The Boy from Ashfall: Part 2

The sky hadn't yet turned gold when I opened my eyes.

Light filtered in through the high window in threads of muted gray, not quite morning but close enough to count. The cold hit first—a familiar, biting chill that crept through the blanket and settled into my joints. I shifted once, easing the stiffness from my arms and shoulders.

My body remembered what was coming. Even if my thoughts hadn't yet caught up.

I sat up slowly, rubbing at the back of my neck. A dull ache lingered in the muscles there—faint compared to what it had been earlier in the week. My body had started to adapt. I wasn't sure if that was reassuring or not.

I reached for the journal on my desk, its cover curling slightly at the corners now, worn in the places my hands touched most often. The spine cracked faintly as I opened it to a blank page.

I didn't have to think about what to write. Not this time.

---

Journal Entry – Day 8

Didn't sleep much. Couldn't really.

I keep going over footwork sequences in my head. Velora's corrections. Morten's drills. That moment three days ago when my blade finally felt like mine.

But this morning… I don't feel afraid. I don't feel ready, either.

I just feel steady.

Whatever happens today, it won't be the end. I know that now.

I've grown. Not enough. But enough to stand.

Let's see how far that really goes.

—J

---

The moment I finished the last word, I saw the flicker in my vision—subtle, like light catching on steel.

> [System Notification: Passive Progress Achieved]

+10 XP – Self-Reflection Logged

I closed the journal and set it aside with a slow exhale.

The system was quiet again. No sudden quest prompts. No glowing rewards. Just that single message—small and steady.

I stood, stretching slowly. My back popped, and the muscles in my thighs tugged faintly with resistance. No surprise. Last night's training had pushed me near the edge. But I'd held on.

More importantly—I'd returned.

A quick wash in the cold basin was enough to fully shake the sleep from my eyes. I dressed in my uniform without fumbling and cinched the belt with practiced hands. I didn't feel sharp. Not yet.

But I didn't feel dull either.

I reached out to the system as I made for the door.

---

> [Status Menu – Open]

Name: Joren Fallow

Class: Initiate (Verdant Bastion)

Level: 2

Experience (XP): 35 / 150

Sword Proficiency: 5

Strength: 7

Endurance: 7

Agility: 8

Reflex: 7

Intelligence: 6

Aura: 1 (Flickering)

Aura Sensitivity: +8%

Health: 100 / 100

Skill Slots: 0

└─ [Basic Sword Art]: Locked

> [Quest: "Stand Your Ground" – Final Day]

Time Remaining: 11 Hours, 42 Minutes

• Train your body (2/2 sessions logged) ✅

• Refine your sword form (2/2 sessions logged) ✅

• Study opponent combat patterns (1/1 entry completed) ✅

Bonus Objectives (Optional):

• Unlock Aura: +5% Progress ✅

• Defeat Drayce without yielding a single point

---

I closed the window and drew a breath through my nose.

Final day.

Plenty of time left before the duel. Enough for breakfast. Classes. One last look at the opponent I'd yet to understand.

It wasn't fear that stirred in my chest this time.

It was something else.

I stepped into the hall—and for the first time since arriving at the Bastion, my footsteps felt grounded.

Like they belonged.

---

The mess hall was quieter than usual.

Maybe it was the tension in the air. Maybe everyone just knew what today was.

Word had spread. Duels had a way of doing that—especially ones involving Cohort 73. Especially ones involving Drayce.

When I stepped inside, the smells of roasted grains and steeped broth greeted me like they always did, but the room felt thinner somehow. Less talk. More quiet chewing. More glances at the clockwork timer perched on the high ledge above the hearth.

I spotted familiar faces halfway down the third table.

"Still alive," Henry said as I slid into the bench opposite him. "You've got that 'about to do something stupid' look."

"I've had that look all week," I muttered, reaching for a half-loaf of crusted bread. "You're just now noticing?"

Arielle gave me a look over her cup. "You slept last night, right?"

I nodded once. "Some."

"Not enough," Mirelle said from two spots down. She was already halfway through her plate, boots laced, hair tied back like she was headed to a battlefront. "Eat faster. You'll need it."

"You almost sound worried," I said.

She stabbed her greens. "I'm not."

"Sure."

Maribelle arrived late, book in hand, scooting in beside Henry with a quiet, "Morning."

She glanced toward me but didn't say anything at first. Then, after a moment: "You really ready for this?"

"I will be," I answered.

Henry leaned in. "Just remember—don't blink too much. Makes you look unsure."

"I'll make a note."

I didn't tell them I was more calm now than I had been in days. That something had shifted during last night's training. That watching Drayce spar had been like seeing the storm before it hit. It hadn't calmed me, exactly—but it had clarified things.

He was fast. Efficient. Calculated.

But so was determination.

And I'd been training for this—not to beat him, necessarily, but to stand against him. That mattered.

When the mess bell chimed for class rotations, I stood, slung my satchel over one shoulder, and nodded once to the others.

"I'll see you after."

"Don't die," Henry called.

"Not planning to."

---

Swordsmanship Instruction was the first and hardest of the day.

Instructor Morten didn't address the duel directly—he barely spoke at all—but his gaze lingered a moment longer on me as he called formation. The blunted practice swords were heavier than usual, or maybe my arms were just more aware of the weight today.

We drilled in pairs. Quick rotations. Clean footwork.

No wasted motion.

He corrected my form only once—an eyebrow twitch and a pointed grunt when my back foot lagged behind my pivot.

Velora and I weren't paired this morning, but her presence a few rows down felt sharper than steel. Focused. Like she was waiting to see if her effort had been worth it.

I didn't plan to disappoint.

By the end of the block, sweat clung to the back of my collar, and my grip had gone numb from repetition. Still—no faltering. No hesitation. That had to count for something.

Tactics passed in a haze of formations and terrain analysis. Instructor Theren didn't mention the duel—he didn't need to. But when he called on me to identify the weaknesses in a tight pincer maneuver, I noticed the slight lift of his brow when I answered correctly and fast.

Like he was testing to see if I was distracted.

I wasn't.

History, on the other hand, dragged slightly. Mistress Silvarin recited a series of political treaties formed after the collapse of the Order Wars, including the temporary ban on sanctioned noble duels—which, of course, didn't apply to Initiate disputes like ours.

She didn't say my name, but I swore she looked at me when she mentioned the phrase: "Legacy is earned, not claimed."

Arielle elbowed me in the ribs when I didn't take notes fast enough.

I scribbled it down just in case.

---

The corridor to the infirmary was quiet, but not silent.

Distant footsteps echoed from deeper halls, and the faint scent of clean linen and brewed herbs clung to the air. I hadn't been here since the duel.

Not once.

Not because I didn't care.

Because I didn't know what I'd say.

But now—just hours from stepping into the ring myself—I couldn't put it off any longer.

A light breeze moved the infirmary's drape as I approached, the fabric cool under my hand as I pushed it aside. Inside, the room was still. Two beds were occupied near the far wall, but only one had its curtain half-drawn.

Cale sat upright on the edge of his cot, pulling his shirt carefully over his shoulder.

The bruising had faded to a dull yellow, and though his movements were slower than usual, he didn't look fragile. Not anymore.

He noticed me before I could speak.

"Took you long enough," he muttered, not looking up. His voice carried the same old edge—dry, vaguely annoyed, but steadier than I expected.

I stepped closer, scratching at the back of my neck. "Didn't know if you'd want to see me."

He gave a small snort. "You're late, not banished."

I took the empty stool nearby and sat down.

For a few breaths, neither of us said anything. The silence wasn't comfortable… but it wasn't sharp either. More like something unfinished.

"I'm fighting him," I said at last.

His stared at me. "When?"

I stared back. "This evening."

Another pause. Cale flexed his fingers, testing the movement. "You ready?"

"No," I admitted. "But I've done what I can."

He gave a slow nod, lips tightening.

"I watched him train," I said, quieter now. "He doesn't waste energy. Every step, every cut—it's efficient. He doesn't fight like a student."

"He isn't," Cale said. His eyes stayed on the window now. "Not really."

Silence again.

Then—"You didn't have to do this."

"I know," I said. "But I chose to."

That finally got him to meet my eyes.

Not with gratitude. Not even approval.

Just… understanding.

"Then beat him," he said. "Make it matter."

I stood slowly. "Rest up. You'll be back in drills before you know it."

Cale gave a short huff of air. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a scoff.

"Try not to get your face broken. I don't want to owe a favor to a corpse."

That drew a half-smile from me. "No promises."

---

The sun had begun to dip by the time I stepped into the outer ring.

Evening light spilled in long orange bands across the stonework, casting fractured shadows through the training yard's arched supports. A quiet hush had settled over the field, the kind that came before something important—not quite reverent, not quite fearful, but expectant.

The arena wasn't elaborate. Just a circular patch of softened sand surrounded by staggered columns and rough stone benches. But it was full now. Initiates gathered along the perimeter—some perched on worn benches, others leaning against weapon racks. My eyes scanned the crowd—and stopped.

Velora Thorne stood near the outer column, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

She didn't nod. Didn't blink. Just watched.

I wasn't sure if that made it better or worse

Drayce Valen stood at the far edge of the ring, arms folded as he spoke to the attending arbiter. His uniform was crisp, his posture loose but precise. Twin swords were strapped to his hips—shorter than a standard knight's blade, slightly curved at the edge. Built for speed. For offense. For cutting through hesitation.

He looked relaxed. Focused. Like someone rehearsing a performance they'd already mastered.

I moved toward the center of the ring.

My boots crunched against the shifting sand, and the quiet murmur of the crowd dropped further—tension folding in around me like mist. I caught sight of Henry near the second row, sitting beside Mirelle and Arielle. Maribelle stood a little off to the side, arms crossed, her usual commentary silent for once. They saw me.

And I saw what it meant.

The arbiter raised his hand as I reached the center.

"Initiate Joren Fallow," he said, voice clear and clipped. "You stand to challenge Initiate Drayce Valen under the agreed conditions. The match will be decided by disarmament, forced yield, incapacitation or the first to score three points—earned through clean strikes."

"I understand," I said.

Drayce stepped forward, rolling his shoulders like this was a warm-up stretch. "Hope you came to learn something."

I drew my sword in silence.

It felt lighter now—not physically, but in my hand. Like the weight the system used to anchor me with had eased. Like it belonged to me, and not the other way around.

A faint flicker pulsed in the corner of my vision.

> [System Alert]

Quest: "Stand Your Ground" – Final Phase

Objective: Defeat Drayce Valen

Bonus: Win without yielding a single point

I exhaled slowly.

The arbiter's gaze passed between us.

"Begin."

The moment the arbiter's hand dropped, the air shifted.

Not with magic. Not with the force of some overwhelming aura.

Just pressure—coiled, quiet, and waiting to snap.

Drayce moved first.

Not a charge. A measured step. A half pivot.

His right-hand blade slid free with a metallic whisper, the edge catching just enough light to gleam like water in motion. The left stayed sheathed—reserved, unreadable. His footwork was subtle, practiced. Not a sound as he advanced, circling me with the ease of someone who had done this dozens of times.

I kept my stance firm, sword raised.

The edge pointed slightly down—low guard, angled for deflection.

He tested me.

A feint to the left.

A second toward my offhand.

His foot shifted sharply—he struck.

The short blade darted in low, aiming for my thigh. I stepped back and parried, the impact jolting through my shoulder. But my blade didn't shudder. Not this time. My footing held.

Drayce's eyes narrowed slightly.

"That all you've got, Ashfall?"

I didn't answer.

He followed through with a quick rising arc, transitioning into a spinning strike from the opposite side—this one faster, sharper. I deflected again but felt my grip strain. He was drawing me into a rhythm, trying to control the pace.

I disengaged, backing a step toward the edge of the ring. My boots slid slightly across the sand. Not too much. Just enough to remind me of the terrain. The grains shifted beneath my weight—soft, unforgiving. No room for wasted movement.

The crowd remained silent. Breathless. Focused.

Drayce pressed forward, blades now both drawn. He moved like water flowing downhill—fluid and forceful. My arm stung as I blocked another quick succession of slashes, each strike testing a different angle. He was faster. Stronger. But not invincible.

I pivoted during his next sweep, letting my foot catch the slight ridge in the sand where we'd turned earlier. I shifted my weight and countered—one clean horizontal arc aimed for his midsection.

Steel met steel with a sharp clang.

He parried—and this time, his smile faltered.

"You've been practicing," he said.

I didn't have the breath to respond.

Instead, I pressed the advantage.

One step. Two. My sword moved in tighter now, a quicker rhythm. Velora's footwork drills echoed in my muscles. Morten's forms resurfaced in the angle of each thrust. I didn't overextend. I didn't wait for the perfect moment. I just moved.

And for a few seconds—we were even.

Blade to blade. Sand shifting underfoot. Breath ragged.

Then Drayce changed.

His eyes narrowed. His steps grew sharper—less theatrical, more brutal. His strikes stopped flowing and started driving. I caught one, then another, but the third forced me off balance. My back heel dug into the sand just in time to keep me upright.

> [System Alert]

Health: 92 / 100

Glancing Blow Received – Ribcage (Right Side)

The arbiter hadn't called it, so I guess Drayce wasn't able to get a clean strike. It still hurt though.

I gritted my teeth, blade sliding up just in time to catch his next blow.

He tilted his head, still calm. Still composed.

But I saw it now—beneath the smoothness, a spark of frustration. I wasn't going down. Not easily.

He stepped back, adjusted his grip—and then rushed.

I barely saw it.

His right blade flashed high, a decoy. The left swept low in a blur of silver.

I dropped, rolled—my knee hit sand, pain lancing up my leg—but I came out of the roll and slashed upward, catching the inner curve of his guard.

His arm jerked back, instinctive. A moment. That's all I needed.

I rose and struck.

One clean line.

His right blade flew from his hand, landing in the sand just outside the ring's boundary.

"Point, Fallow," the arbiter called.

1–0.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Fallow

Drayce looked at me then.

Really looked.

The calm was gone. The confidence replaced by something colder.

"You'll regret that," he said.

He lunged.

Not rehearsed. Not clean. Just fast.

I caught the blade with mine, but he twisted—improvised—forcing my wrist at an awkward angle. Pain bloomed in my elbow. I ducked and slipped away just as his blade tore the air where my neck had been.

The arbiter shifted, clearly ready to step in.

But we were still fighting.

I turned and met Drayce again at the ring's center. The sand churned beneath us, half-circles and grooves tracing every step we took.

He didn't speak again.

Neither did I.

The silence said enough.

I kept breathing.

Kept my blade steady.

Kept moving.

And somewhere between the sting of my ribs and the raw heat in my chest—I realized I wasn't afraid anymore.

The next exchange came like lightning.

Drayce advanced again, reclaiming his footing without hesitation. His remaining blade—still in hand—sliced toward my collarbone. I blocked at an angle, forcing his strike wide, and pivoted, letting the sand turn under me.

His boot caught my ankle.

I stumbled—just enough.

He stepped inside my guard, blade whipping toward my ribs. I twisted hard and turned with it, gritting against the flare of pain in my arm as I redirected his edge. The clash of steel scraped my ears, sharp and harsh.

We broke apart again—breathing, circling.

The crowd watched in silence, the tension in the air drawn tighter than a bowstring. Somewhere behind me, I heard Henry murmur something low. Velora didn't speak.

Drayce narrowed his stance.

He was measuring now. Studying. The showboating was gone.

This was his true form.

He came in low—just enough to bait me—and then cut upward in a rising arc meant to tear through any block I had left. I sidestepped, used the momentum to carry my blade up from beneath—and struck his side.

A solid hit.

Clean.

"Point, Fallow," the arbiter called.

2–0.

Drayce flinched, more in surprise than pain. His gaze locked with mine, and for a heartbeat, I saw it—the flicker of doubt in his eyes. The edge he'd been using to keep others beneath him? It wasn't cutting me down.

Not this time.

He exhaled slowly. And then smiled.

"Fine," he said. "Let's see how long that luck holds."

The next exchange wasn't a duel.

It was a storm.

Drayce launched forward, his remaining blade blurring with speed. He struck high, then pivoted into a sharp low slash meant to sweep my feet. I blocked the high strike—but I wasn't fast enough to evade the second. The tip grazed my shin as I twisted to avoid a deeper cut.

"Point, Valen," the arbiter called.

2–1.

I winced but didn't break stride.

Blood ran—just a line. Just enough.

Drayce's smile sharpened. He thought he had me now.

He was wrong.

We circled again. Faster. Each step sank deeper into the churned sand, feet sliding just slightly as we twisted and turned, our swords clashing again and again.

He tried the same rhythm—aggressive, quick, precise.

I didn't fall for it.

Instead, I caught his blade early, parried hard, and stepped in—not away. The sand underfoot gave me enough purchase for a forward surge. My shoulder rammed his chest just enough to throw him off.

Then I turned, blade whirling, and drove it into his exposed side—flat first, not to wound, but to land.

Crack.

He staggered back.

The arbiter didn't even need to call it.

> [System Alert]

Match Winner: Joren Fallow

Match Concluded – 3 to 1

I held my blade steady.

Drayce stayed on his feet—but just barely.

He looked at me again, chest heaving, strands of sweat-streaked hair falling across his brow. The arrogance had drained away.

In its place—something else.

Recognition.

He gave me the faintest of nods. It wasn't respect. Not yet. But it wasn't dismissal either.

Just... reality.

I returned the gesture and stepped back, lowering my sword as the arbiter raised a hand.

"Victory: Joren Fallow. Match complete."

For a heartbeat, there was stillness.

Then—

The crowd erupted.

Cheers rang out, echoing through the stone arches and bouncing off the training yard walls. The sound crashed like a wave—raw, raucous, and unrestrained. Some initiates stood, fists raised. Others clapped hard enough to sting their palms. Even a few of the instructors along the edge wore expressions that teetered between surprise and approval.

Mirelle let out a sharp whistle. Arielle actually shouted something unintelligible. Henry nearly fell off the bench, laughing with disbelief. Maribelle blinked, then slammed her book shut with a muttered, "About damn time."

And Velora?

She didn't cheer.

She didn't clap.

But she gave the faintest, deliberate nod.

Watching.

> [System Alert]

Quest: "Stand Your Ground" – Complete

+40 EXP

+1 Sword Proficiency

+1 Strength

Skill Slot Unlocked: [Basic Sword Art] – Available

The numbers meant something. But not more than this.

I had stood my ground. And I had won.

Not through speed. Not through brute power.

Through rhythm. Through movement. Through every motion I'd trained for.

Drayce turned away without a word, walking to the edge of the circle.

I looked up at the watching crowd, the sunset now casting gold across the sand, and felt something new rise in my chest.

This was just one duel.

But it would not be forgotten.