Dorian’s spear swung hard at Volithur’s face.

  Training took over and Volithur circled his arm around to trap the spear. He stepped in with a head butt, causing Dorian to flinch back. His opponent’s aura prevented any damage, but that had been a secondary goal. Volithur’s primary intention had been to cim the spear, which he managed in the exchange.

  With a flurry of motion, Volithur stabbed and swung at Dorian. The boy’s aura fred brilliantly, demonstrating a complete disregard for energy conservation. At the same time, a dozen cables of energy spun out to knock the spear away.

  Volithur lost his weapon and it went flying past the row of onlookers. He stepped in and began to throw fists at his opponent. The brilliant aura he faced continued to shine, completely stopping every threat. At the same time, cables of energy rose from Dorian like tentacles and shed out.

  Two minutes passed like that, with Volithur tumbled about by a domain that he weakly defended against. He continued to counter every strike with his own attempts until he was a gasping mess, desperate to keep up enough pressure that Dorian wouldn’t lessen his energy expenditure.

  His pn and his ploy were successful. Too successful. Volithur found himself physically exhausted too soon and the constant strikes began to actually hurt. His energy reserves might not be draining so fast as his opponent’s, but Volithur didn’t have as much to waste. His physical exhaustion and emptying energy reserves were a recipe for disaster.

  Dorian flogged him repeatedly with cables, coming close to breaking through his aura. Volithur gasped for air as he repeatedly struggled to rise, only to constantly be sent back to hands and knees. He felt hot all over and ready to empty the contents of his stomach.

  And then it ended. Volithur climbed to his feet with as much effort as if he had climbed a mountain, then looked up to behold a welcome sight. Dorian had run dry.

  The boy scowled at Volithur.

  Step one of his pn had been a rousing success. Dorian had no more energy. Volithur… well, he had a tiny bit of energy. That was great, though. What was step two? In his mind, the next phase was a big ‘to be determined’. Pummel the boy with his fists, maybe?

  No. That was stupid. Volithur retrieved the spear on the ground and took a stance. Dorian gred harder at him. So… attack with the spear? That seemed like the obvious thing to do. Yet Volithur could not help but observe an unfortunate fact: he was physically exhausted and Dorian had barely used his muscles yet. A purely physical fight would likely not go in Volithur’s favor.

  So what was the smart move? Was there one?

  Volithur considered taunting the kid. He obviously had a lot of demons that could be invoked. The borderline disgust Dorian received from his father. The fact that Dorian had been beaten by the Marshal and the Sergeant so many times in the past. The humiliation that would result from losing to a commoner. All of those psychological buttons could be mashed to some effect.

  Concern over how Aramar might react stopped Volithur. Mocking a member of the family could prove more disastrous than losing his ‘test’. What else could he do besides rushing in with his spear? Make funny faces? Leave gas and waft it towards his opponent’s face?

  No. He didn’t need to enrage the boy through mocking. Volithur smiled and drew in chaos, transforming it with an effort of will into power. He did it several times, watching Dorian’s face. Rage faded into confusion. Then came shock. Finally… finally, acceptance.

  The kid had been beaten down so many times by his father that he had internalized the narrative that he was destined to lose and disappoint. Facing the upstart commoner who had drained him of energy and now cultivated at an unbelievable rate, Dorian had accepted his loss.

  In that moment, Volithur struck. He unched himself forward and drove the butt of the spear at Dorian’s face. The boy tripped as he backed away. The follow-up swing of the spear caught him on the side of the head. Dorian flinched and cowered on the ground, hands held over his face.

  Volithur took a dramatic pose, spear raised to stab down. He held it for a moment, then snapped to a position of attention, spear held along his side. He turned to face Master Aramar and bowed. “I hope my performance has been acceptable, Master Aramar.”

  The noble gnced towards his son. “Being better than a dog is a low bar to clear, Ward Harridan. Your second task is to face me for ten seconds. I will use neither weapon nor domain nor aura. You simply have to st the allotted time without surrendering.”

  Volithur began to back away.

  “Spear at the ready, Ward Harridan.” His name dripped with contempt as it came from the mouth of Master Aramar.

  Volithur lifted his weapon and crouched. His eyes darted about, trying to plot how he could evade an opponent for ten seconds. Aramar strode forward arrogantly, counting down. “Ten. Nine. Eight.”

  Volithur backed away, but Aramar leaped forward, closing the distance faster than before. “Seven. Six.”

  He stabbed to maintain the distance and that was the end. One of Aramar’s hands seized the haft of the spear and ripped it free so hard that Volithur lost some skin from his palms. Aramar’s other hand cmped on Volithur’s wrist and squeezed like a vice. “Five.”

  Volithur screamed. His wrist bones snapped.

  “Do you surrender? Four.”

  “Yes!”

  Aramar released his grip and Volithur colpsed to his knees, cradling his shattered forearm to his chest. “How disappointing,” Aramar said. “And especially so for you, Dorian. You lost to this weakling. Well. You defeated Dorian, so I will give you a neutral assessment. In recognition of your great victory… you may have a silver psma elixir. Marshal, ensure every battle-ready soldier is at the staging area an hour before our scheduled departure time.”

  Dorian scrambled to his feet and ran to catch up with his father, who strode away militantly after dropping a vial to the ground like it was trash. The Marshal waited until the nobles were well out of earshot before retrieving the elixir and approaching. He pced the gift into Volithur’s tunic pocket. “The elixir is a trap,” the Marshal whispered. “You cannot perform any body enhancement while your form is structurally compromised. It could cause the damage to become entrenched in your form.”

  Volithur remained hunched over his wounded arm, unable to summon the will to move. “Master Marshal, I don’t think I can fight.”

  “You will be recuperating for at least a month, Ward Harridan. Your body is robust enough that it will heal without so much as a scar, but it will take time at your level. If someone wished to prevent you from associating with the Lord General over the next few days… you understand my intimation? I will take you to the infirmary to have your wrist set and splinted. Then you will be on strict orders to rest until medically cleared. This is without doubt a devastating setback to your training, but it does give you time to cultivate.”

  As focused as he was on preventing any movement of his arm, Volithur hardly noticed his slow walk to the pace infirmary. Reclined on a doctor’s treatment table, he endured the setting of his bones following by a wrapping and splinting. When he finally came back to his senses, Volithur was alone in the infirmary.