As Rowan and Elira stepped into their designated sides of the crumbling courtyard, the air shifted. Conversations died down to hushed murmurs, the kind that crawl into your spine and refuse to leave.
"Is that the kid with no resonance?"
"Woah… can't wait to see Elira's strings in action."
"He's done for. Elira's on another level."
The whispers floated like leaves caught in a breeze—light but sharp enough to cut. Luckily, Rowan couldn't hear them over the pounding of his heart, which felt like it might claw its way up his throat.
He had never sparred with anyone besides his sister. This—a real match, in front of dozens of eyes, against someone like Elira—was uncharted territory. Sparring was common at the academy, mandatory even. But until now, he'd managed to avoid every session.
There was no skipping this one. Not anymore.
Elira regarded him with a laid-back expression, arms loose at her sides, but her emerald green eyes were anything but relaxed—sharp, focused, intense. It was like she was already dissecting every move he might make.
"Ready, Rowan?" Her voice was calm but edged with challenge.
She lowered her stance with fluid precision, one hand forward, the other trailing behind—fingers shimmering faintly with Etherium. Threads of translucent light curled between them, dancing like silk caught in moonlight.
"I won't hold back," she said. "It's the fastest way to get you caught up to the rest of us."
Rowan swallowed hard. There was no malice in her words—only honest bluntness. She wasn't trying to intimidate him. She was treating him like any other student. Like someone who belonged here.
That made it worse.
He nodded and stepped forward. But before he could move another inch, a flimsy metal sword spun through the air. Rowan caught it instinctively, surprise flashing across his face. The blade was thin, almost fragile-looking, its edge barely catching the light—but it was sharp enough to draw blood.
Professor Renwick stood at the edge of the courtyard, a wry smile tugging at his lips and one eyebrow raised.
"You'll need this," he said, flicking the sword toward Rowan.
Rowan glanced around, frowning as his classmates watched him and Elira with hungry anticipation. Everyone knew Elira was the best in the class. Expectations hung heavy.
Noticing Rowan's confusion, Renwick folded his arms and added dryly, "Look, this is a prime learning moment for all of you. Watching Elira dismantle our 'resonance-less wonder' here? Inspirational, right?"
He smirked. "Consider this a masterclass. Pay attention."
Then he gave Rowan a pointed nod.
For a heartbeat, silence stretched across the courtyard like a held breath. Then Renwick's smile widened into something almost mischievous.
"Now, begin!"
His voice rang out sharply, slicing through the tension and echoing off the cracked stone walls.
At the sound, Elira's entire body coiled like a spring released. Her feet barely seemed to touch the ground as she surged forward with fluid grace, her movements a blend of dancer and hunter. Her arms flowed in sweeping arcs and delicate flicks, fingers weaving complex patterns in the air as if painting invisible strokes.
Invisible at first, then suddenly shimmering, threads of Etherium spiraled from her fingertips, twisting and curling like glowing silk ribbons catching the light. Each movement was deliberate, controlled—every gesture shaping the threads with purpose and deadly intent.
Elira glided across the courtyard with a predator's elegance, stepping lightly from stone to rubble as though weightless. She pivoted and lunged, never wasting energy, always poised to snap her fingers and unleash a torrent of threads in an instant.
Rowan's chest tightened as realization hit him: she wasn't just rushing to strike. She was weaving a trap.
His muscles tensed, eyes darting for an escape, but the threads were already too fast. Before he could take a step back, glowing strands of Etherium snapped taut and coiled around the space ahead of him, cutting off any clear path.
His heart thundered in his ears, breath coming faster. His fingers clenched around the thin metal hilt of his sword, knuckles white, but his stance was unsteady—too rigid, betraying the flood of nerves rushing through him.
Elira's emerald eyes gleamed with quiet satisfaction, but there was no cruelty there—only focus. She maintained her low, balanced stance, body light on the balls of her feet, ready to strike or shift at a moment's notice. Her lips pressed into a thin line, the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at one corner.
Rowan swallowed hard, forcing his limbs to relax despite the surge of adrenaline. He needed to think, to move—but the cage of shimmering threads tightened, glowing faintly against the dim courtyard light.
Rowan's mind raced, searching for any advantage—a way to last even a moment longer against Elira's overwhelming skill.
Women are generally weaker than men, he thought, maybe I can charge head-on. She's not placing any threads directly in front of her body…
He took a deep breath, forcing his racing heart to slow. The plan felt reckless, but it was the only chance he had.
As Elira closed the distance, her eyes sharp and calculating, Rowan steeled himself and surged forward, aiming straight for the gap in her defenses.
Elira's eyes widened in surprise—a rare flicker of uncertainty—just long enough for Rowan to close the distance. She had no choice but to leap aside, narrowly avoiding his charge.
Quick as a flash, Elira's fingers twitched, snatching a nearby Etherium thread. With a swift pull, she propelled herself onto another thread strung taut across the sparring field, landing lightly and effortlessly like a cat on a wire.
Perched atop the shimmering strand, her expression calm and almost amused, she called down, "Great move, Rowan. I might have underestimated your skill."
Her dirty white hair fluttered in the breeze, framing a face that was all focus and cool calculation. Without hesitation, she stepped off the thread and prepared her next assault.
This time, Elira didn't come at him head-on. Her fingers danced deftly, weaving intricate patterns in the air as she drew her Etherium threads taut—ready to strike with the shimmering strands themselves.
The courtyard quickly transformed into a spider's web of glowing threads, stretching in every direction. The fine, nearly invisible strands pulsed with energy, glinting dangerously in the fading light.
Rowan's breath hitched. One wrong step, one careless move—and those threads would slice through him, leaving him vulnerable to Elira's next attack.
Elira sent more threads darting toward him, sharp and precise like razor-thin blades. Instinctively, Rowan swung his flimsy metal sword to block them—expecting the usual harmless clash of blade against light.
But then, with a sudden snap, one of Elira's Etherium threads broke, the tension releasing like a twanged bowstring.
A flicker of surprise crossed Rowan's face, quickly replaced by a grin.
"Hey, Elira," he called out, raising his sword, "I think I'm getting the hang of this."
Elira laughed softly, the sound light but confident. "Good to hear, Rowan. Keep it up."
No sooner had she spoken than an Etherium thread zipped just above Rowan's head, razor sharp and moving with lightning speed. It missed his face by mere inches, slicing a few strands from his wheat-blonde hair, which fluttered away like golden leaves in the breeze.
Rowan's breath came in sharp bursts as he carefully navigated the shimmering maze of Etherium threads. His every step was deliberate, every movement cautious—one wrong move and he'd be caught. The air was thick with tension; the watching students held their breath, eyes locked on the unfolding duel. Even Professor Renwick's usual sarcastic smirk had softened into something like genuine interest.
Elira's fingers moved with practiced ease, weaving and tightening her web. The threads glowed faintly under the fading sun, wrapping around stone pillars and broken walls like strands of silk spun by a master spider. The courtyard was rapidly shrinking, the spaces between the threads closing in like walls.
Rowan tried to find gaps—weak points to exploit—but Elira's control was flawless. Her emerald eyes never wavered from him, calculating, predicting, guiding her invisible traps. She wasn't just fighting; she was teaching, pushing him, testing how far he could stretch before breaking.
A sudden flurry of threads darted toward him, and Rowan reacted instinctively—dodging, twisting, swinging his metal sword with everything he had. Some threads snapped and broke, but the threads came from every direction, sharper and faster than before. One wrapped tightly around his ankle, another coiled around his wrist. Panic flared, but Rowan forced himself to stay calm.
His heart hammered as more threads slithered like living things, binding his arms and legs, pulling him closer to the center of Elira's web. His movements grew slower, heavier, the threads cutting off his space to maneuver.
He struggled, muscles burning against the Etherium bonds, but it was no use—the threads held fast, tightening with every twist and turn.
Finally, with a heavy breath, Rowan slumped against the webbing, surrendering.
"Alright… you got me," he said, voice rough but steady, a tired smile breaking through. "Guess I'm caught."
The courtyard erupted—not in laughter or scorn, but in surprised murmurs and whispers of respect. Even those who doubted the resonance-less boy couldn't deny his grit. He'd stood toe-to-toe with Elira and lasted longer than anyone expected.
Elira stepped forward, the fading sunlight catching the strands of her white hair as she knelt beside him. With a smooth flick of her fingers, the shimmering threads unraveled and vanished into the air. She didn't say anything at first—just offered her hand.
Rowan stared at it for a second, blinking in disbelief. Then, wordlessly, he took it.
Her grip was firm, steady, and without condescension. She pulled him up like an equal.
"You did well," she said, her tone calm but sincere. "Most wouldn't have lasted half as long—especially without a resonance."
Rowan met her gaze, surprised by the flicker of respect in her pale blue eyes. The ache in his limbs was nothing compared to the spark igniting in his chest. He nodded, silent, but resolute.
Professor Renwick began to clap slowly from the edge of the courtyard, the usual sharpness in his face softened by a rare smile. "Heh… didn't expect that. We might just have a real fighter on our hands."
As Rowan stepped out of the dueling circle, still brushing dust from his shirt, Niko and Tarin approached, grinning ear to ear. Each one clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"Damn good job out there, Rowan," Niko said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Never thought you of all people would hold your own against Elira like that."
Tarin chimed in, smiling. "Seriously, where'd you learn to fight like that? No hesitation at all. You were thinking fast on your feet."
Rowan hesitated for a moment, unused to praise, but then gave a small nod. "Thanks. My sister trained with me a lot. She's the only person I ever sparred with before today."
Niko blinked. "Your sister, huh? Must be tough if she helped you last that long."
"She is," Rowan said with a faint smile. "She never went easy on me. Said the world wouldn't either."
Tarin gave a low whistle. "Smart woman."
From across the courtyard, Elira was still watching him—arms crossed, eyes unreadable. Not with judgment. With thought. Like she was reevaluating a puzzle she thought she'd already solved.
Rowan met her gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary… then turned away, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
For the first time since arriving at the academy, he didn't feel completely out of place.
After the long sparring session the whole class had participated in, Rowan began the walk home alone. The roads were familiar—store owners pulling down shutters, the smell of cooked meat wafting from a nearby food stall, and children helping their parents carry crates or bags. Families strolled together, laughing, content. Every now and then, Rowan would see a kid using their resonance—a flicker of light, a gust of wind, or some other subtle quirk of energy.
He envied them.
He wanted his resonance to manifest—wanted it badly—but he knew that rushing it would only lead to disappointment. All he could do was wait. Hope. Train.
Still, something felt off today.
There were fewer people out than usual. The laughter and chatter that typically filled the streets had thinned to a low murmur. He noticed a pair of adults whispering in the alleyway between two shops, glancing around like they didn't want to be seen. A few kids were being ushered home early.
Rowan slowed his steps.
Something in the air felt… wrong.
But after a moment's hesitation, he shook it off. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe it was nothing.
So, ignoring the uneasy stir around him, he kept walking.
After some time walking, Rowan finally made it home. As always, the door was cracked open with a dim light flickering inside.
He passed by the other homes lining the narrow street, their windows shuttered against the growing chill, and stepped into his own.
Inside, Helena—his older sister—was crouched by the table, folding clothes into a worn canvas bag. Her reinforced coat was draped across the chair, and her field boots waited by the door, dusted from a trip that hadn't even started yet.
Rowan blinked. "What are you doing?"
Helena looked up and smiled. "Ah, hey Rowan. Did you go to your class today?"
"Yeah. It was actually… kinda fun," he admitted as he dropped his bag by the wall. "We sparred. The whole class got into it."
"Told you it'd grow on you," she said, carefully rolling a pair of gloves and slipping them into a side pouch. "Glad you're keeping your word. That's all that really matters some days."
Rowan crossed his arms. "So… why are you packing again? Another trip?"
"Yeah," she said, pausing just briefly. "I got reassigned this morning. Nothing detailed yet—they'll explain once we're past the walls. Could be another supply run. Maybe relocation support."
Rowan frowned. "They're not even telling you what it is?"
Helena shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant. "Standard procedure. They probably just don't want people panicking or gossiping if it turns out to be something routine. You know how the village gets."
"But it's not routine, is it?" Rowan said quietly, stepping closer. "I saw people whispering on the way home. Less people outside."
She looked at him for a long second, then forced a smile. "You're sharp, like always. Still... nothing confirmed. Could be a false alarm, a stray reading, or something already being handled."
"But they're still sending you," Rowan said, his voice edged with disbelief.
Helena sighed and zipped up her bag. "It's probably nothing, Rowan. They just want us to check it out and report back. If it were something big, they'd send a full team, not a couple grade threes."
He folded his arms, staring at the gear laid out beside her—serious stuff, not the kind you took on a "routine check."
"This is messed up," he said. "You just got back. And now they're already shipping you off again?"
"I know." She walked over and crouched in front of him, her voice softening. "And I'd rather stay. But people rely on us, even when the orders don't make sense. That's what it means to be a soldier out here. We go so others don't have to."
Rowan clenched his jaw, looked away. "Yeah, well... it's always you going."
She gave him a faint smile and ruffled his hair. "Someday, it'll be you too. But not yet. Right now, your job is to learn, grow, and wait for your resonance to kick in. Let the world carry a little of the weight until you're ready."
Helena stood up and slung her bag over one shoulder, the familiar clink of her gear settling into place.
Rowan shrugged, trying to hide how much he worried. "Don't get yourself into trouble, okay?"
She laughed softly, heading for the door. "Routine check, remember? Nothing we can't handle."
With a quick wave, she stepped out, leaving Rowan alone with his thoughts—and maybe just a little bit of relief.