Owen stepped forward with that same confident grin, stone-gray eyes bright with anticipation.

Instructor Calder's expression shifted - something that might have been approval. "Good. To the center, both of you."

Cel moved to the indicated spot, boots crunching against packed earth. Owen took position opposite him, rolling his shoulders with the ease of someone who'd done this countless times.

"Before we begin," Calder's voice carried across the training ground, "understand the rules. Killing is prohibited. Severe injury is prohibited. Authorities are prohibited."

He paused, letting that sink in.

"The match ends when one fighter yields or is rendered unable to continue. Manifest your artifacts."

Cel reached for the bond with Silent Moon.

Moonlight threaded through the air, weaving itself into solid form. The chokutō materialized in his grip - deep violet blade catching afternoon sun, the nine moon phases etched into its length. Four crescents ignited with white light immediately.

Across from him, Owen's artifact appeared in a cascade of stone dust, hardening into solid form.

A massive warhammer. The head alone was larger than Cel's torso, carved from what looked like solid granite. Runes glowed faintly along its surface, pulsing with barely contained power.

Owen lifted it one-handed, the weapon's weight apparently nothing to him. He spun it once - casual, showing off - before settling into a ready stance.

Cel's chokutō looked like a child's toy in comparison.

"Begin!"

Owen moved first.

The warhammer came down in a vertical strike that would have pulverized bone. Cel jerked sideways, narrowly evading the blow. The weapon's head crashed into earth where he'd been standing, sending up a spray of dirt.

Owen didn't pause. The hammer reversed direction immediately, sweeping horizontal at chest height.

Cel raised Silent Moon to block—

The impact rang through the training ground. But Cel's arms didn't buckle. His stance held firm, boots planted solidly despite the hammer's massive weight behind the blow.

Owen's eyes widened slightly.

Cel didn't capitalize on the moment. His counter-slash came too slow, too obvious. Owen deflected it easily and pressed forward again.

The warhammer moved with practiced precision. High. Low. Diagonal. Each strike flowing into the next, guided by years of training.

Cel's blade intercepted desperately. His footwork was all wrong - too wide, too uncertain. He stumbled over his own feet trying to create distance.

But when Owen's strikes connected with Silent Moon, Cel's guard never broke. His arms remained steady. His breathing didn't labor despite the relentless assault.

The nobles watched with growing interest. The commoners shifted uneasily, afraid of what could happen to them.

Owen feinted left, then brought the hammer down from the right.

Cel's body moved before his mind caught up - blade rising on pure instinct to intercept the strike head-on.

The impact drove his feet half an inch into packed earth. Nothing more.

Owen's breathing had grown heavier. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

Cel looked untouched. Unmoved.

They separated, circling.

The realization was obvious now - in raw strength and endurance, Cel held every advantage. His divinely forged body simply operated on a different level. Owen's strikes, powerful as they were, couldn't tire him. Couldn't break his guard through force alone.

But skill?

Owen attacked again, and Cel's response was textbook terrible. His timing off. His positioning wrong. His blade work clumsy enough that Owen could slip past his guard almost at will.

The warhammer's shaft caught Cel across the ribs - not the head, just a glancing blow with the weapon's body. But it was enough.

Cel stumbled, more from poor balance than the impact's force.

Owen pressed the advantage. A sweep at the legs that sent Cel down hard.

Silent Moon skittered across packed earth.

Owen's hammer stopped inches from Cel's chest. Waiting.

"Yield?"

Cel nodded once.

Instructor Calder's voice rang out. "Match to Owen Peakscale!"

A few nobles clapped. Most simply nodded, the outcome expected. The commoners watched quietly, the gap between Owen's skill and their own suddenly, painfully clear.

Owen dismissed his warhammer, the massive weapon crumbling back into stone dust that dissolved into nothing.

"That was disappointing."

The words were quiet. Meant only for Cel to hear.

Cel's eyebrow twitched upward.

'What did you expect?'

The thought flashed sharp and bitter through Cel's mind. But he said nothing. Just bowed once - proper deference - and moved to retrieve Silent Moon from where it had fallen.

"Lord Owen."

Both of them turned.

Sylvaine stood at the edge of the sparring area, light green eyes calm and assessing.

"Would you grant me a match?"

Owen's grin returned immediately. "I would be honored, lady Sylvaine."

They took positions in the center while Cel rejoined the watching students. Lior shifted to make room, his expression troubled.

"Are you alright?" he whispered.

"Yes."

The answer was true enough. No injuries. No pain. Just the bitter taste of a fight he'd chosen to lose.

Sylvaine and Owen manifested their artifacts simultaneously.

Leaves swirled around Sylvaine's hand, spinning faster until they solidified into steel. Her weapon materialized as an elegant blade - slender and curved with graceful lines. The steel gleamed silver-white, almost seeming to glow with inner light.

Owen's warhammer appeared again, just as massive as before.

"Begin!"

Owen charged immediately, hammer rising for a devastating overhead strike.

Sylvaine didn't retreat. Didn't try to create distance like Cel had.

She stepped forward.

Her blade deflected the hammer's head with minimal movement - just enough to redirect its momentum past her shoulder. Before Owen could recover, her weapon traced a line across his chest.

Not deep. Not injuring. Just touching.

Owen stumbled back, grin wide. A thin red line appeared on his uniform where the blade had passed.

Sylvaine pressed forward. Her weapon moved like an extension of her body - fluid, graceful, each strike flowing seamlessly into the next. Where Owen relied on overwhelming power, she wielded precision.

The hammer came around in a sweeping arc. She ducked beneath it, blade rising to force Owen's guard high, then swept low at his legs.

He jumped - barely avoiding the strike - and brought the hammer down while airborne.

Sylvaine rolled sideways. The weapon's head cratered the earth where she'd been standing.

Owen's grin had faded, replaced by focus.

He attacked again - faster now, more aggressive. The hammer became a blur of stone and force, each strike powerful enough to shatter bone.

But none of them landed.

Sylvaine's blade wove a defensive pattern that turned aside every blow. And between each deflection, her sword found gaps - touching shoulder, ribs, thigh. Never cutting deep. Just proving she could.

Finally, Owen overextended. Put too much force behind a horizontal sweep that left him momentarily off-balance.

Sylvaine's blade caught him across the shins with its flat side.

His legs buckled. He went down on one knee, hammer falling from his grip.

Her sword pressed against his throat. Gentle. Undeniable.

"Yield?"

Owen stared up at her for a long moment. Then laughed - genuine, delighted.

"I yield."

The blade withdrew. Sylvaine stepped back, offering her hand.

Owen took it, letting her pull him upright.

"Match to Lady Sylvaine Grovethorn!" Calder's voice carried approval.

Theron appeared at her side immediately, his expression bright with pride. "That was amazing! The way you redirected his hammer. I didn’t know you were that strong!"

Sylvaine's lips curved slightly. "Thank you."

They moved to the sidelines together, Theron still talking enthusiastically about specific moments from the match.

Instructor Calder consulted his roster. "Lior, you're up."

Lior went pale. He rose on shaking legs, manifesting his artifact - a simple knife that glowed faintly with silver light.

His opponent, a stocky boy who'd been moderately skilled during training, summoned a short sword.

The fight was... brief.

Lior's knife work was technically sound but hesitant. Every strike obvious. Every defense half-hearted.

The other boy pressed forward with confidence born from weeks of watching Lior fumble through combat drills. A feint, a lunge, and Lior's knife went flying.

"Yield," Lior said immediately, voice barely audible.

Instructor Calder's expression held disappointment. "Match concluded."

More fights followed. Commoners against commoners, testing newly learned skills against each other. Some showed promise. Others revealed how much work remained.

The sun sank lower, painting the training ground in orange light.

Finally, Calder raised his hand. "That's enough for today. Rankings will be posted after a month. Dismissed."

Students dispersed in clusters, nobles and commoners naturally separating. Conversations rose and fell - analyzing matches, discussing techniques, making plans.

Cel and Lior walked to the dining hall together. Lior kept his eyes down, shoulders tight with the weight of his public defeat. Cel said nothing. There was nothing to say.

The hall was already filling when they entered. Nobles occupied the tables near the windows, their uniforms bright against the fading daylight. Commoners clustered toward the back, voices subdued.

Cel moved to the familiar isolated corner where they usually sat.

The servers moved through the dining hall with practiced efficiency, but their pattern was predictable. Nobles first - plates laden with roasted meats, fresh bread still steaming, vegetables glazed with butter and herbs. The food arrived while it was still hot, presented with careful attention.

Then the other commoners. Their portions respectable, if less generous. The servers worked quickly through the middle tables, refilling water pitchers and clearing empty dishes.

Finally, they reached Cel and Lior's corner.

They ate in silence for several minutes. Around them, the dining hall buzzed with energy - students reliving the day's matches, predicting rankings.

Then a voice cut through the noise.

Familiar. Unwelcome.

"Hey trash."