Jacob made his way back up through the labyrinthine underground, thinking about the conversation with Blake. He hoped he'd been useful. Maybe if he'd had more time to think about Blake's question he would have been able to give a better answer. But it was the truth. When it had come down to those moments facing off with enemies, every time he'd stopped to think he'd frozen. So maybe that was the answer.

"Kinda like asking a girl out."

Jacob rubbed a hand through his hair. Was that what that was like? Just do it and not think about it? But then what would you say? He wondered if that would work on Camilla. Wouldn't he just blurt something stupid out?

He came out of the tunnel and into the stands and pushed the thoughts out of his mind. The air buzzed with excited chatter.

He made his way back over to his seat.

"You're back!" Archie said.

"What was he like?" Grace leaned around Archie. "Was he nervous?"

Jacob nodded. "Super nervous. But I think he's fine."

"Did he mention anyone?" Grace asked.

Jacob shrugged. "Yeah, he talked about his family a bit."

"Oh."

Jacob sat down in his seat.

The raised platform President Russell had addressed them from had vanished back into the smooth clay ground. A white line that ringed most of the clay area had appeared, a few metres between it and the low wall separating the standings from the arena, and a man in a striped white and black uniform stood outside it. The referee and out of bounds line.

Jacob was a little surprised at how much space they were given to fight. You'd really have to move someone a fair amount, or catch them severely off guard to get them out of bounds.

A voice boomed out over the stadium.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen to the Tisdale Tournament. I am your returning commentator, Mr Breen! We've got an electric first match of the play ins for you here, so grab your popcorn—or the edge of your seat—and get ready! At the 62nd seed, from Boston, Massachusetts it's Blake McGinnis!"

The four of them cheered loudly. A smattering of applause came from the rest of the audience.

Blake came out from one of the tunnels at the end of the arena. He stepped into the oval marked out by the white line.

"And his opponent, at the 67th seed, from Miami, Florida, it's Laszlo Trier!"

A squat, tan skinned boy of about average height emerged onto the arena floor. He waved at the crowd and stepped into the white oval. Another smattering of applause. A section down and to Jacob's left cheered loudly.

Archie jerked and spat out a mouthful of popcorn onto the guy sitting in front of them.

"Hey!"

Archie coughed and turned to Jacob and the rest of them, his eyes wide. "You guys didn't tell me he's facing Laszlo! Why didn't you tell me he was facing Laszlo?"

Camilla frowned. "Do you know him?"

"Of course!" Archie exclaimed, gesturing with his popcorn bag, sending white and buttered kernels spraying out over the stands.

Jacob's blood chilled.

"His uncle's a Ranger. Knows my cousin."

"But he's ranked low," Jacob said stupidly.

Archie shook his head. "Yeah, Laszlo's Strength Chart is pretty weak, but he got his magic early. He's been practicing for well over a year now. He knows a bunch of spells."

"Why didn't that affect his ranking? Why's he so low?" Jacob asked.

"Academy must not have known he's trained a bunch and just ranked him based on his Strength Chart," Archie said.

"Oh no," Grace moaned.

Jacob clenched his fists and looked down to where Blake stood on the arena floor. Shit.

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Blake followed the tournament aide through the stadium underground. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his uniform. How many times had he watched this tournament? Ten, eleven? Ever since he could remember. How many times had his family gathered in the TV room, filling up the couch with him and Allie spilling onto the floor.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

And now it was his turn.

He'd been thinking about it for a long time, dreaming about being here, and now it was finally time and he didn't think he could be any less ready.

"We trained. You've worked hard. You got this."

Blake blew a breath out. Jacob was right. He'd worked as hard as he could. He'd studied long nights at the library to help with his casting visualizations, and then had done countless sessions with Jacob. That was what it was all about. If you worked hard enough you could make up the lack in ability and he'd done that and he had to be confident in that. There was nothing more he could do and to think back or worry about it would just psych himself out.

He couldn't believe he'd gone on about how he wasn't strong. He hated when he did that, but it was automatic, almost like a defence mechanism. He needed to stop. The mind was powerful. If you ran yourself down, you'd start to believe it.

If Jacob could go from magic-less to fighting a rogue mage in the span of two days, go through all that, he could do this.

Blake straightened.

The tournament aide stopped at the mouth of a tunnel that led up into the sunlight. The announcer was calling him out. Beneath the voice he could hear the people up there, a murmur through the walls and floors of the stadium, could feel the impending eyes of the unseen watchers on the stream.

Mom, dad, Rebecca, Katie, Allie.

"...From Boston, Massachusetts, it's Blake McGinnis."

The tournament aide gestured him forward.

Blake strode forward, out of the muffling tunnel, into the broad daylight and the open arena and the noise. He crossed the white line as instructed, and stopped.

Jacob had said don't think about it, just move. He could do that. Just like asking a girl out. If you thought too much you froze, you lost your nerve. Just had to do it. Move. Engage his magic and move. Yeah, that was it.

His nerves settled or his adrenaline surged so he couldn't feel them. Either way he was feeling pretty good now that he was out here and he had Jacob's advice. Worlds better than sitting in that room alone. Just went to show the power of the mind.

"And his opponent, at the 67th seed, from Miami, Florida, it's Laszlo Trier!"

A squat boy with tan skin emerged from the tunnel at the other end of the arena. He waved to the crowd and stepped inside the white line.

Maybe I should have done that.

Laszlo didn't look super impressive, but then again, neither did Camilla or Tanaka. Blake had studied his opponent's Strength Chart. Laszlo had minor strength in Production and Decomposition. His weak link was Consumption. That meant he had to get close, quickly.

"Contestants, get ready."

Blake entered a stance and flexed his magical muscle. Across from him, Laszlo tensed.

Don't think, just do.

"START!"

Blake expanded his Consumption and cast the strength-resilience spell. It rippled through his torso, down his limbs to his tingling toes and fingertips.

Before he could take a step something sharp and hard slammed into his gut, driving the breath out of him. He stumbled back, trying to catch his breath, reeling from the shock. What the hell?

Laszlo had raised his hand. Production magic flashed. A tiny force spell, like a little translucent cone, blasted at Blake.

Blake tensed, threw his hand up. The force cone shattered against his arm. He cried out in pain and stumbled back again. He'd broken his arm in fifth grade falling off the playground monkey bars but this was somehow worse. The boundary was only a few steps behind him now.

What the hell? He's casting projectiles. Actual projectiles. He shouldn't be this strong.

Don't think, just do. He had to close the distance, fast.

Blake stumbled forward, strength spell lending him an uncontrolled speed. Laszlo shot another spell at him. Blake dodged to the side, caught himself, and kept stumbling forward. His already injured abdomen screamed at him as if he'd been stabbed, forcing him to lurch to one side. He was almost halfway across the arena.

Laszlo's heavy brows furrowed in concentration. Indigo Decomposition magic flashed out from him. Blake tensed, ready to block. He tripped and fell forward, amplified momentum carrying him crashing into the ground. A slender shelf of ground had surged up past his ankles and tripped him.

Another force spell slammed into him, knocking him back into the lip. He grunted, sharp pain blinding him, and lost his grip on the strength spell. He dodged Laszlo's next spell and threw himself on his stomach behind the low shelf.

He grasped for his magic. It slipped through his fingers. His side was screaming at him, his core seizing, making him want to curl up. He couldn't focus through the stabbing pain. Another force spell zipped over his head and he flattened himself down. Laszlo seemed content to keep his distance.

Blake closed his eyes and tried to get a hold on his magic and quell his shock at Laszlo's spells and the needling pain in his side and arm. Any minute now Laszlo would lower this shelf and then he'd be exposed and it would be all over.

He had to do something.

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Jacob watched as Blake lay behind the low lip of raised ground. Laszlo fired another translucent, conical forceward the size of a pylon over his head. Then there was no movement from either competitor. Blake lay flat, and Laszlo kept his arm out, swaying in his stance, concentrated on Blake. The crowd had drawn a collective breath, watching the contestants in eager silence, anticipating the move that would shatter the equilibrium.

Jacob unclenched his fists. Production and Decomposition spells? Was this what all the students were going to be like, regardless of rank? Would the person he fought next weekend know a bunch of spells?

"C'mon, Blake," Archie hissed from beside him.

"Why doesn't Laszlo lower that shelf?" Jacob couldn't stop himself from asking. It was a miracle Blake had gotten this much of a breather behind it.

"Maybe he doesn't know how," Archie said.

"He might want to time Blake out," Camilla said.

They all looked to the glowing digital clock on the stadium above the arena: 7:02.

Almost three minutes had passed somehow.

"Would he win that way? Don't you have to immobilize your opponent, push them out of bounds, or make them submit?" Jacob asked.

Camilla nodded. "But if it time's out it goes to the judges to declare a winner. Laszlo's landed several hard blows on Blake already, while Blake hasn't touched him. If it goes to time, Laszlo wins."

"Shit. He's probably content to keep his distance until that happens," Jacob mused. "Consumption was his weakest type. Blake has to get close."

A wave of frustration for his friend surged up in him and before he could stop himself he rose to the edge of his seat and shouted.

"Come on, Blake! You got this!"