As he strode toward the arena, Elliot didn’t miss the way his brother’s steps slowed near Rheon’s domain—the faint tremor in his fists, the too-quick breath. Pride, he knew, was a fragile shield.
The air near Professor Rheon’s training ring crackled with residual energy, the ground beneath Towan’s boots still scarred by scorch marks and frostbite—testaments to elemental fury. Rheon stood at the center, arms folded, his presence a tectonic force. Sunlight glinted off the sweat-slicked muscles of his bare arms, each scar a story of battles fought without blades.
Zehn, the green-haired student, knelt in the dirt, his fire Essentia flickering weakly around clenched fists. Rheon’s critique lashed like a whip:
“Your flames waver because your resolve does. Fire isn’t just fists and fury—it’s focus. You split your Essentia here.” The professor’s thumb pressed hard against Zehn’s sternum, where his heart node pulsed erratically. “Conviction burns hotter than any flame. Doubt? That’s ash.”
Zehn’s hands trembled, sparks dancing between his fingers as if protesting his shame. He stared at the phoenix tattoo on his wrist—a faded relic of his village’s fire cult.
Mar, the honey-haired girl, stood nearby, her wind Essentia still humming in restless eddies around her legs. Rheon turned to her, and the gales stilled as if holding their breath.
“You dance with wind like it’s a partner,” he said, voice low and deliberate. “But wind is no gentleman. It’s a traitor. It whispers your moves to your enemy. You relied on sight, not sound. Against a true storm, you’d drown in its lies.”
Mar’s cheeks flushed, but her hands rose instinctively, summoning a cyclone of air that shredded a nearby training dummy—a defiant rebuttal. Rheon’s smirk was approval enough.
Towan lingered at the ring’s edge, his own Essentia prickling under his skin like static. This wasn’t sparring; it was survival stripped to bone and breath.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“Professor.” Towan’s voice cut through the tension. Rheon turned, and the weight of his gaze felt like a boulder on Towan’s chest. “Spar with me. Hand-to-hand. No elements.”
The silence thickened. Zehn and Mar exchanged glances—this fool was volunteering for a burial.
Rheon’s laugh was a landslide. “Bold, for a pup who limps like an old hound.” His eyes dropped to Towan’s subtly favored leg, the legacy of yesterday’s ice-glazed strikes. “You’ve got a wolf’s hunger, but wolves die first in the wild. Why?”
Towan rolled his shoulders, Essentia flaring golden around his fists. “Wolves hunt alone.”
“And that’s why they starve,” Rheon shot back. Behind him, the setting sun cast the arena’s archway into sharp relief. The academy’s crest—a phoenix mid-flight—warped in the shadows, its wings twisting into serpentine coils.
“Prove your fangs,” Rheon growled, as he got up on the fighting platform, sinking into a stance. The earth beneath him groaned, fissures spiderwebbing outward as his Essentia surged—not elemental, but raw, primal.
Towan’s boots dug into the arena’s sand-strewn floor, his breath steady but his pulse erratic. Professor Rheon stood like a statue, his posture relaxed yet unyielding—a paradox that gnawed at Towan’s focus.
“(Why did he agree? To humble me? Or…)”
“Are you doubting already?” Rheon’s voice was a blade sheathed in velvet, slicing through the silence.
Towan forced a grin, teeth gritted. “Not yet.”
He exploded forward, Essentia surging through his legs as he launched into his master’s signature —a spinning kick aimed to destabilize. Rheon shifted his weight, sidestepping with a fluidity that felt… rehearsed. Not just practiced, but anticipated.
“(How…?)”
Towan landed, pivoted, and drove a fist toward Rheon’s solar plexus. The professor deflected it with a palm strike so minimal it bordered on dismissive. Before Towan could react, Rheon’s hand pressed lightly against his chest.
A tremor, not a blast.
Towan’s vision blurred as the air compressed around him. He flew backward, skidding across the arena until his spine met the stone wall. The impact rattled his teeth, but the force was precise—controlled to bruise, not break.
“What was that…?” Towan coughed, clutching his sternum. The Essentia had felt… cold, yet eerily familiar—like a distorted echo of his master’s warmth. “He barely used any power. How…?”