The two combatants struck at each other with raw ferocity, the repetitive shriek of metal clashing against metal setting the crowd’s nerves on edge. Michael and Thunderborn were giving each other no quarter, no opening, as they beat at each other’s guards, each one intent on beating down the others’ guard. In that moment of raw power, it was clear that neither had the advantage.

Breaking away with a curse, Thunderborn swiped his blade through the air, sending a small wave of energy at his enemy. His mind was hyper-focused on the combat before him, but a small part of him was beginning to worry. He hadn’t expected Michael to show this level of skill with a sword in his hand. He was a genius in combat magic, yes, but he’d never been known to be a particularly skilled physical magic user.

For his part, Michael knew he had to put on a show, to prove that months of hidden training weren’t for nothing. He ducked the blow, not knowing any of the signature spells that Samuel Bragg taught to his Spellblade students. But what he lacked in knowledge and experience, he more than made up for with raw power, speed, and talent. He fired three small bolts of lightning from his free hand that all arced wide, one high, the others to the side. They curved along arcing paths, each one turning back to seek out their opponent.

An interesting application of Destruction and Divination, Megan remembered. That was what their Divination Master had said about this spell of Michael’s. Alone among his peers, Michael had the prestigious honor of having created his own spell. More than that, it proved to be a highly useful spell in combat, that allowed him to stun up to three opponents, giving him the time he needed to strike and win the fights he undertook.

As each bolt struck for Thunderborn’s spinning frame, with slightly different timing so as to render a barrier useless, the older Spellblade was forced to dodge, giving ground with each one, but successfully avoiding them all. The bolts were cast in such a way that even Counterspell could help him, for he could only redirect one. Michael knew this and used the time that Thunderborn was distracted with them to close the distance.

Thunderborn’s next impression was of blinding light as Michael, running forward, sent out a wide flare of fire with his free hand. A hastily conjured barrier protected him against the fire, but the light was still too fierce for him to make out any detail of his charging foe. It was a sound tactic, but Michael made his first real mistake of the duel with it, assuming that if his opponent were blinded, he couldn’t react. But that was not the case.

Dropping into a low stance, Thunderborn directed the flow of the fire upwards and swung one leg out in a wide circle. He caught Michael across the shins and knocked the younger student’s feet out from under him in one clean swipe. Michael recovered quickly, rolling to avoid landing face-first, but even he knew that he’d lost the momentum of the battle. Thunderborn regained his stance in a flash, and was bearing down on him once more.

Michael parried strike after strike with a scowl of concentration, trying to counterattack but rebuffed every time. Thunderborn had more experience with a sword, and he used this to his benefit, crowding his opponent for space, driving him back with a whirlwind of strikes. Megan, watching with her fists tightly clenched, resisted calling out a warning with an effort.

Thunderborn’s sword flashed out once more, mana reinforcing it. Michael raised his own blade to defend, but the first blade had far too much force. It sliced clean through Michael’s own weapon, near the hilt, and hit Michael’s barrier hard, with enough power leftover to knock him down and away. Nathaniel Thunderborn grinned as he saw this result. His junior had made a critical mistake in trying to pair an ordinary sword against a Spellblade, he thought.

A solid impact slammed into the side of his head, sending him to the ground just like his opponent, too stunned to belatedly conjure a barrier. His mind, exhausted from the rapid expending of mana in the duel, couldn’t comprehend where the most recent attack had come from. Had one of the crowd attacked him, breaking the rules of the duel? Maybe it had been that girl, he thought, the one too cowardly to accept an honest challenge for the robe she didn’t deserve.

“It wasn’t the girl,” someone near him said. He looked up, blood coursing down his head from the wound, to see the Master kneeling before him. “I figured you’d think that. The boy surrendered his magical defense in order to launch a delayed attack.”

The others in the crowd had seen it. When Michael had charged forward with fire raging from his hand, he’d also sent a small, nearly unnoticed, bolt of raw mana into the air. It had hung there while Thunderborn had struck his opponent’s guard, and sheared his weapon. Then, while he was distracted with the finishing blow, it had shot down with incredible speed, slamming into the side of his head.

Oh well, Thunderborn said to himself. He had won first, so he could accept this minor wound as a small token. He admitted, begrudgingly, that this had been one of the toughest duels he’d taken part in. The boy, Michael, he thought, had prodigious skill. In time, he’d be one of the most skilled Spellblades known, after Archmage Bragg. He’d be happy to bear this wound, a lasting testament to the time that he’d beaten him in a duel.

“Michael Ciayol is the victor of this duel,” The Master said, standing up and letting his voice ring clearly in the shocked silence. “Excellent work, young man.”

“Thank you, Master Moran,” Michael said. Thunderborn looked up at him in shock, to see him standing, completely unharmed. Michael grinned at him. “You should have actually struck me. The duel isn’t over until a strike lands, or I’m unable to continue fighting.”

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“But you were down!” Thunderborn said, his face angry once again. “I struck you down with my sword!”

“Actually, you didn’t,” Michael corrected him, offering a shrug. “You disarmed me and broke my sword, sure, but you didn’t actually finish it. Were you down when I threw you? No.”

Belatedly, Thunderborn realized that he was right. He’d won in a sly way, but he’d definitely won. He let out a quiet curse as he pushed himself to a seated position, acutely aware of his head pounding like a bass drum. He would have a concussion because of this fight, he was sure of it. And now he’d have to miss his second day of classes, possibly his third as well. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go, he told himself angrily.

“Right,” Michael said. “Now that that’s settled…”

He walked over to Thunderborn and held out his hand. Thinking he meant to help him up, Thunderborn reached out with his free hand, but Michael let out a quiet laugh. “No, Thunderborn. Your sword.”

“My- My sword?” Thunderborn stammered. “What about it?”

Then the realization, the actual cost of his defeat, came to him. The victor of a duel had the right to take his opponent’s weapon if he wanted. It wasn’t often an enforced rule, as the victor usually had the superior weapon, but it was still known to all. Thunderborn looked down at the blade in his hand, still faintly glowing with his mana, frowning. The weapon was worth a small fortune in his eyes, carefully enchanted and inscribed. It was a Spellblade’s pride and joy, he thought, to carefully craft their own weapon.

“You have no honor,” he growled at Michael. “This is not how a Spellblade acts.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Michael replied, his eyes burning once more. “I’ll still make my own. But as you know, I don’t have a weapon. Yours will do until I can make a better one.”

Cursing him, Thunderborn reversed his grip on the handle and extended it, withdrawing all of his mana, as the rules dictated. Michael took it, a look of fierce, primal joy coming across his face at the acquisition. It was, as Thunderborn had noted, an excellent weapon. Easily worth a few hundred platinum, Michael thought. The runes along the spine were perfectly etched, and they received his mana easily. He gave the weapon a few practice swings, then slid it into his own sheath with a grin. Finally, he did help Thunderborn up off the ground.

Now the crowd was applauding, and not just for Michael. They surged forward like a tide, their hands raining down on both combatant’s shoulders in congratulation and respect. “Good fight!” they shouted, and “Well done!” “You’ll get them next time!” And in all the ruckus, Michael directed his friends on. Thunderborn could see him try to hug the girl he’d originally challenged, only to be rebuffed.

“Come now, don’t be so cruel,” Michael grinned at her. “I just saved your hide, you know.”

“Oh, please,” Megan said, rolling her eyes. “You’ve wanted to fight him for the past month or two, we all know it. You didn’t do that for me.”

Michael assumed a mock-injured look as he fell in beside her, but couldn’t keep the expression for long. He flashed a grin at her and Jordan, his left hand casually gripping the handle of his new weapon. Jordan looked at the crafted sword in silence, thinking of just how much stronger his friend had become now. The weapon would prove useful in future duels, and be an irreplaceable tool in his training.

Jordan was quieter than his friends, an unassuming man who prided himself on being calm at all times. Megan and Rachel had come to appreciate his quiet, subtle wisdom time and time again, not to mention his extraordinary talent with words. But even he was more energetic than usual. The duel, and Michael’s victory, fueled them with a nervous sort of excitement that carried through their classes later that day.

Word of the duel spread across the campus like wildfire, and Megan noticed an immediate increase in the number of stares that she and her friends got throughout the evening. Being friends with a popular face did that, she reflected. She just didn’t hope that it resulted in another challenge and further interruption to their studies. Though she wouldn’t admit it to him outright, she was proud of Michael for his victory. Just don’t make it my problem, she glared silently at him as they entered the next class.

“Hey Rachel,” Michael said, swaggering into their Divination classroom and sitting next to the beautiful blonde. He purposefully moved in a way that showed off his new weapon. “Pleased to see me?”

Rachel, already having heard about Michael’s duel, pretended she couldn’t see the sword at his waist. She gave Megan and Jordan both quick hugs, patting them on the back. “Welcome back, Jordan. How are you, Megan? Hope the idiot hasn’t caused you too much trouble.”

“Hey,” Michael said indignantly, frowning at the way she ignored him. “I’d say Megan caused me trouble if anything. Why does she always get special treatment from you?”

“She’s prettier,” Rachel said with a smirk. Then she relented and hugged Michael as well. “I heard about your duel, Michael. Congratulations. Just don’t let it go to your head.”

“I would never,” Michael said, assuming a pious sort of expression. “I’m a humble man, you know.”

Megan and Richard snorted with laughter at that, and even Jordan joined in with his deep chuckle. The idea of a humble Michael was about as easy to imagine as a stupid Samuel Bragg, Megan thought. Or a cold sun. Their classmates shot the four of them disapproving looks, which they promptly ignored. But their teacher arrived at that exact moment, and they fell silent.

Megan threw herself into that day’s Divination lesson with a smile on her face, glad that her life was back to a semblance of normalcy. It was good to be with her friends, and not have to worry, just yet, about the weight of responsibility that would be shoved onto her soon. She could focus on her studies, for the time being, learning as much as she could. But even she couldn’t ignore the feeling of unease growing in her brain, as well as the voice that was growing in there.

We don't belong here!