Chapter Seven - Convergence

  Lucan moved through the forest, his steps lighter now that he had weapons in hand. The short sword hung at his side, unfamiliar but functional. He had trained with swords before, but never by preference. He thrived on speed, precision—on having a dagger in each hand, striking before his opponent could react. This blade was heavier, slower. It didn’t feel like an extension of himself.

  The dagger he had taken from the fallen swordsman sat comfortably at his waist. Not the same weight, not the same balance. But it would do. For now.

  The stolen relic pulsed faintly inside his belt pouch—a hard-won prize. He had taken a hit. He had lost his daggers, his relics, and nearly drowned.

  But he wasn’t out.

  His body still ached from the river’s beating. Every step sent a dull throb through his ribs where the spearman’s attack had nearly knocked the breath from him. His fingers were stiff from gripping wet stone, his shoulders sore from the desperate scramble onto the riverbank. He should have stopped. Should have rested.

  But he couldn’t afford to stay still.

  He had no idea where Vecht and Alura were. No way to know if they had escaped Dain’s ambush, if they were injured, if they were looking for him.

  And worse—he wasn’t sure who else was looking for him.

  His name had been on the Academy’s roster long enough for people to know how he fought. That meant his reputation alone could work against him.

  Lucan Vale, the fast one. The unpredictable one. The one who never got caught.

  He moved parallel to the river, staying just within the trees. The water had taken him far, farther than he could estimate, but instinct told him to stick close.

  Vecht and Alura weren’t the type to abandon a teammate. If they had any clue where he had gone, they’d be searching for him along the river’s edge.

  Lucan’s breathing remained steady, but his senses stayed sharp. The deeper he moved into the forest, the more aware he became of the unnatural stillness.

  No birds. No distant fighting. No voices.

  Just the rhythmic pulse of the river and the occasional rustle of wind through the branches.

  Something was out there.

  His grip tightened around the short sword’s hilt.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Then—he saw tracks.

  Lucan crouched, eyes dropping to the disturbed earth beneath him.

  The damp soil near the riverbank made the prints clear.

  Two sets. Not his. Fresh.

  They weren’t fleeing from a fight. They weren’t tracking someone in a hurry.

  They were moving with purpose.

  Lucan exhaled slowly, heartbeat a steady drum in his ears.

  He wasn’t alone.

  He followed the tracks cautiously, keeping his own movements light. They weren’t difficult to read—whoever these two were, they weren’t moving blindly. They were hunters, not wanderers.

  Lucan adjusted his grip on the short sword as he pushed deeper into the trees, following their path. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe he was the only one capable of tracking in this exam. There were students who specialized in this kind of thing—patient, methodical types who waited for their opponents to make the first mistake.

  That meant if these two really were after him, they were counting on catching him before he noticed.

  Lucan smirked to himself.

  Too bad.

  He caught sight of them just as the forest thinned ahead.

  Two figures, moving in tandem, their postures sharp, controlled.

  The first fighter was lean and wiry, his frame built for agility. He carried a curved sword at his hip, his fingers brushing the hilt absentmindedly as he walked. His stance suggested a quick, reactive fighter—someone who struck fast but efficiently.

  The second was stockier, his broad shoulders and sturdy stance hinting at a more defensive approach. A longsword hung at his side, and a shield was strapped across his back, the leather worn but well-maintained. Unlike his companion, his gaze stayed focused on their surroundings, sweeping for movement.

  He adjusted course, circling to the side, careful to keep his distance. Now to find out if they really knew what they were doing.

  Lucan moved with deliberate slowness. Not rushing and not reckless. Stalking.

  They were good—better than the last group. Their steps were quiet, their pace controlled. They weren’t moving at random. They had a target.

  Lucan just wasn’t sure if that target was him.

  To test them, he adjusted course, keeping his movements careful, circling wide to see if they reacted.

  They did.

  Which meant they knew someone was nearby.

  Lucan slowed, keeping to the shadows of the thick pines, controlling his breathing.

  Then—

  The two fighters stopped.

  Lucan frowned slightly, lowering himself behind a thick tree. Why?

  They weren’t hesitating.

  They weren’t looking around.

  They were expecting something.

  Realization clicked into place.

  They think I’m walking right into them.

  Lucan’s smirk crept back. That was interesting.

  They had positioned themselves for an ambush—one stepping into the open with a longsword and shield, the other lingering back with a curved sword at his hip.

  They were waiting for him.

  Lucan’s grip tightened on his stolen short sword.

  Let’s see how good you really are.

  Lucan adjusted his approach, keeping low. He wasn’t walking into a trap. He was studying it.

  He watched the way they stood—the slight tension in the shield fighter’s stance, the way the swordsman shifted his weight every few seconds.

  They were patient. Disciplined. Smart.

  If Lucan charged, the shield fighter would block, the swordsman would move for a flank. He’d be outmatched in seconds.

  The best option? Make them move first.

  Lucan adjusted his footing, preparing to shift directions at the last second—

  Then—

  A rustle in the trees behind them.

  Lucan stilled. His gaze flicked beyond the two fighters.

  Two more figures.

  Moving with purpose.

  Could it be Vecht and Alura?

  Lucan exhaled sharply, a slow grin spreading across his lips.

  Well.

  This just got interesting.