The courtyard is eerily silent as I stand still, the blindfold tight over my eyes, the world reduced to nothing but darkness. Without the blindfold, I could track the outlines of mana, see through the energy of the people around me, but now, with the cloth over my eyes, all I have is sound and touch—and the faintest heartbeat, the softest rhythm in the air.
I can hear Ramon's breath, each inhale, the subtle thud of his footsteps, but most of all, the rhythm of his heartbeat—a soft pulse, steady but filled with the tension of someone preparing to fight.
"Begin."
The command comes from the king, cutting through the air like a knife.
Ramon moves first. I hear the scrape of his boots against the dirt, the wind parting as his sword slices toward me.
I don't flinch. I don't need to. I listen to the faintest sound of his heartbeat quickening with every movement, the rhythm of his breath betraying the direction of his attack.
A slash comes from the right, but I feel the disturbance in the air and shift my body just enough to avoid the blade, the sound of the metal cutting through the air echoing sharply in my ears.
Too slow, I think to myself.
Ramon doesn't wait, pushing forward again, his energy flowing faster now, his footfalls heavier. I hear the creak of his muscles tightening as he strikes with more force this time.
But it's all so predictable. I can hear his heart beating faster, the sound of his breath growing more frantic. I can track every shift in his energy, every change in his posture, and the way his mana hums around him.
He's still moving quickly, but compared to the rank 3 mages I've sparred in this exact scenario, Ramon is far too slow. I barely need to move to evade him. The blade comes within inches, but I step aside, turning my body just enough to let the strike pass.
I press forward, closing the distance between us. His heartbeat is louder now, the rhythm erratic with the stress of the fight. He's tiring, trying to use brute force to overwhelm me, but I can already sense the weakness in his stance.
I strike. His sword arm falters as I knock his weapon aside with a swift move, my own sword tapping lightly against his ribs, not hard enough to injure, but just enough to let him know he's been bested.
Ramon stumbles, clearly caught off guard. His mana falters, his energy wavering. I hear the soft, strained exhale he lets out as he regains his footing, but I don't stop. I've already gauged where he's vulnerable.
Another strike—this one comes from the left. But I don't need to dodge it. I feel the heartbeat beneath the rhythm of his footfalls and strike before he can even raise his sword high enough. My blade connects with his side, and this time, it's enough to push him back a few paces.
I hear the soft clang of his sword hitting the ground, followed by a surprised grunt from Ramon.
"That's enough," King Beren calls, his voice carrying easily over the courtyard.
I straighten, listening as Ramon lets his sword slip from his fingers, the clatter sharp and final. A breathless laugh escapes him, warm with both admiration and frustration.
"You make it look easy, Annie," he says under his breath.
I smile slightly. "You're too loud," I murmur, tilting my head toward the sound of him. "And your mana shakes when you hesitate."
Footsteps approach—heavy, deliberate—the distinct rhythm of King Beren himself. He stops a few paces away, and I can feel the weight of his gaze even without seeing it.
"You were taking it too easy on your brother," Beren says, tone firm but not unkind. "Never underestimate an opponent, even in a spar, Annabel. Not ever."
I incline my head slightly in acknowledgment, feeling the sting of gentle correction.
Then—an audible gasp. Mother's voice, sharp with disbelief:
"She wasn't trying?" Elaria blurts. "How could she move like that if she wasn't even trying?"
A ripple of emotion follows her words—disbelief, awe, a sudden shift in the air that no one can hide.
Beren lets out a low chuckle, the sound full of pride. His armor creaks as he throws a casual arm around someone nearby—a sharp jostle of movement.
"If you want to see her try," the king says, a teasing edge to his voice, "we could always turn it up a notch."
A pause. A heavy, confident footstep forward. The mana around the courtyard chills slightly, crisp as morning frost.
"This here," Beren continues, "is Sir Aethon—one of our finest Rank 1 ice mages. The best swordsman in the elf kingdom under magical constraints."
I hear the faint rattle of Sir Aethon's gauntlets as he adjusts his grip on his weapon—a careful, meticulous motion. Controlled. Dangerous.
"If magic were allowed, Annabel wouldn't stand a chance," Beren admits easily. "Not yet, at least. But in pure swordplay?"
Another chuckle, low and sure.
"Even if she's half his size, I think she might just surprise every last one of you."
The courtyard holds its breath. I can feel the weight of expectation, disbelief, and a small, sharp edge of excitement.
I curl my fingers around the hilt of my sword, feeling the familiar bite of the leather against my palm.
The cold air sharpens around me as Sir Aethon steps forward.
No sight. No outlines. Only the faintest pressure of his mana—a whisper against my skin.
This is no ordinary opponent.
Silence. Then—crack!—he moves.
"I react on instinct, raising my sword just in time to parry. The force of the blow crashes against mine, steel rattling in my grip as it jolts up my arms."
Another strike. Lower. A feint.
I turn with it, parrying, feeling the slide and screech of blades.
He's pressing hard. Every clash sends a shock through my muscles.
No visual cues. No outlines. Only the whip-crack of his footwork against the ground, the faint tremor of air he cuts through, the softest trace of his mana when he commits to a blow.
A shallow sting tears across my forearm. Blood wells warm against the chill.
I hear Mother's gasp from the sidelines, sharp and fearful.
"Elaria, don't look," Father mutters, trying to steady her.
"She's just a child," Mother whispers, voice breaking.
Julius's laughter rumbles across the field. "You should've seen her when she was training with us," he says easily. "Covered in bruises. She looked like abstract art."
Kate snickers. "And she still didn't take a break."
Dr. Lorre's voice, dry and fond: "Had to threaten to sedate her to get her to rest."
Aethon's pressure mounts. Another blow, this one slamming into my guard, almost knocking me back.
I dig my heels in.
Focus.
I track the faintest sounds—the scrape of leather, the whisper of a breath drawn too sharply, the minuscule shift of a heartbeat.
My world.
My rules.
I twist, letting a slash pass inches from my ribs, countering with a tight arc toward his hip. He deflects smoothly.
Another shallow cut, this time across my thigh. Pain sharpens my senses, clears the haze.
We trade strikes in a brutal rhythm—him dominant, me surviving, countering where I can, slipping through the gaps by instinct alone.
Each of his blows tests my guard, forcing me to stretch my limits.
My arms burn. Sweat slicks under the blindfold.
And still, I hold.
Still, I move.
Still, I fight.
For a moment, I feel it—
A slight increase in the force behind his blade.
He's trying.
He lunges again—this time slower, almost probing. I meet him clean, blade sliding against blade, locking in a dead clash.
We stand there, muscles straining. Neither yielding.
A heavy breath. Then another. The world narrows to the feel of the steel, the cold bite of the air, the fierce drum of my heart.
Then, from the side—King Beren's voice, strong and decisive:
"Enough! It's a draw!"
The weight of the fight lifts instantly.
Sir Aethon steps back, lowering his blade with the kind of precision that comes from decades of discipline.
"A fair call, Your Majesty," he says, voice respectful but firm. "She's earned it."
Around the edges of the field, applause breaks out—staggered at first, then rising like a wave.
I lower my sword, feeling the blood from my cuts start to dry against the chill. My chest heaves with the effort of keeping my breathing steady.
Pain radiates through my body.
But underneath it—
A deep, burning pride.
I feel Mother rushing toward me even before her footsteps hit the ground.
"Annabel!" she cries, almost scolding through her panic.
Warm, green-tinged mana bursts into the air, wrapping me before I can say a word.
The healing magic feels like sunlight against my skin—gentle vines coiling around my arms, stitching the cuts closed, easing the bruises underneath.
I stand still, unmoving.
Not because of discipline, but because the sting of battle feels almost sweet. Proof that I could stand toe-to-toe with someone like Sir Aethon.