Not even one hour after the seventh-year students had filed out of the secret hall, the news had spread through the Mage’s Enclave like wildfire.

  There had been no formal announcement, no public posting on the great crystal board by the library gates—yet somehow, everyone knew.

  By the time the sun had tilted past its zenith, the entire academy buzzed with it:

  An internal tournament. Four champions to be chosen. The honor of representing the Enclave at the Kingdom’s Tournament of Juniors.

  It didn’t matter that the Principal had said it quietly, behind closed doors; secrets lasted less than minutes here. Whispers slid through corridors, weaving between the towering bookshelves of the library, slipping under classroom doors, spiraling up the stairwells of the dormitories.

  In the dining hall, over bowls of steaming stew and plates of honeyed bread, students leaned close, speaking in low, excited voices: “They’ll pit us against each other—random matches.”

  On the practice fields, someone was already speculating: “Did you see the seventh-year roster? Eleonor’s on it—of course.” Others frowned and muttered, “And that boy, the one who was gone for months… John. No one knows what level he’s at.”

  It was the only subject anyone wanted to discuss.

  Spell theory lectures went half-unheard, instructors sighing as quills scratched in notebooks—drafting possible match line-ups instead of runic diagrams. Dueling circles were suddenly occupied until late evening; the clang of blades and the thrum of magic bursts became the new soundtrack of the training yards.

  The preparations had already begun.

  Classrooms were cleared and refitted into practice halls. The groundskeepers were reinforcing the warding circles around the official arena to contain higher-level spells. A group of artificers set up shop in the west wing, offering—at a price—to inspect and fine-tune weapons and foci for the duels to come.

  And in the air, beneath the excitement, there was something sharper: the electric tang of rivalry. Every glance between potential opponents lingered a little too long, every conversation carried a note of weighing, calculating.

  For John, it meant more eyes on him than he liked—curious, measuring, trying to pin down the anomaly among them. For Eleonor, it meant the quiet pressure of expectation growing heavier with each hour.

  In one week’s time, the talking would stop.

  And then, the fighting would begin.

  John knew well enough where he had stood before.

  Before the weretigresses, before the Trial, before the chaos of black tigers and the shattering of seals, he had been an outlier—a student whose talent and discipline already put him close to par with the instructors. It had been a quiet truth, one he had carried without arrogance, using it to keep up with the best rather than to overshadow them.

  Now, returning from the white tigresses’ camp, that balance was gone.

  Whatever border had once separated gifted student from mentor had been washed away in weeks of relentless hunting, grueling duels, and lessons in a society that tempered its youth through raw survival. His strength, speed, and magic had grown beyond the neat lines of the Enclave’s grading charts; his instincts were sharper, his combat reflexes honed against foes that seventh-years would only ever read about.

  He didn’t need to test it. He could feel it—in the easy way he tracked movement at the fringes of his vision, in the casual way his muscles balanced their weight, in the depth of mana that sat ready behind every breath.

  Even among the best of the final year, no one here could truly push him. Not without risking more than a bruised ego.

  And that was the danger.

  One wrong parry in a sparring match, one reflexive use of power meant for something monstrous, and the “pride of the seventh years” might leave the ring broken… or worse.

  John’s fingers flexed unconsciously as he walked the stone corridors toward the practice courtyards, boots echoing under the high-vaulted arches. He would have to measure himself not by how quickly he could win, but how precisely he could hold back—how cleanly he could control this new strength without revealing more than he intended.

  Because raw power was no victory if it left only fear in its wake.

  And the last thing he needed, here in the heart of the Mage’s Enclave, was for his classmates—or his teachers—to start wondering just how far beyond them he truly was.

  The sunlight poured through the arched windows of the Mage’s Enclave’s west courtyard, scattering gold across the cobblestones where students sparred in a dozen dueling rings. Between the clang of steel and the sharp crackle of spells, Eleonor stood with her arms folded, the crimson trim of her sixth-year robes catching the light. Her golden hair shimmered like molten metal, loose today instead of the usual elaborate braid—a small but telling sign she’d come here relaxed, not formally.

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  John spotted her easily among the crowd. The familiar poise, the measuring gaze… yet paired with that small quirk of her lips that wasn’t quite a smirk. He stepped over, sparring swords slung casually across his back.

  “Checking up on the competition?” he said, a half-smile tugging at his mouth.

  Eleonor’s eyes flicked to him, bright with both recognition and challenge. “I prefer to call it… evaluating the opposition.” Her tone was smooth, almost lazy, but laced with that deliberate undertone he’d learned to read—she was already plotting her strategy for the internal tournament.

  He chuckled. “I thought we were friends now.”

  “We are,” she said without hesitation. “Which means I’ll aim to defeat you decisively, rather than embarrass you.” The sparkle in her gaze betrayed her enjoyment of the verbal jab.

  John tilted his head, pretending to weigh the words. “Generous. I was planning to just win and then take you out for tea so you could recover your dignity.”

  Her laugh was quick, unguarded, but competitive all the same. “Careful, John. Boasts have a way of aging poorly when the match actually comes.”

  “Then you’d better make sure you’re the one aging mine,” he countered.

  For a moment, the sound of distant duels faded behind the current between them—light and teasing, but with that undercurrent of will that made both of them lean forward rather than step back. They’d stood as allies before, but here in the Enclave, with the bracket looming, they were also something else: two players in the same game, each too stubborn to settle for second place.

  She broke the pause first, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from her sleeve. “One week, John. I expect you to give me a match worth remembering.”

  He gave her a slow, confident nod. “Count on it.”

  And then she turned, striding toward one of the empty dueling rings, leaving him half-smiling after her—already thinking, already planning.

  The day of the first duel dawned clear and cold, the crisp air carrying the hum of anticipation through the Mage’s Enclave. By sunrise, the dueling grounds had been prepared—an oval arena warded by tall runestones etched with layered protection spells, their faint glow promising safety without muting the clash of magic and skill. Benches rose in tiers around the perimeter, already filled with chattering students and watchful instructors, the buzz of curiosity building like an oncoming storm.

  For John, the morning had been quiet.

  He rose early, as was his habit, his preparations measured and without ceremony. His simple dueling robe hung loose over his frame, the fabric trimmed in the deep blue of the Enclave’s colors. Beside him on the bench lay the twin blades he carried more as symbols than necessities—today, they would remain sheathed. He stretched methodically, his gaze steady and unreadable, while the other competitors limbered up with nervous chatter and whispered strategy.

  Across the arena, his opponent waited—a large boy in the seventh-year group, seventeen years old. The young man’s eyes were wide with mingled excitement and apprehension. For most of those watching, it seemed an odd match; perhaps a pairing intended to ease him in, or to teach the younger boy a lesson in humility under the watchful eyes of the Enclave’s best. Why would he fight a 12-year-old?

  When the Principal himself took his place on the raised officiating platform, the crowd hushed. His robe of midnight blue whispered in the cold air, silver runes catching the light. Teachers flanked him in a semi-circle, their expressions guarded. Only a few of them—veterans of both magic and politics—knew how carefully this pairing had been chosen. Fewer still understood why there was an undercurrent of tension in the Principal’s sharp gaze as it lingered on John.

  The signal came.

  A single chime from the warded bell suspended over the arena.

  To most watching, what came next was incomprehensible.

  John did not move so much as he vanished. His form blurred, a ripple against the air, and a heartbeat later—less than one second—he was there, standing in front of the startled young man. Only the Principal and a handful of the more seasoned instructors had managed to track the motion at all… and even they were left tightening their eyes against the strain of following such speed.

  There was no flourish, no dramatic attack. Just a single, open-palmed slap.

  Gentle by John’s measure, but in the scale of human strength… it stopped the young man cold. His eyes rolled back, knees buckling as consciousness slipped. And before gravity could claim him, John’s arm was already there, catching him with deliberate care.

  A shimmer of pale golden light flared in John’s palm—Minor Healing, woven as effortlessly as breathing. Bruised nerves soothed, the faint ache of impact washed away before the young man even realized what had happened. The older student stirred, blinking in confusion as if waking from an interrupted nap.

  The Principal’s voice rang out, calm but carrying through the arena:

  “Winner—John.”

  His declaration came barely a second after the bell. In the stands, silence hung for a beat too long. Murmurs rippled first—bewildered, incredulous—until comprehension began to dawn.

  And when it did, the air turned heavier.

  What sort of twelve-year-old could move like that? Could outpace not just peers, but probably also teachers? Could wield the composure of a seasoned duelist while displaying a speed and precision only the long-lived, preternaturally gifted elven warriors were thought to possess?

  Faces pale, voices hushed—some in awe, some in fear. The boy who had returned under Shira’s mentorship was not merely “promising.” He was something else. Something… other.

  And for the first time, many in the Mage’s Enclave wondered if they had invited into their midst not just a prodigy—but a monster in human skin.