Breaking the Script

"Shing-shrrr."

The sound of steel slicing air. 

I twirled the glaive in my hand, letting its double-edged ends cut arcs through the space around me.

A double glaive.

That wasn't the plan.

I was supposed to pick a spear. That was what Ronan knew; what I knew; from his memories. 

Muscle memory, instincts, stance, reach; spear combat was almost second nature. It would've been the safest and most optimal choice.

And yet…

My hand didn't reach for it.

When I walked into the Armoury and felt that pull, it wasn't toward the spears. It was toward this strange and beautifully crafted weapon that hung in the back.

The double glaive.

One blade on each end and balanced on a shaft of dark alloy reinforced with embedded glyphs. It had reach, weight and elegance. And when I picked it up, it felt less like holding a weapon and more like reattaching a missing limb.

I couldn't explain it. I didn't try to.

Besides, it wasn't like the glaive was wildly different from the spear.

If anything, it was just… evolved.

The glaive, especially the double variant I picked, offered far more versatility in close quarters. I could strike from either end, whirl it around without repositioning my feet and transition into another strike as soon as one ended. 

The flow would be addictive.

Versatile Attack Patterns; check.

I could use rapid spinning attacks and maintain pressure without giving up ground. In combat with multiple enemies? That mattered more than clean footwork.

Continuous Motion Combat; absolutely.

And best of all, the double glaive lets me strike with either end just as effectively.

Ambidextrous Utility; perfection.

I smiled to myself, feeling the balanced weight of it again.

With spears, I always felt like I had to master it, to dominate the weapon and mould it into an extension of myself. 

With this?

It felt like the glaive had always been part of me like I'd just found something I lost a long time ago.

And it wasn't just the feel. 

I knew that there was a glaive relic that could separate into dual swords somewhere in this world. Hidden deep in some forgotten ruin. It wasn't supposed to be relevant until the fifth arc… but now that I had this? I could prep early and better position myself.

"Are you done picking your weapon, Fitzroy?" Instructor Duskbane's voice cut through the moment like a whip.

I glanced at him.

"Yeah," I said simply, stepping away from the rack.

My boots echoed across the metal flooring as I joined the line of cadets who had already chosen. My steps were measured and controlled. 

Inside though?

I was still grinning.

Not because of the weapon, but because of the reactions.

Most cadets were still focused on admiring their weapons or nervously eyeing the racks, but I could feel the eyes on me.

Two pairs of them in particular. The first didn't surprise me.

Isolde.

Of course, she would be watching. She knew my history better than most. Knew I trained with a spear, knew my father taught me since I could walk and knew how much I prided myself on it.

So when I chose a glaive?

Her expression cracked, if only slightly. 

That cold, analytical mask she wore twitched at the corners, puzzled. Confused.

She didn't understand.

And that was perfect.

The second gaze?

Varek.

I didn't need to even look to know.

He was watching me with those eyes, probably trying to reconfigure every future outcome he had mapped out in that overwritten mind of his.

He knew the story, or at least, the version that was.

And I knew him well not take any chances.

If he suspected me; if he even had the tiniest hint that I was anything more than the moody noble with a cursed name; I was dead.

So I needed to gaslight him.

Throw him off or disorient him. Show him the future wasn't what he thought it was.

Let him question the book and let him spiral.

I didn't need to win right now. I just needed to delay long enough to level the playing field.

He was currently stronger and maybe smarter. He also had foresight.

But I had the one thing he didn't.

Adaptation.

So I broke the script, and I'd keep doing it.

If it meant surviving longer than the original Ronan ever did; if it meant carving my own story instead of dying in his; then yeah.

It was worth starting over.

I took my place beside the other cadets, twirling the glaive once more before stilling it.

Instructor Duskbane turned toward us with a grim smile.

"Now that you've selected your weapons," he said, "it's time for you to become familiar with them."

Someone near the back muttered, "Wait, already? We're doing weapon handling now?"

Duskbane's smile widened just a little.

"Not handling. Combat."

'Great,' I thought. 'This happened.'

Just like in the book.

He always threw them in immediately. No warm-up or drills, just a straight plunge into the fire.

Kaelen clapped once and motioned toward the far doors.

"Follow me."

We did.

The chamber he led us into was massive. Larger than any gym or coliseum I had ever seen. There were tall ceilings with floating, rune-etched lights. The floors were divided into circular combat zones. On the far end, a series of weapon dummies and moving constructs lined the walls, ready to be summoned.

This wasn't training.

This was a baptism.

Kaelen turned to us and said, "You will be fighting each other, one-on-one. This is how we gauge your starting proficiency. Your reflexes, your instincts and your ability to adapt."

My grip tightened around the glaive.

'Adapt, huh?'

"While we have your entrance records on file," Duskbane continued, "those were two weeks ago. Since then, many of you have trained, rested, or regressed. Today's sparring sessions won't count heavily in your rankings, but they'll help us see your current level."

I nearly snorted.

'Bullshit.'

That was the official version, sure. 

But anyone who actually paid attention; anyone who understood Forge; knew the truth.

This little exercise wasn't just about checking progress.

It was about shaking the tree and seeing what fell out. It was a welcome to one of the cold truths of FORGE Academy:

The rankings didn't matter right now., not for first-years, not before the mid-terms.

Sure, they put you in a dorm and gave you a number to clutch onto like a security blanket which automatically made you feel like you had some kind of edge.

But those ranks? 

They were placeholders, just simple loose approximations.

They fluctuated. Wildly.

Until later in the year; after the first full assessment cycle; the rankings would look like someone had a seizure while inputting the data.

Why?

Because some students awaken late, others burn out fast while some discover talents they never knew they had. 

And a select few? They won't even survive long enough for their rank to matter.

This sparring round was about resetting expectations, about reminding everyone that the academy didn't care what number was next to your name.

Especially not now.

That rule applied to the average cadet.

Not the monsters at the top.

Dorian, Quetsiyah, Harry and the whole lot; they weren't going anywhere. Not yet.

But everyone else? We were just static.

Someone in the crowd raised a hand. A girl, tall with a tight braid and serious eyes.

Duskbane's gaze snapped to her. "Yes, cadet?"

"Are we allowed to use our curses?" she asked.

A good question. You could hear the breathless shift in posture around the room.

Duskbane didn't hesitate.

"Of course," he said. "In the field, you don't get to pick when you use your power. You either survive with it or die without it."

Simple and true.

He added, "No lethal intent. If someone goes too far, we intervene. But assume that your opponent is trying to defeat you. Use everything you've got."

That was Forge. Trial by fire, as always.

"No names will be called," Duskbane continued. "The match-ups will be randomized and assigned by the Arena's AI. Step forward when your rank appears."

With that, he walked to a raised obsidian platform at the front of the chamber. 

He placed his palm flat on it. The massive screen above us flickered to life, a pulse of blue-white light that demanded everyone's attention.

Then... movement.

Numbers, hundreds of them. They spun in and out of place, shuffling like the world's most brutal lottery.

I inhaled slowly. 

The screen blinked once more.

And then the first match appeared.

[999 vs 517]

I stared at the screen for a beat longer.

Then I smiled.

'I guess it's time to put on a show.'