Chapter 7: The Razor's Edge

The announcement echoed through the courtyard, a brief respite from the anxieties that had taken root in Liam's gut. Three days. A paltry seventy-two hours stood between him and the semi-finals, a chasm of time that felt both impossibly long and terrifyingly short. While other competitors might welcome the respite, for Liam, it was a sentence to an agonizing purgatory.

He watched them disperse – the confident swagger of the seasoned warriors, the nervous energy of the hopefuls, the grim determination of those who, like him, knew they were walking a tightrope over an abyss. He envied them all. They had skill, honed through years of training. He had… a desperate hope and a magic he barely understood.

The training yard, usually a place of camaraderie and shared purpose, felt vast and empty. The scent of sweat and steel, normally invigorating, now seemed to mock him. He picked up a practice longsword, the familiar weight strangely alien in his trembling hand. He went through the forms, the Volgunder "frost-step," the parries, the thrusts. But his movements were stiff, his timing off. He was a marionette with tangled strings, his body refusing to obey his will.

He slammed the sword down in frustration. Van's advice – use their strength against them – echoed in his mind, but it felt like a cruel joke. He had no strength of his own to leverage. He was a hollow shell, a counterfeit warrior.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe, to think. He had to find an advantage, something, anything, to level the playing field. He thought of Carla Razakia, his upcoming opponent. The whispers followed her like a shadow: "prodigy," "rapier-fast," "two stars, almost three." He pictured her, a whirlwind of motion, her thin blade a silver needle dancing around his clumsy defenses.

He remembered the ice. That desperate, reckless gamble that had saved him against Torin and Serin. Could he control it? Could he weaponize it?

He sought out the most secluded corner of the yard, a shadowed alcove behind a crumbling section of the old keep wall. Here, hidden from prying eyes, he began to experiment. He focused on his boots first, summoning the chilling energy, willing it to coalesce into a thin, manageable layer of frost.

The cold bit into his skin, a familiar, almost comforting pain. A faint shimmer of blue appeared on the leather, followed by the delicate tracery of ice crystals. He took a tentative step. The ground was slick, treacherous. He stumbled, nearly falling, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He tried again, and again, each attempt a frustrating mix of near-success and clumsy failure. He could feel the magic, the raw power thrumming beneath his skin, but it was like trying to grasp smoke. It slipped through his fingers, refusing to be tamed.

Hours bled into one another. The sun climbed high in the sky, then began its slow descent. Liam ignored the burning in his muscles, the ache in his bones, the growing despair that threatened to engulf him. He practiced until his hands were raw, his legs trembled with exhaustion, and his head swam with fatigue.

He tried to expand the ice, to coat his forearms, envisioning a shimmering shield of frost. The magic rebelled, sputtering and dying like a candle in the wind. He tried to lower the temperature around him, to create a zone of chilling air that might slow his opponent. The result was a pathetic puff of frost that dissipated almost instantly.

He made progress, yes, but it was agonizingly slow, measured in fractions of an inch, in milliseconds of control. He could now maintain a somewhat stable layer of ice on his boots for a few minutes at a time, enough to increase his speed, but not enough to make him truly formidable.

As darkness fell, he finally stopped, collapsing onto a cold stone bench.

A shiver traveled down Liam's back, he was not strong enough, skilled enough. He was not ready, he knew it and so did everyone else. Yet here he was. He needed to face his reality.

He closed his eyes, focusing on the image of the rapier, its thin, deadly blade. He pictured Carla's speed, her agility, her precision. He needed a counter, something unexpected, something that would exploit her weaknesses, however small they might be.

An image flashed in his mind: a swift, almost impossible maneuver. A combination of the "frost-step" footwork, enhanced by the ice on his boots, and a daring, unconventional strike. It was a long shot, a desperate gamble, but it was the only chance he had. The plan has formed.

He opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on the training dummy in the center of the yard. He wouldn't win with skill. He wouldn't win with strength. He would win with… a razor's edge of ice, and a prayer. A prayer and a desperate, last-ditch effort. It will be him, or her.