As they move forward, Obinai steals another glance at Fiora from the corner of his eye. The faint glow in her eyes flickers with each shift of light, and he wonders if that's just how her eyes are or if there's some magic involved.
Fiora, ever perceptive, doesn't miss his lingering gaze. "What, pray tell, is so fascinating that you must gawk like an unwashed peasant?" she says without looking at him.
Obinai flinches. "I—uh—was just thinking," he stammers. "This whole situation's kinda funny when you think about it. You getting trapped in those crazy vines, me stumbling right into your path. Not exactly how I pictured my first day in combat class."
Fiora exhales sharply through her nose, her lips curling ever so slightly in distaste. "Yes, hilarious," she deadpans, crossing her arms. "A true comedic masterpiece. Shall we continue before fate conspires to amuse you further?"
Obinai huffs but doesn't push it.
The path ahead opens up—a rotating stone platform suspended over an abyss with mist swirling below. The platform groans as it turns, its surface cracked and uneven, shifting at erratic speeds. A faint vibration hums through the air.
Fiora studies it. "Tch. Predictable," she mutters.
Obinai glances at her. "Predictable? This thing looks like a lawsuit waiting to happen."
She ignores him, tilting her head slightly as she calculates the platform's rhythm. "We must leap together," she says, more to herself than to him. "Any discrepancy in our timing and—" She tries to make an exaggerated gesture but stops.
Obinai swallows hard. "Great. Love the enthusiasm."
But something feels off as they start. He's seen this obstacle before—there's something else about it that's nagging at the back of his mind. Then he hears it. A low, insidious hum, barely perceptible over the grinding stone. His muscles tense, his instincts screaming just as he realizes—
"[Anchor]!" He casts the spell, magic flaring beneath his feet just as a violent gust of wind surges through the abyss, aiming to hurl them into the void.
The wind hits them hard, but Obinai's spell keeps them grounded. Fiora glances back at him, surprised but quickly understanding what he's done.
"A precautionary spell?" she muses. "Perhaps you do have a shred of intelligence." Then, without missing a beat, "Cancel it when I command. We jump on my mark."
Obinai grits his teeth, holding the spell steady. The platform continues its erratic rotation.
The moment the wind dies down, Fiora's voice cuts through the tension. "Now."
Obinai releases the spell.
They jump.
Fiora lands with her feet barely making a sound. Obinai, however, isn't so lucky. Just as he nears the edge, another gust slams into him mid-air. His body tilts dangerously off course, the world tilting as he skids across the platform. His boots scrape against the stone, failing to find purchase.
For a heart-stopping second, he teeters on the edge, staring down into the abyss below.
Then, a hand.
Fiora.
She hauls him up with an ease that doesn't match her frame, her grip firm yet—dare he say—gentle. For a moment, he sees something in her expression. Concern? No. That would imply she cared. And she definitely wouldn't want that.
The moment he's stable, she releases him like he's something distasteful. "Do attempt to avoid plummeting to your death," she says coolly. "It would be terribly inconvenient for me to carry your corpse."
Obinai exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, yeah. No promises." His heartbeat is still racing, adrenaline buzzing through his veins. He lets out a nervous chuckle. "That's way too many close calls for one day."
Fiora eyes him, lips pursed. Then, in a voice almost too quiet to catch, she mutters, "You performed… adequately."
Obinai stares at her, blinking. "Was… was that a compliment?"
She scoffs, turning on her heel. "Don't be absurd."
Obinai smirks as he follows her. "Right. Thanks, I guess."
She doesn't respond, but he doesn't miss the way her pace slows, just enough to let him walk beside her.
The air is thick with the scent of damp earth, and the faint hum of cicadas buzzes through the dense foliage. Their breath comes in short bursts, feet crunching against the packed dirt as they jog through the narrow clearing. The distant call of some unseen creature echoes through the trees, a low, throaty warble that sets the hairs on Obinai's arms on edge.
They break through the tree line, and his stomach drops.
A vast expanse of shifting, bubbling terrain sprawls before them, the very ground writhing. It glistens under the dim light, a treacherous, pulsing mass of golden-brown sludge.
"Of course, it's quicksand," Obinai mutters. "Because why wouldn't it be?"
Fiora halts beside him, arms crossed, one boot tapping against the dry earth.
"We must cross," she states, her tone as crisp as the chill in the air. "Though, given your rather plebeian lack of foresight, I assume you have no strategy to speak of?"
Obinai exhales sharply, throwing her a flat look. "I was hoping for a bridge, but yeah, seems like we're fresh out." His eyes scan the surrounding landscape, seeking anything—rocks, vines, even a fallen log—but the quicksand stretches wide.
Fiora hums, kneeling at the edge, her fingers brushing the damp soil. "There are methods," she muses. "A slow, measured path. Ropes and leverage. Possibly a raft if we wish to construct one." She stands, dusting her hands. "Though, by the time we complete such arduous preparations, we may very well succumb to old age."
Obinai shoots her a dry look. "So you agree, we need a faster way."
She exhales through her nose, arms folding tighter. "Tch. I cannot believe I am humoring this." She tilts her chin up, giving him a sidelong glance. "Very well, human. Enlighten me with your reckless, undoubtedly absurd plan."
Obinai grins. "Glad you asked."
A minute later, they kneel side by side, hands pressed to the ground.
"On the count of three," he murmurs, shifting slightly to catch her eye. "We slick the surface."
Fiora sighs, as though the mere act of participating in this foolishness wounds her dignity. "If we die, I shall haunt you for eternity."
"Noted. One, two, three—[Grease]!"
A slick, oily sheen spreads over the quicksand. The sludge resists at first, fighting against the enchantment, but soon, its deadly grip weakens, the viscosity turning treacherously smooth.
Obinai exhales, shaking out his hands. "Step one, complete."
Fiora huffs, straightening. "Step two?"
"We lighten up." He watches as she mutters under her breath, tapping two fingers against her chest. A soft glow pulses over her frame, and she seems to become… less. Her presence remains imposing, but the way she moves—weightless, almost airy—tells him the spell has taken effect.
Obinai mirrors her, the sensation immediately unsettling. It's like his bones have hollowed out, his body a breath away from floating. He shakes the feeling off, flexing his fingers. "Alright, next part."
Fiora stiffens. "Wait. We require shielding."
He blinks at her, then realization dawns. "Oh. Right. Because this might hurt." He claps his hands together, murmuring the incantation. A translucent shield ripples over his skin, barely visible but present. Fiora follows suit, her magic smoother, more refined.
"Now," Obinai says, turning toward the field, breath steadying. "We launch ourselves across."
Fiora stares at him, unimpressed. "You wish to propel yourself with explosive force over an unstable death trap?"
"That's the plan."
A slow blink. "Marvelous. I shall pen your obituary myself."
"Nice to know you care."
She mutters something sharp in another language before raising her hands.
"On three," Obinai says, the charge of magic thrumming in his chest. "One, two—"
"Three—[Magic Missile]!"
The explosion is immediate, a concussive burst that slams into them with staggering force. The world blurs as they're catapulted backward, skimming over the slicked quicksand like skipping stones. The wind howls past, stinging their skin, the faint burn of magic biting at their shields.
Obinai barely has time to think before the next command leaves his lips. "Now, fire!"
Both he and Fiora twist midair, hands snapping downward. "[Magic Missile]!"
A second blast rips through the air, the force sending them rocketing upward, clearing the final barrier with just inches to spare. For one weightless moment, Obinai sees everything—the platform far behind them, the quicksand writhing below.
Then they crash.
Their shields absorb most of the impact, but the landing is anything but graceful. Obinai rolls, skidding to a halt in a tangled heap of limbs and aching bones.
A groan escapes him. "That… was insane."
Beside him, Fiora lies sprawled, breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Her eyes flutter open, dazed. "Agreed. That was… not sane." A pause, then, softer—"But effective."
Obinai chuckles, tilting his head toward her. "See? You're starting to have fun."
Fiora's lips twitch, just for a fraction of a second. Then, realizing their proximity, she shoves him—hard. "Do not mistake this for camaraderie, human."
She stands, brushing the dirt from her uniform, spine straight, chin lifted.
Obinai grins up at her, sprawled in the dirt. "You really need to loosen up, Fiora. Life's more fun that way."
Fiora huffs, but the slight tremor in her exhale betrays her exhaustion. "I will do no such thing. Some of us have standards to maintain." She casts a quick glance at something just beyond Obinai's sightline. Then, without warning, she kicks him—lightly, but with enough force to jolt his aching ribs.
"Up. Now."
Obinai groans, rolling onto his side before pushing himself upright. He barely has time to steady himself before he notices the assembled figures on the far side of the training field—Seraphina's lackeys, clustered like carrion birds waiting.
Obinai scowls. Without thinking, he raises his hand and flips them off.
The laughter halts. Silence coils tight between them like a drawn bowstring. Elrik takes a slow step forward, his smirk melting into something...darker.
Before the tension can snap, Lyth materializes between them, his usual lazy grin in place. "Congratulations, Fiora and Obinai," he drawls, eyes flicking between them. "You finished… though, ah, barely."
Obinai raises an eyebrow, deadpan. "Wow. I totally didn't see that coming."
Lyth chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, I may have overestimated some of you. Whoops. But hey, at least you made it in time." He gestures to the stragglers who failed to complete their courses, their faces a mixture of frustration and exhaustion. "Only about two-thirds of the class got through. The rest…" He waves a hand dismissively. "Well, they'll need extra practice."
Obinai glances around. Some students are still stuck in their respective traps, tangled in vines or half-submerged in illusionary mazes. Others stand defeated at the edge of the course, still catching their breath. Lyth clicks his fingers, and in an instant, the stragglers reappear among the gathered students, many stumbling as reality reasserts itself.
Lyth exhales, shaking his head. "We'll need to revisit the basics. I expect better results next time." Then, with a sharp clap of his hands, the obstacle course dissolves, its conjured horrors melting into the ground. "Class dismissed. Grab your things and get some rest. Tomorrow…" He grins. "Well, it won't be any easier."
A collective groan ripples through the students. Some collapse onto the ground, limbs splayed in exhaustion, while others lean against each other, muttering about the day's trials.
Obinai lets himself drop back onto the dirt, the cool earth soothing against his sweat-dampened skin. Around him, snippets of conversation drift through the air.
"Man, my course was brutal. Spinning blades everywhere—I barely made it through."
"You think that's bad? I was stuck in a maze with shadow wolves. No exits. It felt like I was in there for hours."
Obinai frowns. His course had been different, but the quicksand had felt almost… tailored. He turns his head toward Fiora, who stands beside him, her arms crossed as she surveys the grumbling students.
"You're telling me," he murmurs, "that Lyth gives different tests depending on our weaknesses?"
Fiora nods at this. "A refined method, wouldn't you say? And yet…" She tilts her head slightly, eyes flicking toward him. "Curious, isn't it? That our trials were nearly identical?"
A strange unease settles in Obinai's gut. He doesn't like coincidences.
Before he can press the thought further, Fiora's lips curl into a smirk. "You are," she declares, "marginally less mediocre than I previously assessed." With that she turns on her heel.
Obinai watches her go, the rigid set of her posture betraying the fatigue she pretends not to feel. He huffs a quiet laugh, stretching his arms out against the dirt.
The sky above is painted in deepening hues, stars beginning to flicker in the growing dusk. He lets his mind drift, letting the ache of the day sink into the earth beneath him.
Then, laughter—sharp, mocking, and uncomfortably close.
He doesn't have to look to know who it is. The smug cadence of Seraphina's voice cuts through the cooling air, her lackeys forming a semi-circle around him, blocking his view of the sky.
Obinai sighs, rubbing his face. "You've got to be kidding me."
He sits up slowly. The group of elves parts like a curtain. Through the gap strides Seraphina in the regular school uniform.
"As royalty," she begins, "it is my duty to forgive the transgressions of lesser beings." She pauses, her gaze sweeping over him. "I will allow you one chance to apologize, followed by your appropriate punishment."
Obinai's eyes shoot up to her in surprise, his lips twitching as he fights back a grin. He leans back on his hands, his posture deliberately relaxed. "Oh, great one," he drawls, "what punishment have I brought upon myself this time? Do enlighten me."
Seraphina's eyes narrow, her lips tightening into a thin line. She takes a step closer, her heels clicking against the stone beneath her feet.
"For existing," she snaps, her voice rising slightly, though she quickly reins it in, smoothing her features into a mask of calm. "You see, I am a descendant of the hero your race executed in the most humiliating fashion—Arelius Frieden. As is my namesake."
Obinai sighs, a low, almost weary sound, but there's a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Damn," he mutters under his breath, chuckling softly. The sound is quiet, almost inaudible, but it's enough to make Elrik, who had been lurking behind Seraphina like a shadow, snap to attention. His eyes blaze with fury, his hands twitching at his sides as he's barely restraining himself from lunging forward.
"Despite my courteous teachings," Elrik hisses, his voice trembling, "you dare—"
Obinai cuts him off with another chuckle, louder this time, though his heart is racing. Inside, he's panicking. Shit, he thinks, his mind racing. Most of these guys are third-circle mages. I can't win against them. But outwardly, he remains calm, his expression neutral, almost bored.
Seraphina takes another step closer. The scent of her perfume—something floral and expensive—washes over him. "I'll hear your apology now," she commands.
Obinai smirks, leaning back slightly as he locks eyes with her. "Nah, I'm good," he says. "I mean cuz I didn't do it. But why the obsession with everything going your way? Isn't that exhausting? Trying to control everyone and everything around you? You must be so tired."
Seraphina's jaw tightens, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. "You insolent—" she begins, but Obinai cuts her off with another laugh, louder and more derisive this time.
"I mean, seriously," he continues, his grin widening. "I've never seen someone so desperate to lead. You're like a queen bee trying to keep her hive in line—except it looks like half of them only stick around because they're afraid of what happens if they don't."
He chuckles, the sound echoing through the clearing, and watches with satisfaction as the irritation builds in Seraphina's eyes. Her cheeks flush with anger, a faint pink spreading across her otherwise porcelain skin. "It's almost sad, really," he adds. "All that power and influence, and you're still not satisfied. Always needing to be on top, always needing everyone to fall in line… I wonder, do you even know what it's like to just relax? Or are you too busy plotting your next move to remember how to have fun?"
Seraphina's face contorts with rage, her composure slipping for just a moment before she quickly regains control. She takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling visibly beneath the uniform. "You dare speak to me in such a manner?" she hisses. "You, a mere peasant, dare to question my authority?"
Obinai shrugs, his smirk never wavering. "Just calling it like I see it, Your Highness."
Her eyes flash, and for a moment, it looks like she might strike him. But instead, she turns her gaze to Erion, who's standing just behind one of the other elves. His posture is stiff, his expression carefully neutral, but there's a flicker of unease in his eyes.
"And you," Obinai says, shifting his attention to Erion too. "Even you have to have standards, right? I mean, look at her." He gestures vaguely in Seraphina's direction. "How do you put up with it?"
Erion's eyes widen slightly, his lips parting as if he's about to respond, but Obinai doesn't give him the chance. "I mean, seriously," he continues, leaning in slightly. "Does she give you a break, or are you always on a leash? I bet she even tells you how to breathe, doesn't she? 'Inhale, exhale—no, you're doing it wrong!'"
Elrik's face turns a deep shade of red. "Enough!" he shouts. He raises his hand, his fingers twitching as he begins to chant an incantation. The air around him grows warm, then hot, as flames begin to flicker to life in his palm.
But Obinai is already moving. With a quick, barely audible whisper, he mutters, "[Mist]."
A dense, swirling mist erupts from his hands, spreading rapidly through the clearing.
"What the—?!" Elrik's voice is muffled, his chant cut off as the mist envelops him.
"Find him!" Seraphina's voice cuts through the fog.
Obinai moves quickly and quietly, his heart pounding in his chest. The mist clings to his skin, cold and damp, as he ducks behind a large rock. He presses his back against the rough surface, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. He can hear them stumbling and cursing.
"Spread out!" Seraphina orders, her voice tinged with desperation. "He couldn't have gotten far!"
Obinai's mind races as he considers his options. He knows he can't take them all on in a direct fight, but maybe he can use their confusion to his advantage. A small smile forms on his lips as an idea takes shape. He begins to move again, this time deliberately making noise—rustling leaves, kicking small rocks—as he heads in one direction. He can hear the group moving toward the sound, their footsteps heavy and hurried.
Once he's sure they're sufficiently distracted, he silently doubles back, slipping out of the mist in the opposite direction. The moment he's clear of the fog, he breaks into a sprint, his legs pumping as he puts as much distance between himself and Seraphina's group as possible.
Behind him, the mist begins to dissipate, and he can hear Seraphina's voice. "Find him! I want him found!"
But Obinai is already gone, disappearing into the shadows, his laughter echoing faintly in the distance...