"You’re late," the prince said, his voice steady and clipped, eyes locked on them the moment they entered the chamber.
Avin stopped mid-step, meeting the royal’s gaze.
"You going to war?" he asked flatly, taking in the absurd sight before him.
The prince was in full armor.Not the half-polished ceremonial kind nobles wore to look intimidating, but the real thing — heavy, gold-plated, joint-locked battle gear that clanked when he moved. His chestplate caught the light, his pauldrons were etched with intricate filigree, and his boots looked like they could crush stone.
He was tightening the last glove on his left hand while Theo stood behind him, looping leather straps and pulling the chestplate snug.
"I am getting used to it," the prince replied calmly, flexing his fingers once Theo fastened the last buckle.
Avin raised a brow. "Right," he muttered, shaking his head. It was such a ridiculous sight that for once, he didn’t even have the energy to argue. The prince somehow managed to make sense and nonsense coexist in a single sentence, and that alone was exhausting enough.
The prince looked up. "Where is your armor?"
Avin tilted his head, blinking. "I’m not an armor kinda guy," he said casually, rubbing the back of his neck.
He remembered the last time he’d worn one — during that ugly fight with Bram. He could still recall the way the metal plates had dragged against his movements, the awful constriction around his chest every time he tried to breathe or swing his sword. Heavy armor made him feel like he was fighting inside a coffin.
His gaze drifted away from the prince and landed on the princess standing beside him.
She was dressed differently than before — gone were the elegant gowns and royal accessories. Her current attire was lighter, fitted tightly to her frame, clearly designed for combat. Thin leather straps, high boots, flexible fabric reinforced with small patches of enchanted weave. She looked comfortable, dangerous, and ready to move.
Theo finished adjusting the prince’s armor and stepped back, inhaling deeply before addressing the group.
"Let’s gather up, please."
His tone was composed, almost teacher-like. The rest of them obeyed, stepping closer until they formed a loose semicircle.
Theo continued, "This will be our first of two tactical meetings. Today’s session will help us understand each other’s strengths and weaknesses. For if we are to be a team, we must know how to move together — how to interact, react, and complement each other’s abilities."
Avin scanned the group. Everyone was focused. Even the prince had his arms crossed, paying attention.
Theo clasped his hands behind his back. "To begin, we will have short duels with one another — at least half the effort you’d use in a real fight."
Avin blinked. A duel?
He frowned slightly. "Surely we can just tell each other what we’re good at?" he said, his tone half-serious, half-bored.
Both Theo and the prince turned their eyes toward him.
"We must know firsthand," Theo said firmly.
Avin sighed. Of course. He wasn’t convinced it was necessary, but he had to admit — seeing the others fight might actually be useful. There were too many unknowns among them.
He exhaled through his nose, deciding not to push it further.
Theo’s gaze shifted. "The first match-up will be... Sir Avin and Henry."
Henry froze. "Wait, what?"
But before he could protest, Theo clapped once. "Everyone else, please take your seats."
Benches formed along the edge of the arena through a shimmer of magic, and the spectators — the prince, the princess, and Theo — sat down, leaving Avin and Henry alone on the broad, circular stage.
The air seemed to thicken instantly.
Avin sighed, rolling his shoulders as his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. The familiar click of metal leaving its sheath echoed as he drew it slowly, the faint reflection of the arena’s magic light dancing along its blade.
Henry mirrored him, pulling out his own weapon.
"Ah," Avin said, pausing when he noticed the sword. "Didn’t realize you got a new one."
Henry scratched his cheek, smiling sheepishly. "Yeah, I, uh... keep losing these. So I brought a spare."
"I see," Avin replied, lips quirking faintly. He shifted into stance, knees bent, blade angled forward.
Henry, meanwhile, stood awkwardly — his posture uncertain, grip uneven.
Avin remembered the last time they fought side by side, against the hooded man. Henry had barely done anything then. If anything, he’d seemed completely useless. Maybe he wasn’t a fighter. Maybe he was one of those academy students who got in for academic merit or bloodline prestige rather than combat skill.
"This’ll be quick," Avin thought, his lips twitching.
And Henry disappeared.
He twisted around just in time to catch a glimpse of Henry above him — in the air — both hands gripping his sword, descending fast.
Avin reacted instinctively, raising his own sword to block.
The impact thundered through the chamber, the vibration running up his arms. The sheer weight behind the strike drove him down to one knee, dust scattering around his boots.
But Avin’s reflexes were sharper. He shifted sideways, using the enemy’s momentum to redirect the blade. Henry’s sword carved into the ground with a deep metallic screech, slicing a shallow trench through the arena floor.
Avin sprang back, trying to regain footing —
Henry’s sword began to glow — a deep blue luminescence crawling up its edge, seeping like liquid light.
He dragged it through the ground as he swung again, shattering the concrete along its path. The motion was fast — too fast for what Avin remembered Henry being capable of.
Avin barely had time to think. He brought up his sword again, locking the blow mid-swing.
The force was unreal. Even with a perfect block, the shock sent him flying backward, spinning in the air. He landed hard, his boots skidding across the floor, sparks flaring beneath him as metal grazed stone.
He crouched, legs apart for balance, teeth clenched as he dug his heels in and stopped sliding.
The grip on his sword tightened.
A low hum began deep in his chest — the sound of mana stirring.
His heartbeat slowed. His breathing steadied.
"Should stop underestimating people," he muttered, shaking his head.
When he looked up again, his eyes glowed faint crimson.
Across the stage, Henry stood ready, his sword resting on one shoulder, his expression sharper, colder than Avin had ever seen it. There was no trace of that goofy student from earlier — just focus.
Avin smiled faintly. "Alright then."
He drew the sword back, lowering his stance. His left leg slid forward, pressing into the ground for leverage. The air shifted as he poured mana into his weapon.
The blade began to transform.
Blue metal bled through its surface, the edges darkening until the whole sword gleamed — blue and black intertwined, a strange hybrid light that seemed to hum between planes.
The prince’s eyes widened from his seat. "He’s God-folk... but he didn’t chant?" he whispered, astonished.
Theo leaned forward, silent but intrigued.
Avin’s mana pulsed once — and he dashed forward.
Their swords collided mid-charge.
The impact burst with a shower of sparks, the sound echoing across the walls like thunder in a cavern. Both fighters staggered back, but neither fell.
Avin exhaled sharply, using the recoil’s momentum to lift his blade above his head. He swung downward with a growl, channeling raw energy through his arms.
Henry met the strike, crossing his sword horizontally to block. The ground beneath his feet cracked.
The tiles fractured outward from where Henry kneeled, one knee pressed to the stone from the force. The veins in his arms trembled.
Avin’s smile grew. "You’re strong. But you didn’t help me with the hooded guy."
Henry grit his teeth, his jaw tightening.
He pushed up suddenly, sliding his sword from under Avin’s, twisting his body backward, and slashing low toward Avin’s knee.
Avin reacted instantly, leaping back, the blade missing by inches. Henry’s movement carried him upward, and he reset his stance, exhaling sharply. Thıs text ıs hosted at NoveI~Fire.net
"I did help," Henry said, his voice steady, eyes locked on Avin.
He raised his sword again, energy pulsing faintly around its edge.
Avin tilted his head, his smirk fading into something sharper.
The two of them lunged again — steel meeting steel, light flaring bright in the arena. The sound of clashing swords filled the air like a storm, each blow echoing with raw tension, pride, and something neither of them yet understood: the beginning of respect.