By the time Kael and Seret reached the dueling yard, the nerves from the magic lecture had twisted into a different kind of tension, one that burned hot in the chest and coiled tight behind the eyes. The yard was massive, a training complex carved into the base of a granite hill behind the east wing of the academy. Its floor was black stone veined with silver, worn smooth by centuries of boot heels and blood. Racks of training weapons lined the walls, some wooden, some steel, others laced with glowing runes or braided mana conduits.
A pair of towering iron doors opened at the far end, and the instructor stepped in.
She was built like a statue chiseled from old war stories: lean, hard-lined, scarred in places that told the truth better than medals. Her hair was tied back into a braid thick enough to beat a man to death with, and a jagged glyph shimmered across her temple, a permanent battle rune, burned into her flesh.
"My name is Instructor Virella," she barked. "If you can't hold a sword without pissing your pants, speak now and save me the trouble of fixing your spine later."
No one moved.
"Good. You're going to learn how to kill someone who thinks they're better than you because their father paid a donation."
Kael liked her already.
She motioned them to form a double line around the edge of the yard. Dozens of students obeyed, some eagerly, others clumsily. Kael stood with Seret to his right, both of them instantly adjusting into a loose stance, weight distributed, senses tuned, exits marked.
Virella clocked it.
"I see we've got some feral-trained among us," she said with a smirk. "Good. The rest of you, forget what your house tutors told you. Swordsmanship for wielders isn't about dance forms or empty flourishes. It's about fusion. Your body is your first spell focus. Your blade is the second."
She waved her hand, and a crystal floated into the air beside her. It shimmered, then projected a ghostly figure, an armored fighter weaving through a crowd with terrifying speed, his blade flashing in tandem with bursts of elemental force.
"Standard combat doctrine for wielders involves the Trine Sequence, three phases of engagement that combine steel and spellwork."
She etched a triangle into the air.
"Anchor. Unleash. Sever."
"Anchor is stance, your posture, your breath, and your attunement. It's the moment before impact. The second you settle your intent into the world."
"Unleash is casting through motion. No gesturing. No static circles. You cast while you cut, fuel your spells through movement, let momentum carry your will."
"Sever is disengagement, cut the thread, kill the spell before it bleeds you dry. This is what most wielders fail at. They burn too hot, too long. The Deep eats them."
Kael's mind latched onto it immediately. This wasn't ritual casting. This was combat channeling. Alive, brutal, flowing like water over stone. This was a language he understood.
Instructor Virella clapped her hands once, and assistants wheeled in several racks of weapons. Each sword was unique, some short, some long, some curved or straight, but every one bore etched runes across the fuller. The runes glowed faintly, the color shifting as each student approached, as if the blade judged their resonance.
"These are Academy-forged," Virella said. "The steel is laced with Nullsilver and Crypthium, metals that channel magic without destabilizing it. The runes you see? Binding glyphs. Each sword binds to your aura when claimed. It'll feed off your resonance, strengthen over time. Lose it, and you'll have to carve your own."
Students approached slowly, awed. When Kael stepped up, his hand hovered over a lean, slightly curved blade, almost like a falchion but lighter, with twin channels running the length of the steel. The moment he touched it, the runes ignited in a deep, crimson hue, pulsing once like a heartbeat.
Seret chose a sabre-like blade with a jagged back edge and tighter runes clustered near the guard. Hers burned silver-blue, sharp and cold.
Virella's eyes gleamed.
"Pair up. One spell per strike. Minimal toll. I want to see Anchor-Unleash-Sever in motion."
What followed was chaos.
Sparks flew. Mana flared. Students shouted, stumbled, swung with too much power or not enough. The ground scorched in places, froze in others. Kael moved with eerie calm, each step calculated. He anchored low, twisted, and slashed, a Rend burst launched his opponent backward in a flare of pressure. He severed the spell mid-pulse and reset before the echo faded.
Seret was a ghost. Her motion flowed like ink in water. Veil magic wove around her blade, and every swing left behind mirages, phantom limbs, flickers of light that misled the eye.
Virella watched, arms crossed.
Most students failed the Sever phase, casting without controlling mana recoil, leaving themselves gasping or stunned. But a few, including Kael and Seret, drew glances. Even respect.
By the time the lesson ended, everyone was sweating, bruised, wide-eyed.
"This is just the first taste," Virella said. "Your blade is now your burden. Feed it. Train it. Sleep with it beside you. And remember, magic doesn't make you dangerous. Knowing when not to use it does."
Dismissed.
Kael stared down at the sword in his hand as its glow faded to a quiet ember.
It felt like the first thing he'd ever owned that wasn't given to him by a captor.