"Obinai," Dawsh begins, "let's start with something simple. How would you say you're getting on with our staff?"
The silver veins beneath Obinai's feet pulse faintly. "Well enough," he says, shoulders squaring. "Combat instructor's decent. Actually gives a damn about teaching."
One of the elven magistrates - a man with hair like spun moonlight - sniffs delicately. "Such... colorful praise," he murmurs, long fingers steepling. "Though I suppose we shouldn't expect refined speech from... certain backgrounds."
The fu—
Dawsh slides a parchment across the bench. "Professor Kurst reports you've been sleeping through her lectures. Every. Single. One."
His finger taps the paper with each word for emphasis.
Obinai's head jerks up. "That's bull- I mean, that's not accurate!" He catches himself too late.
"Class hadn't even started at the right time some days!"
The second elf - her ears adorned with delicate silver chains - lets out a tinkling laugh. "Oh, sweet child," she croons, tilting her head like a bird inspecting a worm. "A true scholar's mind should always be sharp, always ready to absorb wisdom. But then, your kind has always struggled with discipline, hasn't it?"
Obinai's knuckles whiten. "My kind?"
"Enough." Dawsh's fist slams down.
The magistrates flinch.
Dawsh exhales through his nose, visibly reining in his temper. "The point," he grinds out, "is your pattern. Three royal houses—three—have formally complained about your... conduct."
Oh...
The male elf smirks. "The Valthoris girl's little lecture the other day during history was particularly... entertaining. Though I doubt you impressed anyone but the other forsaken watching."
"I didn't realize asking a question was a crime."
"Questions?" The elf's voice drips. "You barked like a stray interrupting a symphony."
The male elf leans forward, his silk robes whispering. "Such brazen disrespect to royalty cannot be tolerated. This institution—"
"Is full of assholes," Obinai mutters under his breath.
The silence stretches...
Even the glowing sigils on the dais seem to hold their breath.
Dawsh's spectacles slip further down his nose as he massages his temples. "Even with all this," he sighs, "you still find ways to make waves. Leaping barriers. Disrupting sanctioned matches—"
"I thought Bram was gonna die!" Obinai's protest bursts out before he can stop it.
Dawsh's palm slams the bench. "Unlikely with the Headmaster present!" His finger jabs toward Lyth's shadowed corner. "Do you truly believe we'd let a student be maimed?"
...
...
He then swivels back to Obinai. "What's clear is that these... minor infractions—"
"Minor?" The male elf's voice curls like spoiled cream. His long fingers flutter near his nose, as if warding off a stench. "This human's continued presence threatens to vulgarize our entire—"
Obinai lets out an exaggerated sigh, rolling his eyes. "Oh, for—this is so stupid."
The female magistrate gasps. "How dare you—"
"How dare I?" Obinai cuts in, throwing his hands up. "Why should I apologize for thinking my damn friend was about to see the pearly gates right in front of me? Or does basic human decency offend your delicate elven sensibilities?"
The male elf's composure shatters. "You insolent little—!" He half-rises from his seat, robes hissing, before Dawsh slams his gavel down.
"Enough!" The magistrate's face is flushed. "This is precisely the kind of brutish behavior we cannot tolerate! Your lack of respect—"
"Respect is earned," Obinai fires back. "And so far, all I've seen from this council is a bunch of nobles and royalty clutching their pearls over nothing."
The female magistrate's lips purse into a bloodless line. "You see, Dawsh? This is what we endure. This... creature does not belong here."
Dawsh exhales through his nose, fingers tightening around the gavel. "The council will now vote on disqualification. All in favor—"
COUGH
Lyth peels himself from the shadows.
The elven magistrates' hands hover mid-air.
"How... curious." Lyth says.
His fingers trail along the high bench, leaving smoldering grooves in the wood. "I don't recall knowing the information presented in this little inquisition."
The female elf's silver ear chains tremble as she swallows. "Headmaster, we merely sought to—"
"To what?" Lyth leans. "Usurp my authority? How... ambitious of you."
Dawsh's knuckles whiten around his gavel. "We're following established protocols, Lyth."
Lyth's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Ah, protocols." He begins a slow orbit around the dais. "Tell me, Alaric—" Dawsh flinches "—when did 'protocol' replace common sense?"
He whirls to face them. "This boy saw blood in the sand and reacted. Are we really debating whether saving a life is a crime now?" His gaze lingers on the elves. "Or is it only a crime when it's his hands getting dirty?"
The male elf adjusts his embroidered cuffs. "Sentimentality has no place in—"
"Neither does willful blindness." Lyth says. "How many 'incidents' started with you precious nobles goading him? Or does that not make it into your pretty reports?"
Dawsh's gavel shakes in his grip. "We can't ignore—"
"Did I say ignore?" Lyth starts to grin at this but stops.
"I said judge. That thing you're supposedly here to do." He gestures at Obinai without looking. "This boy's survived two months of your 'hospitality' and still nothing has changed for him. That's not a liability—that's a message to all of you stating that if you do not decide to make adjustments...someone will."
"But by all means," Lyth spreads his hands, "vote. I'm sure the Royal Council will love hearing how you punished a student for having a spine."
The magistrates exchange glances—then something shifts. The male elf's lips curl. "With all respect, Headmaster... the Council may share our concerns. Some might call for stronger measures."
A beat of silence. Lyth actually chuckles. "Oh, that's rich." He taps one finger against his temple. "To think someone in this room believes that anyone but me decides who stays or goes."
The female magistrate stiffens. "What could you possibly—"
"There's a way forward," Lyth cuts in. "One that doesn't end with you looking like petty tyrants."
Dawsh grinds his teeth. "Get to the point."
"Supervision." Lyth says.
"Assign him a minder for the Trials. Not as punishment—as insurance." His eyes glint. "If he steps out of line? Ban him next year. But let's see if he's really the problem first."
The male elf's nostrils flare. "You expect us to—"
"I expect you to stop pretending this is about rules." Lyth's voice drops to a whisper. "We all know which royal's heir got embarrassed in that lecture hall. How badly do you want to debase yourselves for their pride?"
A muscle jumps in Dawsh's jaw.
The female magistrate's perfect nails dig into her palms.
Finally, Dawsh exhales. "Supervision. But one more incident—"
"—and he's gone," Lyth finishes. "How merciful of you."
The male elf opens his mouth—
"Unless," Lyth adds, tilting his head, "you'd prefer I audit all disciplinary cases from the past term? Starting with... oh, House Naelin's little duel last month?"
The magistrates go very still...
"Supervision it is."
...
Impact.
The world snaps back into focus with a dizzying lurch—Obinai stumbles onto the arena's viewing deck, knees nearly buckling as the wall of sound hits him.
Lyth flicks an invisible speck from his sleeve. "Ah. The ki instructor did take over. Predictable." He nods toward the sands.
Obinai exhales, shaky. "I can't believe I interrupted them like that. Thought I was done for."
Lyth's gaze flicks to him. "Why do you—" He cuts himself off, a shadow crossing his face. "...Never mind."
Obinai frowns. "Huh?"
"Nothing."** Lyth's tone brokers no argument. "Forget it."
Obinai eyes him for a second—what was that?—but lets it drop. His pulse still hammers in his throat. "So... I'm clear?"
Lyth's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "For now." He steps closer. "Someone named Raundal will be watching you. You won't see him, but he'll be there. For the entire tournament." His fingers tap once against Obinai's shoulder. "And if you step out of line again?" A pause. "Even I might not be able to pull you back."
The words settle in Obinai's gut. "Ok..."
Lyth studies him for a heartbeat longer—then suddenly claps him on the back hard enough to make him stagger. "Good. Now move—before someone comes and asks me bothersome questions."
Obinai opens his mouth—
"Go." Lyth flicks a hand, and the air around him shivers like heat haze.
And with that, the Headmaster dissolves, his form unraveling into smoke and embers that scatter on the wind.
Obinai stands there, the noise of the arena swelling around him.
His fingers flex at his sides.
Raundal.
Watching.
Always watching.
A dry chuckle escapes him.
Just great...
...
Obinai's boots scuff against the steps as he scans the crowd, shoulders tense—until he spots Bram. His friend sits a few rows down, bandages peeking from beneath his sleeve but otherwise grinning like an idiot. The empty seat beside him might as well have a sign: Reserved for Disaster Humans.
"Obinai!" Bram's shout cuts through the noise, his arm waving. "Quit lurking and get your ass over here!"
The tightness in Obinai's chest loosens. He ducks past a group of whispering third-years, catching snippets of "—that's the one who—" and "—supposedly the Headmaster himself—" before collapsing into the seat.
"Glad to see you're still in one piece," Bram says, elbowing him. The motion makes wince, but he covers it with a laugh.
Obinai snorts. Yeah, barely." His eyes dart to the bandages. "You good?"
Bram flexes his arm, grinning. "Better now that you didn't get expelled for my dumbass stunt."
Gideon leans over. "Heard ya had them magistrates sweatin', Obinai." He shakes his head, chuckling. "Wish I'da seen their faces when Lyth shut 'em down."
Obinai rubs his neck. "Would've been more fun if I wasn't the one on the chopping block." Then he narrows his eyes at Bram. "Speaking of stunts—what the hell was that 'half thought it would work' crap?"
Bram shrugs, unrepentant. "Fifty percent's a passing grade, right?"
"Not when it's your life on the line, you idiot—"
Gideon suddenly stiffens, his gaze snapping to the arena display. "Ah. That's my cue." The glowing names above the sands shift: Gideon Dredween vs. Erion Langsteir.
Obinai let's out a nervous sigh. "Shit. You ready for this?"
Gideon stands, rolling his shoulders. "Born ready," he lies smoothly, but his fingers tap a nervous rhythm against his thigh as he walks past them to get ready to be transported.
Bram grabs his wrist. "Hey. Erion's fast, but he's cocky. Make him overcommit."
Gideon's grin flickers back. "Yeah. Yeah, I got this."
Then—pop—he's gone in a shimmer of light.
...
The crowd's roar swells as Gideon materializes on the sands, kicking up a small dust cloud. Across from him, Erion appears with grace, blond hair gleaming. He doesn't even bother stretching—just smirks.
Lyth's voice booms overhead: "Apologies for the delay, dear audience! Had to... mediate a disagreement." His gaze flicks to Obinai—message received—before sweeping back. "But now! Our next contenders!"
The crowd erupts.
Erion bows with theatrical flair. Gideon just cracks his knuckles.
He's too calm, Obinai thinks.
Lyth's hand slashes down.
"Begin...!"