"Voss. You're up."

  Aldric looked up from the training post. The voice belonged to Instructor Maren—one of the few mage instructors who bothered to show up for spellblade training sessions. Her expression was neutral, but something in her posture suggested she'd rather be elsewhere.

  "Sparring exercise," she continued. "Standard format. First to three clean hits or surrender."

  The training grounds had been rearranged overnight. Where there had been individual posts and practice dummies, now there was a cleared circle marked with white chalk. Around it, disciples had gathered—mostly mages, their robes bright against the grey stone. A few spellblade disciples stood at the edges, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and wariness.

  Aldric stepped into the circle. His muscles were still sore from yesterday's practice, but the mana in his right hand flowed smoothly—a small comfort.

  "Opponent: Dorian Vane."

  The crowd shifted. Dorian stepped forward, his smile already in place. Two mage disciples flanked him, carrying what looked like practice equipment—but not the standard wooden swords and padded armor. These were heavier, more substantial.

  "Special dispensation from the quartermaster," Dorian said, pulling on a pair of reinforced gauntlets. "For a proper evaluation. Can't have the inspector thinking we're going easy on anyone."

  Aldric's jaw tightened. The gauntlets were mage-grade—enchanted to amplify the force of blows. Not illegal for sparring, but certainly not standard for a training exercise between disciples of different paths.

  "Instructor." Aldric kept his voice level. "Those aren't regulation equipment."

  "Inspector Wyndthorpe authorized expanded evaluation protocols." Maren's voice was flat. "The rules have changed."

  Of course they had.

  ---

  The first exchange was over in seconds.

  Dorian moved fast—faster than Aldric had expected. The gauntlets glowed faintly as he struck, the enchantment adding weight to blows that would have been merely painful without it. Aldric dodged the first, blocked the second, and took the third on his shoulder.

  The impact sent him staggering. His arm went numb from the collarbone down.

  "One," Dorian announced, his smile widening. "Two more and we're done."

  The mage disciples around the circle laughed. Someone—Aldric couldn't see who—called out, "Make it quick, Dorian. Some of us have actual training to do."

  Aldric rolled his shoulder, trying to restore feeling. The numbness was fading, but slowly. The gauntlets weren't just amplifying force—they were disrupting mana flow on contact. A nasty piece of work, probably designed for subduing rogue arcanists.

  Friction. Between flows.

  Garrett's voice echoed in his memory. You're losing force on the wrong path.

  He'd been treating this like a normal fight. Dodge, block, counter. But Dorian wasn't playing by normal rules. The gauntlets gave him an advantage that standard techniques couldn't overcome.

  Find the angle. Redirect instead of absorb.

  ---

  The second exchange lasted longer.

  Aldric circled, watching Dorian's movements. The other boy was confident—too confident. His strikes were powerful but telegraphed, each one carrying the arrogance of someone who had never been seriously challenged.

  Force transmission. Multiple paths. Distributed load.

  When Dorian lunged, Aldric didn't dodge. He stepped into the blow.

  The gauntlet caught him on the forearm—but not cleanly. Aldric had angled his arm at the last moment, turning what should have been a direct hit into a glancing blow. The force slid off rather than transferring fully, and before Dorian could recover, Aldric's other hand was inside his guard.

  He struck Dorian's wrist, right at the joint where the gauntlet met the leather binding.

  Dorian's hand spasmed. The gauntlet's glow flickered.

  "One," Aldric said quietly.

  The laughter around the circle died. Dorian's smile didn't waver, but something shifted behind his eyes.

  Stolen story; please report.

  "Lucky hit," he said. "Won't happen again."

  ---

  The third exchange was brutal.

  Dorian stopped playing. His movements became tighter, more controlled, the arrogance replaced by something colder. The gauntlets glowed brighter now, the enchantment fully activated.

  He came in low and fast, a combination designed to overwhelm. Aldric blocked the first strike, deflected the second, and took the third on his ribs. The impact drove the air from his lungs and sent him to one knee.

  "Two." Dorian's voice was soft now, almost gentle. "One more, Voss. Just one more."

  Aldric's vision swam. His ribs ached where the gauntlet had connected, and he could feel the mana disruption spreading through his torso. Standing was difficult. Fighting seemed impossible.

  You're losing force on the wrong path.

  But he wasn't losing it anymore. He was learning to see it.

  He pushed himself up. His legs shook, but they held.

  "Ready when you are," he said.

  ---

  The fourth exchange changed everything.

  Dorian moved in for the finishing blow—a straight strike aimed at Aldric's chest, designed to end the match cleanly. The gauntlet blazed with light, the enchantment pushing toward maximum output.

  Aldric didn't dodge. He didn't block.

  He pivoted.

  At the last possible moment, he shifted his body weight, turning his shoulder into the blow at an angle. The gauntlet connected—but not cleanly. The force that should have driven through his chest instead slid along his torso, dissipating into the air.

  And Aldric's right hand, glowing with the faint Common-grade light he'd been cultivating for weeks, struck upward.

  Not at Dorian's face. Not at his chest.

  At the gauntlet's power source.

  The impact wasn't hard—Aldric didn't have the strength for hard anymore. But it was precise. His mana flowed into the gap between the gauntlet's plates, finding the enchantment's anchor point.

  The gauntlet flickered. Died.

  Dorian stumbled forward, his momentum carrying him past Aldric, his strike spent on empty air. He turned, his expression shifting from confidence to confusion to something darker.

  "What did you—"

  "Match." Instructor Maren's voice cut through the silence. "Neither combatant has achieved three clean hits. The exercise is concluded."

  ---

  The crowd was quiet.

  Not silent—there were still murmurs, still the rustle of robes and the shuffle of feet. But the laughter was gone. The mockery had died somewhere in the fourth exchange, replaced by something more uncertain.

  Dorian stood at the edge of the circle, staring at his dead gauntlet. His smile was gone. In its place was an expression Aldric had never seen on him before.

  Fear.

  Not of Aldric. Not exactly. But of something the fight had revealed—a crack in the certainty that had always protected him. The knowledge that even with every advantage, even with enchanted equipment and institutional backing, he hadn't won.

  Aldric walked to the edge of the circle. His ribs screamed with each step, and his right arm hung heavier than it should. But he kept his back straight and his face neutral.

  "Good match," he said.

  Dorian didn't respond. He just stared, his eyes hard and calculating.

  ---

  The walk back to the disciple quarters was long and painful.

  Aldric moved slowly, each breath sending fire through his ribs. The mana disruption from the gauntlets was fading, but slowly. He'd need rest—and probably one of the stamina draughts his father had sent—to recover fully.

  But beneath the pain, something else burned.

  Not a victory. But not a defeat.

  He'd shown them. Not that he was stronger—he wasn't. Not that he was faster—he definitely wasn't. But that he could think. That he could adapt. That the "worthless" spellblade disciple could stand against a mage with enchanted equipment and walk away without losing.

  It wasn't enough to change anything. The audit would continue. The cuts would deepen. The system would keep grinding.

  But it was a start.

  Garrett's mechanical principles had worked. Not perfectly—Aldric had still taken two hits, still ended up bruised and battered. But they'd worked enough. Enough to show that there was a path forward, even if it was harder than anyone else's.

  He reached his quarters and pushed open the door. The room was exactly as he'd left it—the chest slightly open, the desk shifted, the signs of yesterday's search still visible. He didn't bother checking for new intrusions. Whoever was watching him had already seen everything that mattered.

  Instead, he sat on his bed and began the slow process of checking his injuries.

  Ribs: bruised, possibly cracked. Nothing that wouldn't heal.

  Arm: recovering from mana disruption. Would need rest.

  Pride: intact.

  He allowed himself a small, tired smile.

  ---

  Evening brought a visitor.

  A knock at the door—lighter than his father's, more hesitant. Aldric opened it to find Therin standing in the corridor, his expression caught between concern and something that might have been hope.

  "I heard," Therin said. "About the match."

  "News travels fast."

  "It always does." Therin shifted his weight, glancing down the corridor as if checking for eavesdroppers. "The mage disciples are... talking. About what happened. About you."

  "What are they saying?"

  "Different things. Some say you cheated. Some say Dorian's equipment malfunctioned. But some—" Therin stopped, swallowed. "Some say you actually held your own. That a spellblade stood against a mage with enchanted gear and didn't lose."

  Aldric didn't respond. The words should have felt like victory, but they didn't. They felt like something heavier. Like the first stone of a wall being built around him.

  "That's dangerous," he said quietly.

  "What?"

  "Attention. From the wrong people." Aldric thought of Caelen Wyndthorpe, calculating worth in a cold room. Of Dorian's fear-darkened eyes. Of the inspector's interest in his scar. "The audit isn't over. And now they're watching me specifically."

  Therin's face fell. "So what do we do?"

  "We train. We endure. We wait for the right moment." Aldric's voice was steady, but his ribs ached with every word. "And we don't give them the excuse they're looking for."

  Therin nodded slowly. He looked like he wanted to say something more, but the words didn't come. After a moment, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

  Aldric closed the door and leaned against it.

  But some victories couldn't be celebrated. Not yet. Not when the cost of being seen was still being calculated.

  He moved to his bed and lay down carefully, his ribs protesting. Tomorrow would bring more challenges. More scrutiny. More pressure from a system designed to break him.

  But tonight, for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to feel something other than anger or fear.

  He allowed himself to feel hope.

  Small. Fragile. Easily crushed.

  But real.

  ---

  The training ground falls silent. A bully's smile fades. And in a small room in the disciple quarters, a spellblade lies awake, knowing that the first test has passed—but the real challenges are just beginning.

  Somewhere in the darkness, Dorian Vane is already planning his next move. And this time, he won't underestimate his opponent.