile. "I yield. Well fought."

Finn lowered his sword and helped her retrieve her rapier. "You were amazing. Seriously. I just got lucky."

"Luck had nothing to do with it," she said. "You’re better than you think, Finn Harlan."

Finn walked back to the waiting area with a dazed expression. "Did that just happen? Did I just win?"

"You won," Marek confirmed.

"I won! I actually won!" He threw his arms around Nyra, who laughed and hugged him back. "Ragnar! Did you see that? I won!"

"I saw!" Ragnar called back, his scarred face split in a proud grin. "Good job, Harlan! Now stop shouting before you lose your voice!"

Then it was Nyra’s turn.

She stepped into the circle with her heart pounding and her hands steady. Across from her, Bren Marrow of Shadowmoon a second-year with broad shoulders and a confident smirk cracked his knuckles.

"Prince Thorne," he said, his tone mocking. "The Ghost of the Weak. Let’s see if you’ve improved since your first sparring match."

Nyra didn’t answer. She just raised her blade and waited.

The bell rang.

Bren attacked first, his strikes heavy and aggressive. He was trying to overwhelm her, to end the fight quickly. But Nyra had trained with Soren Thornridge. She had survived the Mistwood. She had faced rogues and assassins and her own fear. A second-year with a smirk didn’t scare her anymore.

She sidestepped his first strike, ducked under his second, and caught his third on her blade with a clash that made his eyes widen. Then she moved.

Soren’s training flowed through her like water. Every drill, every correction, every brutal early-morning session had prepared her for this moment. She was faster than Bren. Smarter. More precise. She caught him with a strike to the ribs, then another to the shoulder. He stumbled. She pressed her advantage, driving him back across the sand.

"Come on, Thorne!" Finn shouted. "Show him what you’ve got!"

"Shadowmoon! Shadowmoon!" The students chanted her name—or rather, the name she had borrowed from her dead brother.

In the final exchange, Bren lunged wildly, desperate to land a blow. Nyra sidestepped, caught his wrist, and used his own momentum to spin him off balance. He hit the sand hard, his weapon skittering away. She leveled her blade at his throat.

"Yield," she said.

Bren stared up at her, his smirk gone. "I yield."

The arena erupted. Nyra helped Bren to his feet and clasped his forearm in a gesture of respect. Then she looked up at the stands—at Finn and Marek cheering, at Corvin smiling, at her uncle watching with cold, calculating eyes. And at Soren, standing among the senior finalists, his dark eyes fixed on her with an expression of fierce, unmistakable pride.

She smiled at him. He nodded back.

Well done, little moon.

The second-year and third-year matches followed in quick succession, the tension building with each bout. Killian faced his Silvermoon opponent with cold, mechanical efficiency, dispatching her in two rounds without breaking a sweat. His dark eyes kept drifting toward the stands, toward Corvin, who was watching the matches with detached interest. Every time Corvin’s gaze passed over him without recognition, Killian’s jaw tightened.

Nikolai fought with brutal precision, his scarred face betraying no emotion as he systematically dismantled his opponent. Xavier, by contrast, was all charm and fluid grace, bowing to the crowd after his victory with a smile that made several Silvermoon girls blush.

Lucian Crowe, still favoring his healing side from the Mistwood, fought valiantly but lost to a Silvermoon senior in the third round. He took the defeat with his usual wit. "I let her win," he told Orion as he limped back to the waiting area. "It’s called being a gentleman."

"You’re limping," Orion observed.

"Gentlemanly limping. It’s very noble."

The matches continued. Victories for Shadowmoon. Victories for Silvermoon. The two academies traded wins like blows in a sparring match, neither gaining a decisive advantage. The crowd was on its feet, roaring for every point, gasping at every near-miss.

And then it was time for the senior finalists.

Ragnar Blackfang faced Lyra Ashford of Silvermoon in a match that had the entire arena holding its breath. Lyra was the Silvermoon combat captain tall, fierce, and impossibly fast. Ragnar was the Sword Sovereign’s right hand, a wall of scarred muscle and brutal efficiency. They clashed like thunderclouds, their weapons ringing out across the sand.

For three rounds they fought, neither giving quarter. Lyra’s speed was almost unnatural, her blade a silver blur. Ragnar’s defense was impenetrable, his counters devastating. In the end, it was Ragnar’s sheer endurance that won the day. He caught Lyra’s blade on his axe, twisted it from her grip, and leveled the weapon at her throat.

"Yield," he growled.

Lyra smiled through her exhaustion. "I yield. Well fought, Blackfang."

The Shadowmoon section exploded. Ragnar helped Lyra to her feet and raised her hand in a gesture of mutual respect. The crowd roared its approval.