The next sparring match, the second-to-last one remaining, was the one between Inago and Tayen. To Hunter, it was what every friendly sparring match should be; two roughly evenly matched opponents performing to the best of their ability, with skill and good sportsmanship evident in every move.

Which meant, however, it was also a bit boring. Inago and Tayen took turns going on the offensive, neither pushing the other too far. Inago was stronger and had a longer reach. Tayen was faster and had a slightly better grasp of the basic White Cloud glaive fighting techniques they’d been taught. If it came down to a real fight, though, Hunter’s money would be on Tayen. Inago’s friendly nature ended up being an impediment to his effectiveness as a fighter.

Wroth let the match drag on for a few minutes, probably trying to see how the two combatants measured against each other in terms of stamina. Tayen seemed to have a slight edge on that front, too. When he finally called the match, both of the Aspirants were panting and drenched in sweat.

“Good, both of you,” he said with a satisfied nod. “Although you could both use a bit more fire in your attacks.”

“Yes, Elder,” Inago said, offering Tayen a friendly, if weary smile. Tayen, still catching her breath, did her best to return it.

As the two of them left the sparring area, Hunter was trying to prepare himself mentally for what was to come. Only one sparring match remained - his, against Yuma. The tension was almost suffocating him. He glanced at the other man, who somehow managed to look arrogant and poised even when meditating.

For no other reason than him being an outlander, Yuma had it out for Hunter since the moment they first met, back when Hunter passed through the Brennai village for the first time. They’d ended up brawling, with Hunter coming on top - something that Yuma wasn’t likely to have forgotten. Or forgiven.

Learning that Hunter was a Transient had only deepened Yuma’s resentment. And finding out they would train together as Aspirants had soured it even further.

Hunter felt a knot tightening in his stomach, the weight of the upcoming fight settling more heavily on his shoulders with each passing second. That thing would go down like a lead zeppelin, he knew.

I control my response. Not the world around me.

“Alright, let’s get this done with,” Wroth finally called. “Yuma, Transient, on your feet.”

“Good luck,” Inago whispered as Hunter got up on his feet. Hunter nodded. He had a feeling he’d need it.

The two Aspirants took their places and faced each other under the watchful eye of Elder Wroth. Hunter decided to be the bigger person. He greeted his opponent with a solemn nod, trying to look respectful but not subservient. Yuma returned the gesture with a thin, inscrutable smile.

“Remember,” Wroth warned. “This is just a training match to help each other improve. Is this clear?”

“Yes, Elder.” said Hunter.

“Yes, Elder.” nodded Yuma.

“Begin, then.”

Hunter tightened his grip on his glaive and assumed a conservative battle stance. Against an opponent like Yuma, a measured, balanced approach would serve him better. Instead of going on the offensive, as he often did, Yuma mirrored him.

They circled each other for a few breaths in what Hunter felt was a game of cat and mouse. Was Yuma trying to break his composure? To bait him into attacking first?

Yuma ended up making the opening move himself, though, and it was surprisingly sensible. Not veering from the forms they’d been practicing, he took a bold step towards Hunter and launched a thrust at his midsection.

Muscle memory kicking in, Hunter parried the attack with relative ease. He swept his opponent’s weapon to the side, then launched a thrust of his own. With a perfectly by-the-book defense, Yuma sidestepped out of harm’s way, then put some more distance between himself and Hunter for good measure. Impassive, he twirled his glaive in the air a couple of times, as if inviting his opponent to make the next move.

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Wary, Hunter lifted his glaive into a high guard stance and advanced on Yuma. But instead of delivering the expected overhead slash, he abruptly shifted tactics, aiming a quick strike with the weapon’s butt directly at Yuma’s face, hoping to catch him off guard.

As expected, Yuma sidestepped the attack with ease, his movements smooth and controlled. Rather than retaliating with the aggression Hunter expected, however, he kept his distance. He kept his glaive in a defensive position, not looking to press the attack.

There was no trace of the overly aggressive, domineering fighter Hunter had seen in Yuma’s previous sparring match. It was clear Yuma was playing it safe. Hell, he was playing nice, even. Had he really had a change of heart, or was he simply toying with Hunter, gauging his reactions and biding his time?

The two Aspirants went through a series of textbook exchanges, attacking, blocking, parrying, evading, countering with the easy rhythm and precision of practiced forms. It felt almost like a well-rehearsed drill.

From the sidelines, Wroth was watching them with arms crossed and a satisfied expression on his face.

If it were anyone other than Yuma, Hunter might have found the sparring match pleasant. Maybe even fun. Not wanting to be lulled into a false sense of security, though, he remained on edge, fully expecting the other shoe to drop at any moment.

And before long, drop it did.

As they engaged in yet another exchange, Hunter moved to parry a low strike from Yuma. He braced himself for the impact of the colliding weapons, already planning his counter. But this time, Yuma’s glaive didn’t simply rebound off Hunter’s defense. Instead, with a sudden twist of his wrist, Yuma redirected the momentum, his blade sliding down the shaft of Hunter’s glaive. Before Hunter could react, Yuma’s weapon slammed into his hand - the one that gripped the glaive’s haft closer to the blade.

Pain exploded through Hunter’s fingers as the edge of Yuma’s glaive, dull as it was, bit into his flesh and mangled his hand. His grip faltered, and the glaive nearly slipped from his grasp as blood began to seep between his fingers.

“Stop!” Wroth roared, jumping in between the two Aspirants, though he didn’t have to. Yuma was already frozen in place. Gasps echoed from the other two Aspirants, who were watching the scene unfold from the sidelines.

For a moment, the world seemed to slow. The training grounds went eerily silent as Hunter staggered back, trying to process what had just happened. Had he held the glaive wrong? Had he misjudged the angle? Or had Yuma deliberately aimed to cripple him, taking advantage of the opening with cold, vicious precision? Yuma’s face was inscrutable, giving nothing away.

Whether it was a calculated strike or an unfortunate consequence of Hunter’s own faulty grip, it was impossible to tell. But the damage was done. His hand was a bloody mess, fingers, torn skin and broken bone jutting out at weird angles. It throbbed with dull pain, pulsing with every heartbeat, painting the ground at his feet red.

Letting his glaive fall to the ground, he brought his other hand to his nose. It came crimson, too. Not that he’d needed to; he could feel the blood flowing freely down his lower face, hot and slick.

As Hunter felt the darkness closing in, he turned to Yuma, puzzled. Yuma looked shocked, his face paler than a piece of paper.

But he made no move to help.

***

“Ancestors preserve you, son,” Elder Wroth shook his head as he bound Hunter’s ruined hand in strips of some kind of white cloth. He clearly had a lot of experience taking care of wounds. He’d washed and cleaned it, then sent Inago to fetch him a satchel of medical supplies from his tent. He’d given Hunter some herb to chew on - an analgesic, for all the good it would do him - then had gotten to work stitching and bandaging.

“Are you right-handed or left-handed?” he asked.

“Right,” Hunter hissed through gritted teeth.

“Do injuries in our world also affect your body in yours?”

“No.” He wasn’t in the right headspace to explain to the Elder how injuries did not carry over, but trauma frayed his nerves nevertheless.

“Thank your Ancestors for small miracles, then,” Wroth said as he tied the ends of the bandage in a knot near his wrist. “Because you won’t be doing much with this hand in this world from now on, it looks like.”

Inago and Tayen stood a couple of paces away, watching Wroth patch Hunter up with faces pale as wax. Yuma was sitting by the tents, meditating. Hunter didn’t know whether he did so out of guilt or indifference, neither did he particularly care.

Standing guard on his side stood Fyodor, making feeble attempts to lick his good hand. Biggs and Wedge were perched on the direwolf’s back, looking as solemn as undertakers. They’d been fooling around somewhere in the surrounding woods, the three of them. Hunter’s pain and anguish had carried through the mental link he shared with his raven familiars, summoning them to his side post haste. Fyodor had followed, too.

The blood flowing from his nostrils had stopped to an occasional trickle. He didn’t even want to imagine what he’d feel like when he returned to his side of things. He had an intrusive thought of himself lying on his bed, casque covering his face, linens around his head stained with a crimson halo as blood slowly flowed down his throat to his lungs and choked him.

Shit.

“I have to go,” he pushed Wroth off, trying his best not to panic.

“Wait, sit down,” the Elder tried grabbed him by the shoulder. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. Where-”

But before he could finish his sentence, Hunter had vanished into thin air.