Val wouldn’t call the breath that left her a sigh—more like a forceful expulsion of air. Her eyelids lowered, the furious spark clear in her green irises. The nerve of some people.
To finalize an Elemental Exchange without her permission, proceed to file it with an official arbiter without her say, and showcase it for the hundreds before she could do anything to refute him was a violation on so many accounts. It spoke volumes of Jet’s unchecked ego and, perhaps, a bit of his privilege.
She barely managed to stop herself from shaking her head. Regardless of the insanity of the situation, how she conducted herself mattered. People, especially those whispering terribly loud, were already waiting for her reaction—for any action.
Inaction wouldn’t be looked at as the better option either. So, with another huff, Val walked to the opposite edge of the Casting Circle.
Or, at least, she tried to.
“Woah, woah, woah.” Rubin gripped her forearm. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Val’s gaze sliced to the arbiter and back to Rubin for an answer.
“What, you’re going to confirm the challenge?” she tried to interpret.
As if. Val scoffed lightly. “To cancel it.”
“Not possible.”
Val tilted her head. “It’s a ten-second trip. If he can bring it up, I can shut it down.”
“You can, Val. But you really can’t.” Rubin dropped Val’s wrist, and though she trained her attention on the ongoing fight, she leaned in to whisper. “Listen to me.”
The edge in her lowered voice had Val turning around.
“Listen, not look,” Rubin emphasized. “We’re being watched.”
Val cursed internally and reeled in her neck, shifting her heels to a comfortable stance. She had a feeling she was in for a long haul, and her intuition rarely failed her.
“Only the most talented, influential and known young artificers are invited to the Summer Delight. People don’t just become one of those overnight. Most invitees attend annually, many for at least half a decade, myself included.”
Val gave Rubin a sidelong glance. She couldn’t be more than eighteen. That doesn’t add up though… Laws prohibited artificing before sixteen since before her parents even met. Had she inherited her prestige from her family and attended—as a preteen—before she’d yet to create a single thing?
That seemed like a lot of pressure. No, not seem. It most definitely was. In spite of all that, Rubin survived and, in turn, thrived. Val couldn’t begin to count the numerous people who’d stop their own conversations to greet the girl in passing. The fact added another layer to the girl’s persona, shading her actions in a different light. Val gathered Rubin understood the intrinsic complexities of high society better than a majority she’d met, which made listening to her all the more important.
“Despite there being easily 1000 in attendance, new faces are noticed without difficulty,” Rubin continued, oblivious to Val’s internal musings. “I kid you not, you could’ve stood in a corner the whole party, and ninety percent of us will have dredged up your name, background, magical aptitudes, and prospects. That’s the minimum expected, by the way.”
The thought of people simply drawing up her past, present, and potential future at the snap of a finger…
A shiver ran down Val’s spine. Nightingale—or should she say Ekon—mentioned how cunning took you far in high society. Now it appeared the baseline to survive a night out.
“Val, you are now the center of the party. No, I am not exaggerating. No, I am not trying to scare you. What you decide to do now will stick with you. It will follow you, and it will most definitely affect you in ways you can—and cannot—imagine.”
“If I forfeit right now,” Val muttered, wincing as a lightning spell skinned the wind mage's shin, “I’d send the wrong message.”
“No,” Rubin countered, her eyebrows lifting a bit. The fight wouldn't come to an end, not if the wind Striker had a say. His determination showed through his nimble feet, and a surprisingly deep aether pool.
As interesting as it was, it didn't alleviate Val's confusion. “No?”
She could barely make out Rubin clicking her tongue. “You’d roll a die and set an uncertain narrative into play. People will take your actions and spin in any direction possible to hinder you. Why, you might ask?”
“Because I’m a new face.”
“Because you’re a new face,” Rubin confirmed. “So… sorry to say this, but you’re fighting tonight. If you think you may lose, lose with dignity. If you win, win with grace. If you fall, you’d better get back up. First impressions are, in these conditions specifically, lasting impressions.”
That tail-end sentence elicited a snort out of Val, shaking her from the numbing apprehension washing over her, a breath in the face of suffocating pressure. One of her most memorable teachers yet, Miss Peppers, repeated it to her with the enthusiasm of a drill sergeant. With it came a strange calm, an odd peace overshadowing her growing worry.
Though the upcoming battle was deemed an Elemental Exchange, stripped down to the barebones it was something she’d dealt with hundreds of times.
A fight.
“Alright,” Val said on an exhale, throwing out the underlying nuance of the upcoming match. That was Rubin’s expertise, and she’d already shed light on so much. Now—now was the time to concentrate as a combat mage.
Though Val was incredibly glad for the elemental deadlock between Jet’s friends, it was only a matter of time before aether pools faltered and spells ran dry. One foot bore the weight of her body as she leaned back in thought, and the other bounced in tandem with her agitated mind. So many questions, so few answers.
She turned to Rubin, hoping against hope she’d lessen that truth in any manner. “Tell me where I can get a change of clothes.”
Rubin’s lips pinched into a hard line. “No can do. There’s none to get.”
Val thumbed the two mages in the ring, particularly the sweat-stained joggers and shirts plastered onto their skin. “How’d they find some then?”
The girl gestured to Jet silently for an answer—and for good reason. With a flourish of his hand, his tailored suit and dress shoes disappeared to make way for athletic shorts, a dark long sleeve and the soft foam of sports sneakers. Jet’s clothes flared for the slightest moment—like someone threw the fabric on him and a live video editor cut to when he actually wore it—before it settled on his frame. Narrowing in on his fingers, she found the telltale signs of a storage ring.
“Okay… that’s not so great for me,” Val said, holding her forehead. “What can you tell me about him magic-wise? Is he no better than his friends? What’s his Path or his go-to spell?”
“That, I can do,” Rubin said. “Jet’s a fire Support, and he's a decent one, too. He’s known for one spell. Planetary Fireball.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It is. It’s an advanced Tier 2 spell, modified to perfection for guaranteed wins in Elemental Exchanges.”
She heaved an internal sigh. Damn. Not the best information to have learned, but it was information nonetheless. Val’s gaze pinned her soon-to-be opponent, making note of his light smile and the ease in his relaxed shoulders. He thought he had it in the bag before she’d stepped foot inside the ring.
Only time will tell if he truly did.
“Guaranteed? Why’s that?” Val asked.
“In spars, you can’t begin your incantation until after the fight begins.”
Val nodded, memories of countless sparring matches—even her last one as a high school student against Caro in Janos—flashing by. “Yeah.”
“In official Elemental Exchanges, you can’t let a spell fly until an arbiter starts it. Otherwise, you’re allowed time to prep your first spell. Any spell.”
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
“To alleviate the advantage Strikers and Hunters would hold if the normal rules held,” Val mumbled. As she’d tried to explain to Jet a moment ago, the wind mage could’ve rushed his counterpart and forced him into close-quarters combat, immediately turning the battle in his favour. If Supports and Bulwarks alike could do nothing except incant faster… Chances were, they wouldn't be fast enough.
“Except some people abuse this rule, most of all Supports. Jet’s Planetary Fireball is an end all be all once it’s cast and it will be cast the moment the fight begins.”
Val rubbed her chin and winced prematurely. “Is it an AoE skill?”
“Not to my knowledge, no.”
“Thank the saints,” Val breathed. As soon as she’d heard a Tier 2 conjuration spell, Lenson’s—Kylee’s—Sword Graveyard came to mind, and there was no surviving that. “Is the spell projectile or instantaneous?”
Rubin’s brow furrowed.
Right. Val winced, belatedly remembering she was in an artificer’s company. “Sorry, what I mean to say is, does the spell carry a travel time?”
“Yes, as most fire spells do. I’d say that’s its major weakness.”
“Perfect.” Val bobbed her head. “Last question, and the most important one. You might not know it, and it’d be totally understandable if you didn’t, but I still need to ask. Does he require a physical signal? Like, do you remember if he has to wave an arm or move a body part to help him cast?”
“I… yes, I believe he does. I’ve been to far too many of these events, and he loves performing in them. Each time, his arm has been raised to, what I presume, direct his spell.”
Val’s lips twitched upwards. “Alright, good to know. Thank you.”
As the beginnings of her plans solidified into a half-decent strategy in her head, she allowed her tiny smile to fully blossom. Val said she wanted to become an authentic Metal Striker. What better opportunity and chance than on the floor of an arena, with a live audience to boot?
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Oh. My. Goodness.
Lowell ensured his breezy smile stayed straight on for the company around him, then let himself freak out inwardly on his friend’s behalf. He had laughed at Val’s stories, at how trouble somehow found her. It always made for an excellent time when they crossed paths and caught each other up on life. Still, it was something else to see it live—and in spectacular fashion.
Worse yet, this time around, he was the cause of it.
Up until now, he wasn’t surprised she had wanted in on the auction. Everyone wanted in. Before that revelation, however, he already fully intended to throw his friend to the wolves at the Summer Delight.
He might crack one too many jokes, but he wasn’t kidding about what he’d said when they first met. Whether she knew it or not—hell, whether she liked it or not—she was a rising star in more capacities than even he realized. She’d end up in this company sooner or later, why not initiate it himself?
It’d permit for some cushions here or there, like Rubin’s seemingly natural assistance. He wasn’t one to brag, but evidence said he’d carved somewhat of an influential image. If he dove into the specifics of it, his last name carried some of the heavy lifting. Where it mattered though, he worked it out with his own two hands.
He honed his craft. He charmed the right people. He climbed his way up to manning a large building, orphanage or not. So he hardly found himself ashamed to use his influence, especially if doing so could shield his friend from the harsh and, quite frankly, cold world of high society.
To his eternal dismay, if you stubbed the wrong toe or glared at the wrong person, no amount of shielding protected you from the rash of innumerable high-standing, brash youngsters. He made a private reminder to himself to ask Val—the very same conflict-averse, calm to a fault enchanter he’d come to know—how she wound up in a match about nothing besides egos.
“Oh no, Jet’s found another victim.” Ryan Kidd, a wonder kid of an artisan, sipped his drink through a metal straw, his head zoned in on the arena not too far away. In the sepia lighting cast by the numerous chandeliers overhead, his blond hair turned a bright orange, and his brown eyes a simmering maroon. “It’s the new enchanter too. Shame, she seemed nice.”
Ophelia, an equally talented mechanic, shot Lowell a squirrely look. “Isn’t that your friend in there?”
“Yes, yes she is. She’s also an adventurer and a good one at that. In other words, she’ll be fine,” Lowell said, though he wasn’t so sure how sure to be.
There Val stood—in a dress, mind you—staring down a most notorious dueller, raring to go in convenient activewear. Of course she wouldn’t know the ins and outs of a full-bodied equip. Did she even have a storage ring to use it on? Probably not.
He could practically picture Jet’s trademark spell from memory—a meter-wide fireball burning above his open palm, ten firespades swirling around the mass of flames like moons to a planet. Oh saints, he really wasn’t sure.
“Efron versus Fischer. Match!” the arbiter shouted, pulling the crowd’s attention.
“Set!”
The Fire Support and Metal Striker widened their stances.
“Fight!”
He barely made out Val’s bracelet and hairpin coming alive. The tiny string of metal zipped across the field faster than he believed possible, snatching Jet’s wrist within a second and wrenching it to the side. Knocked off course a split second after being conjured, his Planetary Fireball was flung into the force field and soon dissipated into embers.
“Finished!” the arbiter yelled.
An uproar of confusion shook the hall, forcing Lowell and his colleagues to stand as several others jumped to their feet for a better look. He squinted, noting the dribble of blood marking the groove between Jet’s shoulder and chin. His neck was pricked by a sharp… needle?
No—it was the hairpin tying Val’s hair together seconds ago. His eyes whipped to the girl in question to confirm. Indeed, her hair—the brown rivulets a little askew due to being let loose after sitting in an updo all night—streamed down her back. By the saints! When did it get there? How did it fly there?
The energy barriers, akin to the rest of the crowd, took a while to register the win. It flickered off eventually, permitting an unadulterated view of the scene. With a near-lazy hand hovering at waist level, fingers clenched to reel in her assassin-like hairpin, Val stood tall. A calm, blank, and maybe even a little bit of a bored expression remained on her face as she stared down the fire dueller, stunned into the same shock coursing through the crowd’s veins.
The disparity—the contrast—between Jet and Val, one known and the other unfamiliar, one a normal fire mage and the other an abnormal Metal Striker, one decked out in athletic clothing and the other in the middle of attending a ball. Oh boy, this sight was definitely ending up on his media page.
With the tiniest hint of a smirk, she strode over right to Jet’s face and plucked the pin out of the air while her bracelet floated away to adorn her wrist once again. Turning on her heels, she exited the stage unfazed, taking the time to deepen her smile in his direction. What—why?
The quick visit she’d made to his office the night before came to mind, and it simply clicked. As he did to most of her coldsteel weapons, he’d assisted her in adding her soul signature to the metal piece she wore tonight for, as she put it, an additional flair. That was some flair alright.
Shaking his head, he laughed and turned to the speechless artificers at his table with a broad grin. “Valory Efron, everybody.”
----------------------------------------
Long before she heard her 2-inch heels clack against the hardwood floor, Val made up her mind that she’d win this fight entirely stationary. Not a single step would be taken. She couldn’t play the speedy Striker tonight—not in her current footwear. But she would play the Striker.
To consolidate the private promise, she squashed every instinct to summon a Metal Spike and focused on how to better her chances. So, as drilled into her by Dad, she cataloged the details.
Due to the setup of the formal Elemental Exchange, she knew precisely when Jet would attack. The advantage went both ways, only he had no idea what a Metal Striker’s opening strike would be. No one did. The thought nearly brought a smile to her face. She couldn’t afford to let anything slip, not yet.
The diameter of the Casting Circle, fifty meters in totality, gave no room at all. Their first moves would determine everything, as there would be no falling back or recovering.
To her luck, his spell was a mouthful. Even luckier, he’d take his sweet time to utter the seven syllables in Planetary Fireball if his bright grin said anything. Granted Metal Puppeteer wasn’t better off in that field, she’d say it a whole lot faster—she’d have to.
“Efron versus Fischer. Match!”
Val exhaled a steady stream of air and strung together countless frames. Metal Pupeteer was no easy spell. Thankfully in tonight’s fight, she had just two metal pieces to control. Compared to the tens she wielded in Storm’s Keep, calling her bracelet and hairpin to arms remained relatively easy.
She had asked Lowell to help instill her soul signature onto the jewellery. At Brooks’ behest, she needed a way to individualize herself, a way to stand out. As it did on her sword, the enchantments sparkled under and without light, and the subtle touch was indeed a nod to her enchanting background. Came in handy for other reasons though.
“Set!” The arbiter’s loud voice snapped her back into the battle at hand.
Her eyes flickered ever-so-quickly to Jet’s neck and she marked the artery underneath his skin with Aster’s aid. Jet mistook her fluttering gaze for fright and shot her a thin smile. Her steely expression didn’t so much as budge.
“Fight!”
“Metal Puppeteer.” The incantation came out in a whispered rush. Go, she commanded the jewellery, and the pair of metal pieces threw themselves off her, eating through the Casting Circle’s space like a knife through butter. Swift. Fast. Precise.
“Planetary Fi—”
Enclose. The bracelet wrapped around his hand. Move. His arm whipped to the side like a roughly-handled marionette. The humongous ball of flames he summoned nanoseconds too late flew over her head. The orbiting firespades, defenceless to the spell’s pull, followed suit. A surge of heat washed the vicinity, threatening to singe her now unbound hair.
Through it all, she urged on her hairpin. Obeying her will, it made it to Jet’s neck, millimeters away from his muscles.
“Finished!” the arbiter yelled. Val had to give it to the man, he possessed a sharp eye.
She managed to rein the metal piece in at the last minute, her not-so-absolute control a beat late. The lapse in skill caused the pin to pierce Jet’s skin and a thin line of blood coated his muscle as a consequence.
Val hardly believed it.
She won.