“You are not ready!” Lakan shook Gabriel’s good shoulder, his grip firm but not painful. A moon cycle had passed since his injury, and they were back in the arena where it happened.

“I will not forfeit again,” Gabriel replied, tightening the strap on his shoulder, a gift from Lakan’s sister in the infirmary.

“You can’t win with just your off-hand,” Lakan insisted, repeating the same concern he’d voiced all morning.

Gabriel remained silent, driven by a need he couldn’t quite name. Losing was inevitable—Elias would likely strike him down. But this fight wasn’t about winning; it was about proving something to himself.

As Gabriel stepped into the ring and gripped a wooden sword, Elias approached, his gaze heavy with concern. “There’s no pride in this,” Elias whispered, his voice low enough for only Gabriel to hear. “Forfeit. I don’t want to hurt you more than you already are.”

Gabriel’s eyes flicked to Velar in the crowd, his crooked, slightly purple nose a stark reminder of their last clash. A small, grim smile tugged at Gabriel’s lips. “I won’t retreat.”

Elias sighed, bowing, with Gabriel mirroring him. The crowd’s applause hushed as Soltis’s voice rang out, “Begin!”

Gabriel brought his off-hand forward, shielding his injured arm. Determined not to rely on it, he focused on honing his off-hand. Elias moved cautiously, assessing him. Gabriel wasted no time, rushing forward to close the distance, his wooden blade crashing against Elias’s.

Gabriel ducked low, dodging Elias’s follow up swing, and aimed a kick at his opponent’s knee. Elias sidestepped, quickly re-centering himself, and launched precise, controlled strikes. Gabriel struggled to keep pace; his off-hand was stronger than before, but it still lacked the speed and accuracy he needed. One moon cycle wasn’t enough to fully adapt. His protective stance telegraphed every move, making it hard to catch Elias off guard. Exposing his injured arm for a surprise attack was too risky—this bout wasn’t worth the cost.

Gabriel shifted his focus. He would quickly lose if he remained fighting the way he was. Although he longed for a win, a draw would suffice.

Gabriel began to move unpredictably, flowing through the forms Tunklard had drilled into him—evading strikes with subtle shifts in weight, redirecting attacks with quick, precise parries. Each movement was calculated, conserving energy while keeping Elias off balance.

After numerous dodged strikes, Gabriel disengaged, leaping back into a low crouch, his weight balanced on his back foot. Elias advanced swiftly. Gabriel saw the opening a moment before it came. As Elias’s sword whistled down toward him, Gabriel ducked his head, his body reacting instinctively. In a fluid motion, he slid across the sand, feeling the rush of air from Elias’s blade mere inches above him. Twisting his torso mid-slide, Gabriel planted his hand on the ground and pivoted sharply on his knees. Elias, momentarily overextended from his strike, didn’t have time to react. Gabriel kicked out with precision, catching the back of Elias’s knee.

The blow landed solidly, throwing Elias off balance. His leg buckled, and he stumbled forward, struggling to regain his footing. Gabriel didn’t wait—he flowed smoothly back to his feet, ready for whatever Elias might try next.

Elias pressed the attack, his strikes growing more aggressive as he sought to break through Gabriel’s defenses. Gabriel aimed a swift arc at Elias’s shoulder, but Elias blocked it, the impact jolting them both.

Fatigue crept in as Gabriel overcompensated to protect his shoulder. His movements lost their edge, and Elias noticed. Seizing the moment, Elias launched a fierce counterattack. Gabriel blocked the first blows, but a heavy strike landed on his good arm, sending pain rippling through him. He gripped his sword tightly, but the numbness spreading through his arm slowed him.

Elias seized the moment, delivering another swift strike that connected with Gabriel’s side. The force of the blow knocked the wind out of him, and he staggered back.

"Victory to Elias," Soltis declared, his voice ringing cheerily out over the arena.

Gabriel lowered his sword, his breath coming in heavy, labored bursts, but he remained upright. Elias approached, extending his hand. Gabriel gripped it firmly, saying, “Well fought, Elias.”

Elias managed a smile, though concern shadowed his eyes. “You were slippery, Orion—some of your moves were tough to read. But you shouldn’t have been out here today; it wasn’t a fair fight.”

“I’ll always fight when I can,” Gabriel replied. “Thanks for not going after my injured arm—you could have ended it much sooner.”

“There’s no honor in an easy win. We might not see eye to eye, but you fight with heart, and I respect that.”

Gabriel bowed. “I look forward to fighting by your side in the years to come.”

Elias’s expression softened, though doubt lingered in his eyes. Gabriel was still ranked last, still healing, and had never been the strongest. But Gabriel’s resolve was unshaken—he would earn his place.

As Elias walked away, Gabriel turned toward the crowd, his expression unreadable. Soltis stepped in front of him. “Learn when to quit. You’re wasting everyone’s time—including mine.”

Gabriel gave a faint smile and brushed past him, moving to join his friends. They offered encouragement, but he didn’t need it. He’d lost the fight, but he hadn’t given in. He knew he’d lose more, and remain at the bottom of the rankings—but he wouldn’t stay there for long.

Gabriel lingered in the conversation with his friends, soaking in their advice and joining in the easy laughter. Though he had lost, their victories kept the mood light, a welcome reprieve after the intensity of the arena. As the banter slowly faded and the final bouts concluded, they made their way to the dining hall, where the rich aroma of roast meat mingled with the remnants of sweat from the day’s exertions. The shift from the lively chatter to the promise of a hearty meal was seamless, and Gabriel found his focus drawn to the long tables laden with food.

He approached the servers, holding out his plate as they began to fill it. When he kept the plate steady, silently asking for more, the server raised an eyebrow but added another generous portion. Balancing the piled-high plate on his tray, Gabriel walked back to his seat, aware of the curious glances following him.

“That’s quite the feast, buddy,” Jonan quipped.

Gabriel shrugged, offering a half-smile. “What can I say? The food is good.”

Jonan clapped Gabriel on the back, his laughter ringing out. The night before had been exhausting—hours spent in the library, followed by secluded magic practice, had left Gabriel famished. As he set his metal tray down with a clatter, he dug into the food with single-minded focus, barely noticing the taste—driven only by the need to restore his energy.

Lost in thought, Gabriel didn’t notice Velar and his posse approaching the table. “You are an embarrassment to the academy! Why even bother showing up?” Velar sneered.

Gabriel looked up, mid-chew, his anger simmering beneath a calm exterior. He clenched his fist under the table but forced a smile, then casually returned to his meal as if unfazed.

"Did you hear me? Another loss for you! You’ll never make it through the first year," Velar taunted, his words laced with venom.

Gabriel glanced around the table, noting his friends were ready to leap to his defense. The dining hall buzzed with curiosity; this wasn’t the first time he and Velar had clashed since their fight.

Gabriel felt the weight of their stares, especially from those judging his every move. Silence wasn’t an option—he knew precisely how to push Velar’s buttons. Both he and Velar were quick to anger, but Gabriel was ready to exploit that.

Gabriel kept his tone light. "Believe what you like, but do me a favor—keep your breath away from my food." He waved the air in front of his nose with exaggerated disdain.

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Velar's face flushed with anger, and he stepped forward, ready to fire back, but Gabriel cut him off. They would never be friends—there was no harm in twisting the knife. "Velar, your crooked nose gets even more twisted when you’re mad."

"How dare you!" Velar lunged, but before he could close the gap, Master Darrel, the tactics and strategy instructor, stepped in, blocking his path.

"Enough, Velar," Master Darrel commanded, his tone brooking no argument.

Velar, seething, was held back. "This isn’t over."

As Velar glared at him, Gabriel’s stomach tightened—he knew Velar wouldn’t stop until one of them was broken. But that day wouldn’t be today, so Gabriel simply smiled in response, recalling Tunklard’s lessons.

As Velar stormed off with a final venomous glare, Master Darrel beckoned Gabriel to a quiet corner of the dining hall.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, goading him like that,” the master said.

“It’s a game I have to play,” Gabriel responded evenly.

“Why?” Darrel asked, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

Gabriel took a moment to gather his thoughts. “He’s my enemy. It wasn’t my intention at first, but it’s true now. There’s no turning back—we’ll never be friends.”

“So why provoke him further?”

Gabriel weighed his words carefully. "Everyone already sees me as the weakest. If I back down now, I'll only prove them right. In a place where only strength is respected, I have to show mine—even if it’s not with a sword."

The master nodded, prompting Gabriel to continue. I know his anger makes him reckless. One day, I’ll turn that against him."

"He’s your countryman. Why treat him as an enemy?"

“Because for now, he is. Maybe when we face a common enemy, things will change. But until then, he’s in my way to becoming prime.”

“You’re treading dangerous ground, Orion. Make sure it is your mind guiding you, not your emotions. And be careful not to overplay your hand.”

“Yes, Master.”

"Now, off you go—you wouldn’t want to give Indlar any more reasons to dislike you. Don’t be late for your next class."

Gabriel saluted and returned to his seat, quickly finishing his meal as his friends peppered him with questions. He deflected them with a smile, but his mind kept drifting back to the earlier clash with Velar. Was it just pride that drove him to provoke the boy? Deep down, he knew it was more than strategy—it was personal. Velar embodied everything he despised.

As they headed to their next class, the familiar amphitheater’s stone walls rose around Gabriel, offering a sense of comfort. He wasn’t eager for the lesson, but the academy’s rich history still intrigued him.

Master Indlar silenced the room with a stern gaze. “Today, we’ll delve into the foundations of our monarchy’s constitution. You might think it’s basic, but by the end, you’ll see why it’s vital.”

“As you know, our king is chosen based on who the strongest and most powerful fighter is. Why do you think that is?” When the room stayed silent, he snapped, “Are you all so thick-headed? Speak up!”

A boy on the far right tentatively raised his hand. “We should only be led by the most powerful man.”

“Yes, but why?”

Another student spoke up. “So, they can earn glory and honor for the kingdom.”

“Forget the priests’ dogma—think for yourselves.”

Ryn spoke up, his voice steady and sure. “In Balatia, strength is everything. Weakness is a curse. Cunning, wealth, and blood are all secondary. Our kingdom is defined by honor, and there’s no greater honor than strength. We only follow those stronger than ourselves.”

“Finally, someone with sense!” Indlar remarked, clearly pleased. “As you all know, every five years, a grand tournament is held for those who seek the throne. The victor earns the right to challenge the King. If they succeed, they claim the crown.”

Gabriel listened closely, eager to grasp the logic behind Balatia’s customs. While the rest of Valandor dismissed them as savages, Gabriel saw a system that, despite its brutality, fostered power and stability. Rebellion and infighting were rare in Balatia. The system was harsh, archaic, yet undeniably efficient and transparent.

He couldn’t help but wonder—what if Accamania had followed a similar structure? What if he had been born a prince of Balatia instead of Accamania? His family might still be alive, and he wouldn’t have been forced into exile. Even the family of a deposed king in Balatia were respected, provided for, and had a voice in the Council of War. The spider was a perfect example, and his father, the previous king before him was a close advisor when Saxtus assumed the throne.

But Gabriel knew this was mere wishful thinking. Balatia revered strength above all, and he would have been ostracized for his aversion to violence. He was honest enough to admit that, had things not happened as they did—if his family had never been assassinated—he would have remained the naive scholar he once was. He would have clung to his pacifist ideals, avoiding the harsh realities of the world. Still, it would have been a kinder fate.

“Why is the competition held every five years?” Indlar asked, his eyes roving the students before settling on Gabriel. “Orion, why don’t you answer this one?”

Gabriel hesitated briefly, using the pause to gather his thoughts. “Of course, Master. It would be my pleasure.” He cleared his throat with a quick cough before continuing. “The competition is held every five years for several critical reasons. If these challenges were too frequent, the kingdom would be in constant upheaval, with no stable foundation for policy or diplomacy. While change is necessary, it shouldn’t come at the cost of stability. People would live in a constant state of uncertainty, making it difficult to plan for the future, which could lead to stagnation in our society.”

He let the weight of his words settle before continuing, “On the other hand, if the competition were held less frequently, the King might no longer be the strongest, eroding the people's faith in their leader. Competence should be continually tested, ensuring that those in power remain worthy. History, both ours and the rest of Valandor, shows that perceived weakness leads to infighting, scheming, and ultimately rebellion. Even the Eldorians with their noble blood lines aren’t immune to this.”

Gabriel allowed a slight pause, then added, “As for why the interval is specifically five years, I suspect it was an arbitrary decision—perhaps it seemed logical at the time, and any symbolic meaning has since faded into obscurity.” He finished with a slight nod. “Does that answer your question, Master Indlar?”

Gabriel offered a polite smile, maintaining the demeanor of a diligent student. He noticed the flicker of surprise in Indlar’s eyes. To Gabriel, the question had been straightforward, but he had deliberately framed his response with extra formality and precision, subtly showcasing his capability.

"That will suffice," the master remarked, quickly moving on without missing a beat. Jonan, seated beside Gabriel, nudged him with a grin, flashing a thumbs up. Gabriel caught Ryn's eye on Jonan’s left, exchanging a subtle nod of mutual respect.

“As you know, Commander Galland won the tournament last, but he chose not to challenge the king. Had he done so, he might have claimed the throne himself.”

Gabriel blinked in surprise. This was new information, a revelation that left him momentarily stunned. He had always known Galland to be a formidable fighter, respected by many, but the idea that he could have been king—by choice, no less—was something Gabriel hadn’t considered. Why would Galland, with victory in his grasp, refuse such power?

Questions swirled in Gabriel’s mind, each more pressing than the last. What could have motivated such a decision? Was it loyalty, a lack of desire for the throne, or something more complex? Gabriel knew he needed answers, and the next time he saw Galland, he would find a way to ask. This new piece of information was too important to leave unexplored.

Indlar continued, his voice steady as he addressed the class. “The next challenge is in four years. If the King doesn’t retain his title, the likely successors will be Vax the Mighty, son of Blackwater’s Bane; Aluban the Brave, son of King Saxton; or Commander Galland, son of the Red General.”

Gabriel hadn’t given much thought to who the next king might be or what it would mean for him. With four years still ahead, Gabriel hoped to solidify his place as a capable leader within the Balatian ranks. He was already on good terms with both the King’s son and Galland, both of whom he considered honorable men. Aluban was not only strong but also wise—a straightforward man who had already earned a name for himself by repelling the Pareshi and saving a village on the southern coast. As for Commander Galland, Gabriel saw him as both a mentor and a friend, someone he would willingly follow into battle. Either man would make a worthy monarch.

Vax was the son of Blackwater’s Bane. He would be the same as his butcher father. Gabriel would not forgive the son of the man who had killed so many of his countrymen. There was another reason why he would never like Vax: he was also Velar’s brother. Gabriel turned to look for Velar. When he spotted him, he noticed a barely concealed scowl. He made a mental note of it for later.

Indlar continued to extol the virtues of Balatia’s government, emphasizing the importance of honoring their ancestors for their wisdom. As the class neared its conclusion, he posed a final question. “So, why have we gone over all these details?”

Without pausing for a response, Indlar pressed on, “Understanding the politics of our homeland is crucial—many of you will become leaders, and the next king might very well be among you. The mid-winter ball offers a rare opportunity to observe and engage with the most powerful figures in our society. In three moon cycles, the King will host this prestigious event, and the top ten ranking students will be invited to attend. This is your chance not only to observe the internal mechanisms of our kingdom, but to make connections that could shape your future.

The room buzzed with excitement, whispers and exclamations rippling through the class. The prospect of meeting the King and the royal family was almost too much to contain. Eyes widened, and grins spread across faces as students leaned toward each other, eager to discuss the possibilities.

Meeting the royal family was a prestigious honor for any Balatian, and the mid-winter ball was nothing short of legendary—a night of unparalleled splendor, with a lavish feast, captivating performances, and the most renowned bards in the realm.

But Gabriel’s reasons for wanting to attend were different. For him, the ball was more than just a celebration; it was an opportunity. To achieve his goals, he needed to understand the inner workings of power, to observe those who wielded it up close. As Tunklard had wisely told him, his powers alone wouldn’t be enough. To truly succeed, he had to learn the subtleties of influence, strategy, and command. He had to become more.

Indlar’s gaze swept across the room, his voice growing more intense as he delivered his final words. “Remember, the next twelve fights will determine the top ten. This is your chance to prove yourself, to earn your place among the best. Train harder than you ever have before.”