Bending Over

"Ronan Fitzroy and Ben Dover. Step forward." Instructor Duskbane's voice rang.

A low murmur rose through the watching crowd, but I didn't wait for it to settle as I walked into the ring.

"Use Zone Nine," Duskbane added. "The largest arena."

Great, it's a bigger stage for a more humiliating defeat.

I stepped into the arena first, breathing in the cold air. Huh, it seems things might just be perfect for me.

The barrier shimmered into place behind me, a translucent dome of blue energy sealing me in. I walked to the centre with my glaive in hand, the weight of it familiar now, though not yet comforting.

My grip tightened.

'This'll be the first time I use Ronan's curse.'

The cave, that cursed, suffocating cave. It had stolen a whole week from me. A week I could've used to get a feel for the curse that now crawled under my skin.

I had no real practice. Just a few phantom flashes of Ronan's memories.

So I sighed and rolled my shoulders.

Footsteps echoed behind me.

Ben Dover.

He strode into the arena like he owned it like this was a coronation instead of a sparring match. Well, I couldn't blame him, I would too if my opponent was weaker than me.

He was tall and broad-shouldered. His blonde hair was combed back, slick and calculated, just like him.

In his hand was his weapon of choice: a chain-sickle. The blade gleamed, curved like a crescent moon, while the long, weighted chain danced through his fingers.

A noble, just like me.

Only… not like me.

Ben was in the Third Star Rank, one level above me.

Physically? Stronger, faster and more agile.

Cursed Energy? He had me beat there too but the distance wasn't that great.

In the book, this wasn't a good matchup for Ronan. Even now, it wasn't a good matchup for me.

Sure, I had the meta-knowledge. I knew Ben's curse and I'd seen what it did, but that didn't mean I could beat it.

Still, something had changed since I got here.

My curse potential.

It had improved. It was the only reason I wasn't immediately declaring defeat. Maybe that was enough to close the gap.

Ben stopped at the edge of the arena's starting line and gave his sickle a quick spin.

"Whssshk!"

His lip curled into a mocking smirk.

"Almost the last rank, Ronan," he said, "I can't say I'm surprised. Honestly, they should've expelled you after that little stunt you pulled."

A few more murmurs from the other cadets.

I gripped the glaive tighter. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing.

Trying to throw me off, get under my skin and buy himself time.

He wanted to distract me so I wouldn't notice his posture, the angle of his wrist or the direction of his weapon.

I exhaled, steady and even.

'I can't let him buy more time.'

Because if he gets into his rhythm, I'm done. Ben was always one of those duelists who needed just a few seconds to build momentum and then it was over.

I shifted my stance subtly, placing my dominant foot back and aligning my glaive.

"Begin," Duskbane said.

Ben made the first move, he was a blur of motion. The sickle he had been spinning snapped low, aiming at Ronan's legs with expert timing.

He'd used that move before; trip early and crush quickly.

Ronan reacted fast, sliding one foot behind the other and bracing the side of his glaive to absorb the sweep.

"Clang!"

The chain clanged off his weapon's shaft, redirecting it with a dull metallic scrape.

Ben didn't wait. He lunged in with his legs pumping with speed, aiming to take control of the centre.

Ronan spun on his heel, lowering into a crouch. His glaive was arced in a low guard position with the second blade behind his back like a tail.

He gave no counter, only control.

'I can't win by reacting forever,' he thought grimly. 'But I'll lose immediately if I go head-on.'

Ben's speed was real but his pressure was worse.

Ben snarled, charging curse energy down his arm and into the sickle. The weapon's edge glowed faintly red before slamming down toward Ronan's head.

Ronan caught it; barely. The haft of his double glaive shuddered under the force, pushing him off-balance.

He slid back two steps, boots skidding across the stone. The hit hadn't landed clean, but it didn't need to.

Ben's grinning mask faltered for a fraction of a second. His hand twitched and a web of red veins pulsed beneath his skin.

'Right,' Ronan thought. 'There it is, his curse. He burns with every heavy hit.'

"Ffffsshhh!"

Ronan exhaled sharply and frost burst from his mouth and sleeves, coating the ground beneath him in a thin sheet of glimmering white.

He had drained heat from the air around allowing him to breathe out air. This was a move the original Ronan had come up with. The only issue was that it was not cold enough, but it did the work for Ronan as the visibility dropped just enough.

The temperature plummeted.

Ben slowed for half a second just as Ronan expected.

Ben angled sideways, his breath tight as he regained his balance with small, practised steps.

He was buying time and banking damage.

"Tch!"

Ben snarled again as his footwork thundered through the mist, and he swung wide; a high, overhand arc aimed at Ronan's collarbone.

But the floor was slick now.

Too slick for him as his foot landed poorly. His boot slipped just an inch, just enough to throw his angle off. The sickle sliced through empty air.

His front leaned too far forward and his back was exposed. He gasped, trying to recover, but momentum carried him straight into danger.

Ronan had seen it. He had earlier interacted with him since they were in the same noble circles, so he was aware of Ben's habits. He always overcommitted after a misstep.

That rage and that pressure; it was all muscle memory. So Ronan did the one thing Ben didn't expect.

He stepped into the swing and stopped. At the same moment, his hand pulsed with cold and he iced the ground beneath Ben's next step.

Ben's leg slid completely out from under him.

He stumbled; hard. His chest dropped, spine ben and arms splayed wide. He was completely vulnerable.

Ronan didn't hesitate. He adjusted his grip, spinning the glaive over his shoulder and driving the side of it upwards into Ben's solar plexus with brutal precision.

Turns out using it like a spear also worked.

"Crack!"

Ben's eyes widened in shock and then glassed over as he crumpled forward, collapsing face-first into the stone.

"Clatter!"

His weapon clattered beside him. His body was still.

"Haaah!!!"

"Khh!"

Gasps rippled through the students ringing the chamber.

Even Instructor Duskbane looked vaguely impressed as he made a motion to the medical team.

Two aides rushed in, carefully rolling Ben onto his side and checking his vitals.

Ronan lowered the glaive slowly.

"Ssshhhh..."

Frost hissed as it dissipated off the floor in patches. A faint cut dripped blood from his lip, but he didn't notice it.

Ronan wiped the blood from his lip with his sleeve and smirked.

"Now I see the author's vision, he does bends… over."

He didn't move, not yet, not until the silence gave way to a few awkward mutters and one low whistle from the back of the room.

Ronan turned his head slightly, eyes flicking across the room.

He caught Varek's stare.

Confused, agitated and uncertain.

And that was the point.

Ronan returned to his place in the crowd without another word.

Without a word, Duskbane extended his hand and pressed it flat against the obsidian slab once more. The familiar pulse of light surged through the dark stone, and the massive screen above the arena flickered back to life.

Numbers spun across the display in rapid succession. Whispers erupted around the room as cadets leaned in, trying to catch the next pair of names. The digits slowed, blurred, and then clicked into place with a soft mechanical chime.

[RANK 2 vs RANK 1]

The room exploded; not with sound but with murmurs.

"Wait… no way."

"That's them!"

"Dorian and the princess?"

"They're really pairing up the top two already?"

"They haven't even taught us how to hold our weapons properly yet!"

The cadets turned their heads towards the sparring floor in a mix of awe and curiosity.

The air thickened with anticipation.

On the raised platform, Duskbane let a small, tight smirk form on his lips.

"Well, what are the odds…" he muttered aloud, voice cutting clearly through the echoing whispers.

"Quetsiyah Pallavacini and Dorian, the floor is yours."

A few cadets gasped with one nearly dropped his weapon.

The Crown Princess of the Pallavacini Line and the nameless, silent Rank One who had dominated the Entrance Trials.

Now, both were stepping forward.

Quetsiyah's movements were fluid and elegant, as always. Her steps echoed faintly on the polished floor. Her chin held high and her hair trailed like a royal sash. Dorian, by contrast, walked like a shadow. He was unassuming but focused.

They reached the centre of the arena and stopped five meters apart. Their eyes locked. The tension became a living thing, crackling just below the surface of the room.

Every cadet in the class was frozen, Ronan included, they were watching, waiting.

On the instructor's platform, Duskbane raised a hand.

"Begin."