When the bell rang again, Luna had survived two more classes—Communication and Math. Both headache-inducing, but at least they were subjects she'd heard of before.

  Stuffed full of lunch and adjusting her jacket, she set off for the training yard—hoping for a light workout—when Trey hooked an arm around her neck and hauled her along.

  "Hey—! Hey!" She clamped both hands on his forearm. "I'm going to the training yard!"

  "Fixed that for you..." He towed her straight toward the pines. "Your training yard today is the front yard. Ermin's putting on a show."

  Luna faltered, picturing the venerable Professor Ermin performing a sword dance on the porch—then shook the image away.

  Surely not.

  Beyond the arch, they saw Ermin cradling a large gold trophy engraved 'Spangley's Cup,' while Abel chalked a wide circle around him. Students claimed every vantage point— the porch rail, the fence line, the grass around the ring.

  "Alright, everyone! Rules are simple!" Ermin rattled the trophy so the slips inside clinked. "I'll draw two names. Step into the circle and fight. First one to step out loses. Winners advance until there's only one champion left." He shook the cup higher.

  "Prize is the Spangley's Cup—don't whine, I'm not done yet! The prize comes with Abel's chocolate chip cookies. Better? Right? Three dozen. So fight your hearts out!"

  At the word cookies, the place erupted. Trey parked Luna beside Francis. She heard him mutter, "Here we go again."

  "You're not joining?" she asked.

  Francis gave the faintest shake of his head.

  "I am, but who do you think does the patching afterward?"

  Ermin tapped the trophy to settle the crowd, then drew the first slip. A ripple of anticipation went round as he boomed:

  "Francis Creek!"

  Silence fell like a dropped curtain.

  Every head swiveled toward the name's owner— worried.

  Francis slid the satchel off his shoulder and stepped into the ring.

  "I can not avoid fighting forever anyway," he said—quiet, but it carried.

  Even Ermin hesitated to pull the second name. His gaze roamed, then he cleared his throat.

  "Ah... I'll take a volunteer."

  The hush stretched, full of fidgeting and throat-clearing— until Blake spoke up, eyes wide with the sane fear of a man who valued breathing.

  "Not happening. I'll take a bear or a wolf, but I'm not laying a hand on the universal treasure."

  "I wouldn't fight him either. What if he cracks— no, what if I crack my bones and he's not there?" Bluebell added.

  Francis pinched the bridge of his nose. "I won't crack. I'm not porcelain. Come on—someone. Fight me."

  Florence, Bluebell's menace of a little brother, raised a hand. "If I... poke him with a stick, does it count?"

  Trey leaned against a post, arms folded, grinning.

  "Outstanding. Not a soul in Pine Hollow dares touch the universal treasure."

  Francis cut him a look. "Trey. You're my roommate. Fight me."

  Hands up in surrender. "Sorry, Doctor Mix-a-lot. If I touch you, they'll kill me."

  The back-and-forth dragged on until Ermin lost patience.

  "If no one volunteers, I will."

  The Pines inhales sharply, in perfect unison.

  "Master... you'll actually hit him?" Bluebell asked.

  "It's practice. He'll live," Ermin said, rolling his eyes.

  "Finally," Francis muttered.

  Ermin fetched two practice swords—edges dulled—and tossed one to Francis. They faced each other. Francis gripped tight, eyes steady.

  "Don't hold back."

  "Wouldn't dream of it," Ermin replied coolly—and the audience instantly tensed. If Francis so much as yelped, half of Pine Hollow looked ready to tackle their own headmaster.

  They began to circle— slow, careful, eyes locked. Then Ermin lunged forward, tip driving in. Francis jerked his blade up—clumsy, but their swords met with a tap.

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  So light it was almost imaginary.

  "Why are you going easy on me?" Francis scowled.

  "I'm not," Ermin said, flicking his sword to nudge Francis's ribs.

  "Master!" That nudge had less weight than him pounding a bit of ginger.

  "Aww, adorable. Even Master Ermin won't smack our resident apothecary," Trey blurted.

  The tip of Ermin's sword turned instantly toward Trey's shin.

  "Ow! Ow! Abuse of power! Abuse of power!"

  Ermin delivered two more taps before slamming the blade down into the dirt. "He's right. I can't hit you. Sit out and eat a cookie."

  "Let him eat!" chorused the Pine Hollow gluttons.

  Francis sighed and stomped over to grab a cookie with terrible dignity.

  "Now," Ermin clapped the dust from his hands and turned to Luna and Abby, huddled together. "Watch closely. This is how we do things here."

  They nodded.

  Chaos resumed as Ermin drew names. Early rounds flew by—blunted swords, knives, axes, even bows from the equipment crate. Some bouts ended inside a minute, others dragged close to half an hour. The peanut gallery was a storm unto itself—clapping, howling, heckling, advising.

  "Are they always this loud?" Luna leaned toward Francis.

  "Every chance they get."

  "Yelling builds morale," Trey declared.

  "Builds headaches," Reid murmured—then had to stand as her name was called.

  "Go easy on me, Reid." said her opponent, Florence Bouquet, doe-eyed, hands raised to show he carried no weapon. From the sidelines, Bluebell screamed herself hoarse.

  "Ready?" Ermin asked.

  "Not really," Florence muttered, scratching his nape. Reid rolled her shoulders and cracked her knuckles.

  At the signal, Florence scooped a palmful of clay marbles from his pocket and whipped them at Reid.

  "Not the face!" Reid snapped as a dozen Quanta-hardened pellets streaked toward her. She slashed both hands, and a wall of flame blossomed in an instant. The incoming shots powdered to dust.

  Florence didn't stop. Reid's firewall was textbook—nothing got through.

  "Ow!"

  Spectators behind her, however, were not so safe. A wild shot flew past the flames and smacked Trey square in the shin. He hiked his trouser leg up to reveal a plum-red bruise.

  "Twice today!"

  Florence faltered, eyes wide. "Sorry! I didn't—"

  Reid took the opening, lofting lazy fireballs that fizzled out before they reached him—her intent, clearly, to herd him over the line.

  "Reid! You're going to roast me?" Florence yelped, ducking the fifth ember.

  Luna bent to examine Trey's leg, worry etched on her face, fishing a tin of bruise balm from her pocket.

  "Does it hurt a lot?"

  Trey studied her, then smirked and popped the tin.

  "The idiot fell off a roof laughing. This is nothing," Francis said.

  "She's worried about me. Don't ruin it," Trey hissed.

  "Hit him pretty good, eh?" Abbey said, craning for a look.

  "Exactly, Abbey," Trey said, batting his lashes at Francis. "At least someone understands my pain."

  In the ring, Reid and Florence kept it friendly—but both wore identical, wicked grins. Florence darted like a rabbit, flinging shots; Reid poured flame until he teetered at the boundary.

  Then— during one long ribbon of fire. Florence dropped low, slapped both palms to the ground. The earth under Reid's boots bucked and heaved like a little hill; she stumbled backward—

  "Out!" Ermin called. "Florence wins!"

  A roar went up—led by Bluebell. Luna suspected these people just liked screaming. Didn't matter who won.

  "And put the ground back," Ermin said, spearing Florence with a look. He touched the dirt again and the lawn settled.

  "His medium...?" Luna asked.

  "Earth. Yep. And you—fire queen—try not to trip again," Trey said as Reid returned, drawing a thumb across her throat at him before dropping beside Francis, whose expression had gone clinical.

  "Hands. Now."

  She rolled her eyes and laid them out. He examined the faint pinkness in her palms and sighed.

  "No blisters."

  "Told you," she said.

  Next up, Trey versus Grant.

  Grant lunged with a staff the instant the bout began. Trey met him with a grin, a blunted sword—and running commentary.

  Clack!

  "Guard up."

  Clack!

  "Too slow."

  Clack!

  "Don't blink or you'll miss the moment I win—oh, too late."

  Clack!

  Grant, motivated by the primal urge not to lose to a motormouth, lasted longer than expected. They traded and turned until Trey finally shoved him out.

  He bowed like a showman soaking in imaginary applause.

  Luna frowned, impressed despite herself. "Wow. He is good."

  "Wouldn't argue," Francis said. "The only problem—"

  "—is his mouth," Reid cut in.

  "Hey! I can hear you," Trey said, hands on hips.

  Bridget popped her head up from the row behind. "And the jokes. Any time, any place. Curse you."

  "But he is funny," Luna said.

  Every head swiveled her way. Even Francis blinked twice.

  "Fan support like that? Guard it with your life, Lancaster," Reid said, thumbing at Luna.

  Trey's grin went nova. "At last—someone recognizes my gift. Number one fan, I'm dragging you to all my shows."

  Luna palmed her forehead. "May I retract my statement?"

  He dropped beside her, hooked her neck, and scruffed her hair into chaos.

  "Too late. You're trapped."

  Next into the ring: Abel versus Bluebell—roars upon roars. Bluebell loved the draw; she'd been waiting forever to crack that polite, perma-smile 'gentleman of the house.'

  Did he just sigh at me? How dare he look annoyed!

  At the signal, she yanked a clay ball from her belt pouch—hands that, somehow, had made a full recovery from yesterday's blisters—and pitched it at Abel standing tall and waiting.

  Difference being: hers weren't pellets. They were bite-size bombs.

  Ten silver rings flashed on Abel's fingers as he traced a circle in the air—like Reid—and a transparent wall shimmered to life, catching the blasts.

  He held it steady, smiling still, eyes dark and unreadable, while Bluebell pelted him again and again.

  He only defended.

  "Fight me properly, grandpa!" she shouted.

  Twenty bombs later, with his smile intact and her temper sparking, Abel let one hand drop.

  A clay ball thumped his chest and— pop!— out burst a cloud of yellow-orange powder that coated all over his face and hair.

  "Ha! Got you with the good stuff!"

  Abel blinked, lashes shedding gold dust. A corner of his mouth curved.

  He huffed a small laugh.

  Nice one, Bouquet.

  Before he could respond, Bluebell took the chance and charged. Abel raised a hand to rebuild the wall—but changed his mind. Her shoulder slammed right into his stomach; he rocked back several steps to keep them both upright.

  "Out! Your heel's over the line!" she crowed, cheeks flushed, laughing breathlessly.

  "Indeed," he said simply, hands still steadying her shoulders. When she'd found her balance, he let go.

  "Oh— You've got something on your face," he added—and with one smooth swipe of his powdery palm, painted her whole face bright yellow.

  One swipe. Full coverage. Infuriating.

  "You—!"

  "Call it even."

  "Wait—" Francis blurted, the realization dawning. "Isn't that my missing turmeric?"

  "It is not! I took it from a jar labeled 'throw away!'" Bluebell shot back, pawing powder from her cheeks before baring her teeth at Abel.

  "It's labeled turmeric!!"