CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR: THE TIDES OF RIVALRY (PART 2)

The wind whispered through the training grounds, carrying the scent of sweat and salt. Gravill's chest still rose and fell in deep, steady breaths, but his heart beat faster now—not from exhaustion, but from anticipation.

The real test.

The defeated trainees stood off to the side, shoulders tense, some scowling, others too drained to show any emotion. Callix was among them, his fingers still pressing against his ribs. He wasn't looking at Gravill, but his presence was heavy, an unspoken promise of unfinished business.

The winners, a smaller but hardened group, stood at attention. They had proven themselves, yet none of them relaxed. Because everyone knew—whatever came next wouldn't be easy.

The instructor's sharp gaze swept over them, his eyes lingering on each victor for just a second longer than necessary, as if weighing their worth.

"Winning your first match doesn't make you strong," he said, his voice even, but carrying an edge that made the words bite. "Anyone can fight once. The real challenge is fighting again. And again. Until there is no one left standing but you."

His eyes landed on Gravill for a brief moment before he turned away.

A small wooden box sat on a pedestal near the center of the training ground, plain but foreboding. It looked out of place amidst the battered sand and sweat-stained air, yet the way the instructor approached it made it clear—it held their fates.

He lifted the lid, revealing dozens of small, round wooden tokens, each carved with a number.

"You will each receive a number," the instructor continued. "This number represents you. It will not change."

A murmur ran through the group. Gravill's fingers twitched at his sides. This was different from the first fight. That had been raw instinct, skill against skill. But now? There was a system, a plan.

The instructor motioned for them to step forward. One by one, they approached, drawing their tokens. Some clutched theirs tightly, others glanced at their numbers with unreadable expressions before tucking them away.

When it was Gravill's turn, he reached into the box. His fingers brushed against smooth, worn wood before closing around a token. He pulled it out and glanced at the number.

Fifteen.

He turned the small disk over in his palm. It felt heavier than it should have.

Once everyone had their number, the instructor nodded.

"Now, we decide your next opponent."

A second box was placed before them. Unlike the first, this one was larger, and the numbers inside were unseen, hidden from view.

"You will each come forward and draw a number. Whoever you pick, you fight."

The air tightened.

Gravill could feel it—the tension, the way their bodies stiffened, the weight of what this meant. This wasn't just about strength anymore. It was luck, fate, whatever the gods willed.

One by one, the trainees stepped forward. Some faces twisted in silent curses when they saw their matchups, others merely nodded, their eyes flashing with cold calculation.

Then it was Gravill's turn.

He stepped forward, his fingers closing around a token in the box. For a moment, he hesitated. It felt like the air around him had stilled, the world narrowing down to the weight of this single, wooden disk in his grasp.

Slowly, he pulled it out and turned it over.

Eleven.

His stomach dropped.

A movement to his side caught his eye. Another trainee stiffened, glancing at their own token.

It was Callix's friend.

The same one who had glared at him with barely restrained fury after their fight.

Their eyes met.

The boy's lips curled into a slow, sharp smile, but there was no humor in it. Only promise.

This isn't over.

The instructor's voice cut through the air.

"The fights begin at sundown."