I’d gone and wiped the whole dueling nonsense off my mind overnight. Couren or the headmaster would never have approved a match where the unwitting opponent could die if I looked at them wrong. But I’d miscalculated catastrophically. The scenario where neither would even be asked didn’t occur to me.

  Had I ever slipped up as bad before? I pondered that as I marched in the wake of Professor Goldsinger and Alice Silla, out of the Arcane department and towards the training halls in a detached red brick building across the field. As we went, I moved closer to Silla, wanting to slap her silly, and hissed,

  “You asked him for permission? Instead of our own teacher?”

  “Well, Professor Couren seemed to be busy,” Silla mumbled in answer with ashamed redness. “So I asked someone who was available. What does that matter? Any staff member can approve a duel.”

  It was the thing that mattered most.

  I raised my voice and spoke to the teacher instead.

  “Sir, don’t you think it’s too reckless to let students fight each other with magic?”

  “Ha, ha!” Professor Goldsinger chuckled mechanically like a golem at the question. “Not at all. Dueling is a long-standing tradition here at Belmesion. Certainly, slight ethical concerns have been raised in recent times, alongside the rise of many other confused movements and ideologies, but you need not be concerned. Disputes are sure to rise among energetic youths, in one way or another. It is far safer that they vent out their frustrations in the open, under elder supervision, rather than try to curse each other in the dark of the night. This way, conflicts can become a learning experience for everyone involved.”

  I didn't think there was much for anyone to learn from me maiming my classmate. Refusal was the only choice.

  “Professor, I haven't agreed to this duel. There is no reason for it.”

  “Hm? But I was told you were the one to issue the challenge in the first place? Is that not the case?”

  “It’s a misunderstanding. I was trying to—”

  “—Now, don't be afraid, Ms Ruthford,” the man interrupted me. “I shall personally oversee your bout, and we have a student versed in the healing arts on standby. There is no reason to hesitate. A mage's path is all about conquering fear and standing proudly against adversity, whatever should come of it. You should consider fortunate to be able to witness the skills of someone as gifted as Ms Silla. Take this invaluable opportunity to look for the courage inside your heart. As a proper mage should.”

  “...”

  It was like talking to a wall. What an absurd man.

  As if the Professor Goldsinger had read my mind, he abruptly stopped in his tracks and spun back to me with a hawkish keenness in his gaze.

  “Or, could it be that there is actually something wrong with your mana, as Ms Silla tells me? In that case, you will need to have your circuitry thoroughly examined by qualified professionals. Overloading is a very serious condition, from which very few come back alive. Withdrawing your challenge for medical reasons is acceptable. In which case, proper procedures must be followed to verify your ability to maintain your studentship.”

  “...That will not be necessary, sir. There's nothing wrong with my channel.”

  How could I possibly overload while using less than a permille of my capacity.

  “Then it should be fine for you to give us a demonstration and put the matter beyond doubt, yes?” he said. “Let us be on our way. I have reserved training hall six for your use, but another group has a reservation for it shortly afterward. It will do no good for us to tarry.”

  The man turned to go on. And I gave up trying to work this out with common sense.

  We entered a tall and barren hallway. A ceramic checkerboard floor fled before us unobstructed to the farthest reaches of the impressively long building. On the left passed a line of arched windows set deep in the brick wall. Along the right-hand side follow a succession of numbered, green-painted metal doors. Practical lessons were sometimes held here, but students could reserve the empty training rooms for their personal use too. To protect the trainees’ privacy, they had to have secure locks and seals.

  A pair of second-year male students played in the hallway, tossing a small, bouncy ball around. They had it ricochet off the hard floor and walls, performing various tricks, but stopped short when they saw the Professor coming. One snatched ball off the air and stuck it into his jacket pocket, and they drew out of the way, bobbing their heads as we passed. But it was already well after four, and Professor Goldsinger didn’t seem to even recognize the two existed. He strode on, and Silla tried to keep up with his pace.

  But I recognized a straw to grasp there. I discreetly parted with the other two and went over to the sophomore.

  “Hey, give me the ball.”

  “Huh? What do you need it for?”

  “I'll pay you three crowns for it.”

  “Three crowns…?”

  I scoured my pockets for coins. Lunch was covered by tuition, but anything else in the canteen, like coffee or pasties, was charged separately, so I had some cash on me. I wound up with more than three crowns, but there was no time to start counting the change. The Professor and Silla would start missing me any second now. I shoved the whole fistful into the student’s hands.

  The boy was not too sorry with the deal, snatching the money, and shoved the game item onto my palm in exchange. By his face, I knew it didn't cost a fraction of what I gave him. It was only a ball of brown, hard rubber, no bigger than a lime fruit. Nothing the least bit magical about it. But who cared about money. I put the ball in my own pocket and hurried after my companions right as they were about to turn back to see what was with the hold up.

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  Maybe we could get through this without bodies yet.

  The door number 6 was already open and we went into the unlit hall. The training rooms had no windows, save for a solitary skylight up high in the middle of the ceiling. The floor was covered with smooth, flat slates that could take a hit and had clearly seen some, the edges chipped and the seams wavering. The walls looked like plain brick but were covered in protective enchantments to shrug off stray shots. I noticed at least shock absorption effects and soundproofing. Standard fare in facilities of this nature.

  In the middle of the hall, under the skylight’s heavenly beam, lay a hexagonal “arena” slightly lower than the sides, separated by a faint, flaking paint line into two sides, further decorated by small guide symbols indicating positions and directions for whatever plays.

  A third-year male student stood inside waiting for us, the medic’s green-white armband on his sleeve and a light stretcher set aside. He had the looks of an acolyte, short-sheared hair, milky face, and none of the dignity of a professional wizard. A person with a knack for healing arts had his life set, and had no incentive or motivation to put effort into anything else.

  The Professor greeted the youth with a nod.

  “Thank you for making it on such short notice, Harold.”

  “How could I miss this, Professor?” the student replied. “The first duel of the year, and it's a cat fight? Wild.”

  I could only thank the stars there wasn't a bigger audience.

  We came to stand in the arena, instinctively assuming matching positions on the sides of the central line. Professor Goldsinger stood on the line, one foot on the left side and the other on the right, like the gods’ own magister, hands behind his back, and faced us with the loftiness his role demanded.

  “Now then. Dueling may not be prohibited per se, but that isn't to say we encourage fights between students either. To ensure the faculty’s days aren't spent overseeing endless quarrels stemming from base, emotional reasons, instead of more constructive labor, we have a certain custom in place. Each duel involves a pledge, where the defeated must give up something of reasonable significance for the winner. Additionally, while victory will not be rewarded in points, to discourage seeking yet more conflict, the defeated party will have the total of 50 points deducted from their class activity record by the end of the term. As a reminder of the grave consequences of pursuing the way of warriors, and to encourage seeking other solutions.”

  If only you let me have other solutions. Could it get any more complicated?

  “Both parties must agree on the terms before the match may begin. Please state your demands now.”

  Clearly familiar with the rule, Silla took the initiative.

  “If I win, I demand that Ms Ruthford submits to a qualified medical analysis of her ailing mana channel, and, depending on the results, withdraws from the academy.”

  “Then, Ms Ruthford?”

  “All right.” I took off my glasses and wiped my face. How do I make sure this never happens again? “If I win, let's see…Ms Silla will listen to one personal request from me.”

  The girl frowned. “A request?”

  “Yes. All you need to do is lend me your ear for a bit. I won't demand that you agree either. You can decide that after you’ve heard everything I have to say.”

  “Why such roundabout conditions? Is there any reason why you won't just state this request right now, and force my agreement before the witnesses?”

  “Because it takes a while to explain my circumstances, and I'll only have wasted everyone's time if I lose. As seems likely. None of it will matter then. I’d hate to make the Professor and Mr Harold do any more needless overtime. So I'll tell you only if the miracle happens, with just the two of us. Is that fine?”

  “Very well. I accept. I also pledge to agree in advance, whatever your request is, in the event that I lose. This wouldn't be very fair otherwise.”

  Idiot.

  The worst kind—an honest idiot.

  Professor Goldsinger nodded with approval.

  “Very good. Both parties are in agreement. It warms my old heart to see such chivalrous, upright duelists in this day of modern corruption. Please take your stations.”

  We took our places on the worn red triangles drawn on each side of the hexagon arena, a good twenty steps apart from one another.

  “The match will conclude when one yields, loses consciousness, or is forced out of bounds,” the Professor explained. “You may not leave your side of the marked area. You may not cross over the central line to your opponent’s side, or make direct physical contact. Only magic may be used to attack, but not to a lethal extent. If I detect the conjuration of life-threatening techniques, I will interrupt the match immediately, and the aggressor will be judged to have lost. Fight fairly and accept the outcome, whatever it may be. Are you ready?”

  “Ready, sir,” said Alice Silla.

  “Yes, sir,” I echoed.

  Professor Goldsinger raised his strong arm at the ceiling and let it relaxedly fall.

  “Then—begin!”

  Alice Silla made the first move. Mana surged through her on demand, like out of a great spring, fluid but fierce, like a stormy tidal wave smashing upon coastal rocks. She held out her arm and conjured—water. Yes. My initial impression was accurate. Clear water burst out of nothing in midair above her outstretched hand, mana converted to liquid. The bubbling, wobbling, roiling mass expanded and morphed and began to quickly assume the shape of a creature, an animal. Yes. A proud eagle with wide wings.

  Her watery bird of prey looked very true to life, even if fully watery, translucent, and leaking in places. Clearly, she had gone birdgazing before, to be able to visualize an eagle so well. You could even see the relief outline of the plumage and the distinct, blade-like flight feathers crowning the aquatic flippers. It was a work of art.

  So that was her move.

  I took the rubber ball from my pocket and threw it down hard at the floor in front of my feet. Throwing it at Silla wouldn't have been very magical, after all, and she could've easily dodged it. I wasn't an assassin, and my manual throwing strength was pretty feeble with ammunition any heavier than peanuts.

  The ball bounced snappily off the hard stone, flew up high in the air, rising close to the ceiling, before gravity overpowered its ascent and forced it to return. It landed back onto the pavement, but, being quite compact and springy, set off for a new, less energetic attempt.

  The other three in the room stared at my incomprehensible action for a dumbfounded pair of seconds.

  But no. No magic there. No follow-up moves either. I stood back and looked on, waiting.

  An utterly pointless, senseless circus trick. Like I was only fooling around in this sacred duel with so much on the line, my own academic career included.

  “Are you an idiot!?” Alice Silla yelled, enraged. “It's over!”

  The water eagle opened its beak to a challenging, soundless scream, echoing the wrath of its maker. I watched the big bird take height and swoop down at me, fast and ferocious. And then, as the witch said, it was over.