The midday sun cast long, golden beams across the sprawling training yard of the Academy. Cobbled paths wound between sand-filled sparring rings, rune-inscribed weapon racks, and statues of long-dead war mages posing in dramatic stances. This was no mere exercise yard, this was a cathedral to combat.
Kael stood among the cluster of first-years, most of them holding their swords like garden tools or fish too slippery to grip. His own blade hung naturally at his side, fingers loose, stance relaxed. Years of training under the cult's brutal regimen had carved muscle memory into his bones. He didn't think about swordplay. He was swordplay.
Instructor Valke's voice boomed across the yard. "Form lines! Today you learn to move like warriors, not flailing drunkards."
He marched down the line, inspecting stances with the scorn of a man allergic to incompetence. "Swordsmanship for Mages is not about brute force. It is the art of channeling intent. Blade and spell must not just coexist, they must cooperate."
He drew a gleaming saber and slashed the air in a seamless arc. "The first movement is Veilstrike. A feint, then a riposte. Footwork, balance, misdirection. Execute it correctly, and you'll carve through your enemy's guard before they realize you've begun."
The students began mimicking the motion. Most looked like windmills having seizures.
Kael performed the maneuver slowly, precisely. His feet shifted with ease, his blade whispering through the air like it belonged there.
That's when he showed up.
"Clear the ring!" barked Valke. "You two, demonstration. Kael. And… you."
The 'you' was a boy with hair too shiny and boots too clean: Alric Vendallion, heir to a minor noble house. His blade was covered in decorative etching and polished so hard it sparkled in the sun. He smiled at Kael with the smugness of someone used to applause for breathing.
"I hope you're ready," Alric said, stepping into the circle. "I've had private tutors since I was seven."
Kael gave him a half-shrug. "Alright."
Alric scowled. "Don't you want to know who I am?"
"No."
Valke clapped once. "Begin!"
Alric lunged with flair, sword swinging in a textbook-perfect but entirely predictable arc.
Kael parried it casually, letting the blow glance off his blade. Alric followed up with a flurry of strikes, each more dramatic than the last, none of which touched Kael.
He didn't attack. Not yet. He just moved, fluid, sharp, efficient. Duck, deflect, sidestep. Alric's frustration grew with each second.
"Stop dodging and fight me like a man!"
Kael sighed. "Okay."
And then he moved.
His sword snapped up, clashed with Alric's in a precise twist, and disarmed him in one motion. Alric's blade spun through the air and thunked into the sand ten feet away.
Silence.
Alric blinked.
Kael stepped back, relaxed. "Good form, though. You've got a nice wind-up."
Valke raised a brow. "Well. That was… efficient. Kael, you win."
The students burst into murmurs.
Alric stood frozen. Then, trying to salvage pride, he barked, "I slipped! The sand's uneven!"
Seret, watching from the sidelines, leaned over and stage-whispered, "Didn't seem uneven when you were spinning like a ballerina."
"Shut up!" Alric barked.
Kael turned to leave, but Alric grabbed his shoulder.
"I challenge you again! Tomorrow! I demand a rematch under formal terms!"
Kael blinked. "Why? Do you enjoy losing?"
"Insult me again and I'll, "
"Do what? Flail at me with better footwork?"
Gasps. Laughter. A few high-fives from the students in the back.
Valke sighed and scribbled something in a leather-bound notebook. Probably: Vendallion boy, excessive ego, poor results.
After class, Seret sauntered up beside Kael, a smirk stretching across her face. "Well. That was… impressive. Also hilarious."
"He really didn't like losing."
"No, Kael. He really didn't like losing to someone who didn't even try to win."
"I did try."
"You parried him like he was a gust of wind and sighed mid-fight."
Kael scratched his head. "I didn't mean to make him look bad."
"You didn't. He did that all by himself."
By the time dinner rolled around, word had spread across the first-years: Kael, quiet and unreadable, had silenced Alric Vendallion with a single move. People whispered his name with curiosity, awe, and for Alric's cronies, growing spite.
Kael just wanted to eat.
As he slid into a seat in the dining hall beside Seret, someone across the room accidentally dropped a tray at the sight of him.
She grinned. "You made an impression."
"I didn't even want one."
"Well, you've got one. Congratulations. You've joined the Kael Is Mysterious and Deadly Club. Population: one."
"And here I thought we'd have a quiet start to school."
"Oh, Kael. Nothing about our lives is ever quiet."