Sorn watched as the heir to the Dancing Blade descended onto the platform below. His hair, pristine hair flowed in silken waves with wavy bangs falling neatly over his forehead. In the gentle breeze, the air seemed to be alive, with every tuft acting as if it were slow dancing. Even among Ice Elementals, he was an enigma of beauty and grace.

Not that Sorn could say the same for his personality.

Truth be told, he felt no thrill in facing Toren. It wasn’t the worst possible matchup, but neither was it one he found himself excited for. Of course, he had no desire to face Raven, especially not when the mere sight of her made his heart twist with a strange primal fear. He also didn’t wish to fight Scorpius, as he felt powerless just from recalling their previous encounter.

Toren in comparison brought Sorn some relief. Even back when Sorn had first arrived in a weak and inexperienced state, he had nearly landed a blow on him. Now, he was stronger, he was more disciplined. In this rematch, he was determined to not falter and to achieve victory.

The moments that followed after the announcement were like a blur. His heart pounded so loudly he could hear it in his ears. Faces flickered at the edges of his vision, but they were just vague shapes to him.

The black-haired boy could barely even register the movement of his own feet until he was at his destination. He was standing in the center of the arena, staring into Toren’s condescending smile.

“"Hello, Sorn. It’s good to see you again." Toren's voice was smooth, but it was also laced with a false warmth.

Sorn didn’t reply. He simply stared at the Dancing Blade, uncertain what words he even wanted to speak at this moment.

Toren’s eyes narrowed.

“Did I not educate you earlier?”

“What?”

Toren groaned, dragging a hand to his forehead as if the very act of addressing Sorn was exhausting. He cast his gaze downward, shaking his head in theatrical exasperation before fixing Sorn with a look of unfiltered disappointment.

"Is it in your blood as an outsider to be so irredeemably stupid? Or is it merely the influence of the Marauders seeping into you like rot?"

At this point, Sorn just wanted Faron to announce the match’s start.

Unfortunately, Faron was deep in discussion with Varian, leaving Sorn stranded in the middle of Toren’s insufferable monologue.

And Toren, of course, had plenty more to say.

"Disrespect," he declared slowly, savoring the word as he spoke it. "That is all you have ever shown me since the moment we met. And as time passes, your lack of basic manners only seems to worsen. Allow me to explain, in precise detail, how you have once again crossed the line and infiltrated my personal boundaries."

He lifted a hand, fingers poised to count his many grievances.

"First," he began, raising one finger, "you rejected my grace and in doing so, you suffered defeat in a trial of combat. By some stroke of fortune, you managed to stumble your way through the Council’s trial, but rather than take that mercy with the humility it demanded, you allowed your lack of shame to fester. You should have submitted when the time was right."

He paused then, taking a moment to contemplate his own words. "Ah. I must correct myself. I would not wish to appear as though I were in defiance of the Council’s ruling. I apologize, truly. It was an error on my part. I shall, of course, respect their decision."

With that, he extended a second finger.

"Next, you made yourself acquainted with my future bride. Despite my explicit instructions that she is not for you to speak to, let alone engage with, you have continued to disregard my words entirely. A blatant insult to my dignity as a man."

"I—" Sorn began, only to be cut off.

"Hush!" Toren snapped, his sudden outburst sharp enough to catch Sorn off-guard. Then, just as swiftly, the irritation vanished. It was quickly replaced with a smile. A bright, innocent grin, as if he had never raised his voice at all.

"I understand your conflict completely," he explained lightly. "You are torn, are you not? Between your desire to respect my words and the innocent, unspoken love you hold for my fiancé."

Sorn blinked. He had no idea what Toren was talking about.

"Fine!" Toren exclaimed, just as before, his voice full of exaggerated fervor. He had found a rhythm now, and once he started talking, his words did not stop. "You can have her, Sorn. You see, we have been betrothed for over a decade, yet I never wanted to marry that girl. She is loud and obnoxious beyond reason. She is not a woman I wish to begin a family with, nor one I desire to spend the rest of my days tolerating."

Faron's voice rang out as Toren finished his last sentence. The match had begun.

Toren lifted his needle, leveling it toward Sorn. "So this fight shall be a battle of love. Is it not fitting? Two men, clashing in strength, to determine who shall claim the heart of the princess."

Sorn moved first, hoping to get an attack in while Toren was still talking.

Green wisps coiled around his limbs as he surged forward. His foot lashed out in a strike aimed straight for Toren’s throat. But Toren sidestepped.

Sorn smiled. This time, he could see Toren’s movements.

Toren responded instantly, a quick jab sliced through the air. Sorn leaped back, dodging the strike completely.

"What’s this? A smile?" Toren taunted. "Did my proposal excite you that much?"

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"I don’t care about your proposal," Sorn retorted, twisting away from another strike. "Keep your idiotic fantasies to yourself."

Toren frowned. His weapon arm hung limp as he brought a hand to his face, exhaling deeply. Sorn tensed, bracing himself for another rant.

"It appears," Toren began, "that your disrespect knows no bounds." He exhaled, shaking his head"Very well. There is no chivalry in you. You are unworthy of respect." His gaze darkened. The performative edge he once carried was now slipping away like the last warmth of the falling sun. His voice, when it came again, was colder than Sorn had ever heard him.

"You were already beneath me as a mortal. But now, I will kill you like the outsider dog you are."

Sorn had mistaken Toren’s hand motion for a theatrical flourish, a mere petulant gesture of a man basking in his own character. But when the hand fell away, his face had changed. No that wasn’t quite accurate—his face was masked.

The ice that covered Toren’s face was unlike anything Sorn had ever seen. It was not the pale frost that Sorn had grown accustomed to looking at. It was a mask of ice that shimmered with color.

"The First Dance," Toren murmured behind his frozen veil. "The Face Changing of Happiness. Red.."

The mask gleamed like a ruby. It was a vibrant thing underneath the gleaming sun But Sorn had no time to marvel at the thing, as Toren had begun to move.

He was faster now, as though he had been holding back his entire fight. All of his motions were honed to be more lethal, more agile, more… perfect. Toren’s arm flicked out, and Sorn saw the needle a heartbeat too late. He surged his wisps to their limit, but it wasn’t enough. The strike found its mark, piercing just beneath his shoulder. Pain bloomed at his side, and his head felt light. But he forced it away, shoving everything that wasn’t this battle into the depths of his mind.

Toren pressed forward relentlessly. In response, Sorn retreated, but his enemy was faster. Toren was the untouchable storm, and Sorn kept up beneath the weight of the dance, as he could only mitigate or block Toren’s persistent strikes.

To face a Dancing Blade in close combat was to beget disaster. They fought with a deadly grace, encapsulating the soles of their feet ever in ice. To fight while constantly slipping was a method of battle invented by the first Dancing Blade, and the style took years to even begin to be adequate. Being able to contort and move their body with the slightest movement of their feet made them extremely difficult to hit.

Toren crouched low suddenly, his gaze directed at the ground. Sorn wasn’t sure what had brought about this action, but it gave him a chance to breathe. Another needle of ice formed in Toren’s waiting palm. He was no ordinary Dancing Blade. He was their heir. Their pride. Their radiant star, upon whom the legacy of his clan shone the brightest.

"The Second Dance," Toren declared. "Charge of the Lion."

In a blur of motion, Toren launched forward, his body twisting into a somersault. Both his blades spun around his side, weapons poised to carve Sorn into shreds.

Sorn exhaled one last time, steadying himself.

That strange ability was his only remaining option. He had resisted his urge to utilize it, for he was unsettled by the sensation it left behind. It left a foreign presence, a whisper of another soul entwined with his own.

The memory of a white-haired man felt distant, but it was also unnervingly close. Sorn had not trusted him once. But now, in the face of Toren’s merciless attitude, wariness was a luxury he could no longer afford.

He made his choice. And he planted his foot.

A shockwave burst outward, a surge of green unleashed. A small explosion emitted, placed right between himself and Toren’s trajectory. Sorn’s vision was momentarily obscured by the remnants of that explosion before him. And then, just beyond the haze, something emerald shimmered.

“The First Dance, the Face Changing of Hatred. Green.”

Three jagged arms of ice lunged for Sorn. They were reaching, grasping, seeking his flesh. Toren had torn through the explosion without faltering, the blast rolling off him like a passing breeze. His mask had changed, shifting hue, and now he came with greater fury as his face was unreadable behind the green disguise.

Sorn didn’t think. He gave in to his instincts, batting one ice arm aside. He then turned on his heel, bolting toward the outer wall. He didn’t reach two strides before pain seared through him. A needle of ice buried itself deep between his chest and belly. He gasped, his vision flaring white. Gritting his teeth, he twisted hard, torquing his body with everything he had. With adrenaline coursing through his veins, the ice arm cracked, breaking away as he tore himself free.

So, you’ve finally accepted me.

The thought was not his own, but it was there all the same, as the strange thing curled around his mind. His body moved differently now. His limbs felt guided, as though a completely new will was driving him forward.

The colosseum wall loomed before him, but he didn’t slow down. He jumped onto the surface, his body perpendicular to it as he kept running. He ran upwards, his momentum continuing to drive him until he could ascend no more.

He was now three-quarters of the way up and dozens of meters in the air.

From this height, Toren was far below. He could just barely make out the green mask looking up at him. To the Dancing Blade, Sorn must have looked at a distant thing, a flying flicker in the sky.

And elsewhere, too far to see but close enough to whisper, a man smiled. The world around him pulsed with green, the hues and wisps richer than ever before. White hair flowed in the air despite there being no wind to move the strands. He smiled as the surroundings suddenly died down, reverting to their original fight. The ability had been given.

----------------------------------------

Among us, Mercury was the second youngest. He was a quick-fingered rascal with a devilish smile that could even the most hardened of veterans. He was drawn to the appeal of gold and gems. Not for their worth, but for the thrill of taking them. He would flit through the streets, a nimble shadow who was slipping rings from fingers and jewels from bags.

Once, he was caught. They hung him upside-down against a wall for three nights, to learn his lesson. The eldest of us was at the forefront of this operation, he could not bear to see shame come on our family name. When they finally cut him down, he landed with a grin, shook out his limbs, and strolled off like nothing had happened. After that, Mercury was never caught again. By the time you realized you were missing something, he was already far away, laughing into the wind.

And my family adored him for it.

For he was Mercury, the spoiled prince loved by all. His laughter was a song, his mischief a fire in the cold. But war has a way of stripping children down to their bones, turning adolescents into beasts.

Mercury the warrior was a far more feared version of Mercury the child thief. He was a ghost weaving between enemies. When he invaded an enemy camp, time slowed and death followed. A flick of his fingers, a whisper of motion, and whole platoons were swallowed by his explosions as they turned to nothing but char and smoke.

But war does not play favorites, it is a damned unforgiving thing.

He met his end at the Battle of the Patient. He jumped into the battle, reckless as ever. But this time, he was too reckless. He ran ahead, straight into the jaws of an enemy trap, and that was the last of him. There was no body to bury, no grave to mark his passing. One moment he was there, burning bright as ever. The next, he was gone.

All we had left was his name.

----------------------------------------

Sorn’s eyes burned green with his wisps flaring outward, wild and unrestrained. They curled around him in great sweeping arcs, pulsing with power. They were vibrant, alive. The world itself seemed to be still. This fight, the onlookers, the overseers, even the breath in his lungs.

It was all gone.

For the briefest moment, there was only silence.

Only serenity.

So this is what it means to be Mercury.

Then time lurched forward, and gravity pulled him down. He twisted midair, planting his foot against the very sky. He kicked off of it, hurtling toward Toren like a falling star. His opponent barely managed to slip away, but Sorn was prepared. A second kick, a shift in momentum, and he was above him once more, his foot poised to strike.

This time, Toren could not escape.

The impact landed clean, and an explosion followed, one that was nothing like the previous one. It was a violent burst of emerald fire that swallowed the battlefield whole. The force ripped outward, crashing against ice, and consuming the arena in a thick cloud of green smoke.

Then, there was silence, and the minutes stretched long. When the smoke finally thinned, the sight that awaited the onlookers and Sorn, was one none of them had expected.

There, standing in the middle of the arena, was the Iron Stag.

Varian’s grip was firm around Sorn’s ankle. Earlier Sorn had hit the ground after making contact before trying to land another kick, but he had been caught mid-strike and had been frozen in place since.

Varian was both unscathed and unshaken. Toren stood behind Varian, his mask gone as he stared around with shock in his eyes. The entire arena, especially in the area around Sorn and Varian was full of charred ice and soot. A mere student had done this. Worse still—a mortal outsider student.

Varian exhaled slowly. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He lifted a hand and coughed into his palm, and when he pulled it away, it was stained red. A cold quiet settled over him then. His gaze fell on Sorn.

“Due to my interference,” he said at last, “you win this fight.”

Then, without turning his head, his attention shifted to Toren, who stood frozen in the dust. “And you may leave the arena.”

The words barely registered as Varian let go and Sorn fell to the ground, his wisps flickering out. The battle was over, and his body knew it before his mind could catch up. His breath came shallow, and his limbs were heavy. He looked down to see Toren’s needle still buried in his flesh, and blood began to slowly pool around his body.

He felt one last cold sensation around his abdomen like someone was freezing it. Then he fainted.