The Great Disappointment

The second Instructor Duskbane signalled the beginning of the fight, the air shifted.

"Tess."

"Dorian."

The two fighters acknowledged each other with nothing but a nod. It was calm, unbothered and even bored. But it was still the kind of exchange that meant more than most words. He called her Tess, the princess. He didn't even flinch. Of course, he'd earned that privilege.

Quetsiyah tilted her head as she asked, "Weapons?"

Dorian nodded. "Weapons."

I smiled to myself. There it was, the great disappointment. I had almost forgotten this.

They weren't going to put on a spectacle as many hoped. Not the kind people here expected. No flashy curses or pulsing auras. No fireballs or ice storms. Just good, old-fashioned steel against steel.

Blades crossing like something from a time before the curses even appeared.

Quetsiyah took her stance, spine straight, rapier pointed forward with razor elegance.

Dorian, as always, made it look effortless. His sword was angled low with the grip loose like he wasn't even trying. That was the thing about him. Everything he did looked like he'd done it a thousand times.

Even blinking.

Then she moved.

Fast and precise, the kind of movement only someone born with a silver crest and a hundred tutors could ever replicate. Her rapier was a blur. Not a wasted motion in sight.

But Dorian? He flowed.

He shifted, sidestepped, and parried her opening strike with the faintest twist of his blade, not enough to show off.

Just enough to say, Not today.

They danced.

For minutes, it was pure technical brilliance. Strike, parry, riposte and turn. Their footwork was sharp and the blade angles perfect. Two people who'd studied the art of fighting long before they were ever told to use it, especially the princess.

To most of the room, it was silent tension.

To me? It was a language. One, I understood just enough to appreciate… and fear.

Then someone broke the tension, a voice from the crowd.

"Wait… why aren't they using their curses?"

I didn't even turn. I just kept watching the fight, waiting for the delayed realisation to sink in the multitude of cadets.

And then it did.

Whispers spread, murmurs deepened and people started catching on.

Neither of them had used their curses.

Not even cursed energy to enhance their strikes, it was just sword and skill.

I smirked.

See, Dorian could be a little… principled. That's what annoyed me sometimes. A little too self-righteous if you ask me. Like now, Tess wanted a proper duel; weapons only; and instead of using his curse to wipe the floor with her, Dorian respected and accepted the request.

If she wanted a sword duel? Then, a sword duel she'd get.

I liked him, I really did. But Saints, he could be exhausting.

Still, that's what happens when you're strong enough; you get to choose the rules.

Both of them were 5th Star Rank. Not just mid-tier, closer to upper Star. At this pace, they'd hit Moon Rank before the year even ended. They were the ones who broke records, the ones whose stories get rewritten in real-time.

It was hard not to admire that.

And envy it.

"Clang!"

Their blades clashed again, a sudden spark of friction ringing through the chamber. The Princess shifted her weight and tried a twist-feint, but Dorian anticipated it. In a single motion, he spun under her arm, his sword reversing in his grip; the flat edge tapped against her neck.

A clean point.

The Princess froze, her lips parting in surprise, but then she smiled.

"Instructor?" she said.

From his perch, Duskbane answered with a tinge of disappointment. "Match over, Dorian wins."

A few claps and a couple of disappointed mutters.

"That's it?" someone whined. "Kinda anticlimactic."

I turned.

"What's your rank?" I asked.

The boy blinked, startled. "Uh… 878."

"Then challenge them."

He stared at me. "What?"

"Challenge them," I repeated, pointing toward the arena. "Go show us what you expected to see."

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Probably felt the weight of the number on his shoulder. Probably remembered that I'd just dropped someone stronger than him.

"Or you could even challenge me,"

I smirked.

He backed off instantly.

Beating Ben Dover really was helping my street cred.

From there, the spars kept going. One after another, Duskbane called out names, cadets stepped up, swords or spears or whatever they chose flashing in the cold sparring light.

I tuned most of it out.

Until one name pulled me back in.

"Isolde Fitzroy."

My sister.

I looked up before I could stop myself. She was already walking forward, her steps silent and her face unreadable. She didn't look nervous. She didn't look proud.

She just looked… focused.

She took her place, and her opponent, some cocky kid with two daggers, grinned at her like she wasn't about to ruin his day.

The fight began.

It ended in three seconds.

There was no time to register the move. Just a flash; a surge of heat so intense the air warped around her. The boy screamed and dropped his weapons as he collapsed backwards.

Smoke still curled off his gloves. His clothes were scorched as steam poured off his chestplate.

The medics didn't waste time.

And Isolde?

She turned and walked back to her place. Her sleeves were burned off entirely, skin unscathed and her facial expression was expressionless.

'I wonder if I could mimic the move she made.'

I looked at my gloved hands. It was a feasible idea that I could try when I really start my training.

Isolde passed right by me. She didn't even glance at me, not once.

I bit the inside of my cheek.

Why the hell did that bother me so much?

I didn't have an answer.

I just kept watching her go. Not her, at least not directly, but the empty space around her, like I'd missed something.

'Funny, she's the pryo between us, yet she's the one who's cold.'

I put those thoughts away.

After that, the next spars unfolded mostly as expected. Higher-rankers steamrolled through their opponents. A sword blew right through a spear's defence in a violent thwack, as another fighter sent someone sprawling mid‑air with a burst that snapped steel.

But the next match drew my attention; Varek's.

He stood across from a cadet ranked in the early two-hundreds; clearly a minor psychic, not the kind to warp minds or bend metal, but enough to stir the waters.

Still, Varek's stance should have been enough. He held an elegant sword, posture relaxed, and a good physique.

At least someone got the time to work on their bodies. I know that a week could not make a huge difference, but that is beside the point.

The psychic stepped forward with his palms outstretched. "Mind Bind!"

A faint shimmer rippled in the air; a soft pulse of purple, but Varek didn't flinch. He remained statuesque. Yet as the psychic's chant rose, "Ink… Fiend… Night…"

But something changed in Varek's eyes.

He hesitated, his foot shifted.

At least that was what he wanted us to see. Regardless, that was all it took.

The psychic's mental wave hit full strength, and Varek's knees buckled. He dropped the tip of his sword, jaw slack, eyes unfocused.

No curse was used, no defensive measures, just… surrender. The psychic won.

Varek's blade attempted a limp swipe, but it was slower than molasses. The psychic laughed, as if surprised more than anything.

Varek struggled to rise, but halfway up, he gave a pained groan and collapsed again. The medics came in silently, attending to him while he lay crumpled, sword still by his side.

I clenched my fist.

'Coward!' 

He didn't even try.

Yes, the psychic had skill, but I knew Varek better than he knew himself. With preparation and confidence, even low-rank threats could be taken down gracefully.

But Varek didn't try.

What twisted my stomach wasn't the hesitation; he could've chosen to fight, but he chose not to. He could've used his curse and tipped the fight.

He walked near me afterwards stiffly with his eyes down and expression blank. When he passed, I could see it; he was masking panic.

He just had to be one of those protagonists who choose to keep a low cover.'

I turned away, nearly choking on frustration. Of all the things to be embarrassed by…

The rest of the matches finished. I soaked it in only briefly as my mind was already planning my next moves.

Finally, Instructor Duskbane strode forward.

"Enough for today," he said, "You've tested your weapons. Go. The rest of the day is yours."

A whoop cut through the hush, a spark of genuine relief. Cadets filing out, slinging weapons, chattering about where they'd grab food or socialise.

Everyone but me, and Varek.

We walked out without sharing words. Neither of us was even heading in the same direction, but we were both thinking the same thing; Tomorrow morning comes the real hell.

I touched the glaive strapped across my back. The week lost, it was finally time to catch up.