Ari walked through the camp gates in silence.
The morning air was sharp, cutting through the mist like truth through a lie. Yet all around him, voices fluttered like dead leaves—whispers that made no effort to hide.
"That's him. The one who came back from the dead."
"I heard he killed Kael without flinching."
"They say he's cursed. That's why the King won't touch him."
"I wouldn't spar with him even if they paid me."
He kept walking.
His boots pressed against the dirt path, heavy with silence. Not once did he look at them. Not once did he offer a glance. That was what they wanted—acknowledgement, or fear. He gave neither.
Behind him, he could hear one of the bolder heirs laughing.
"Look at him. All quiet like some brooding hero. Probably scared we'll break him in half if he tries something again."
The others chuckled, though none of them laughed as confidently as they used to.
When Ari reached the center of the yard, he dropped his satchel, stood alone, and began stretching. Not a word. Not a flinch. His silence was a blade all its own.
---
Soon, the blaring horn summoned them to the main training circle. Dozens of heirs gathered, forming loose rings. Most kept a distance from Ari, watching him like a wolf in the pen.
The instructors arrived in full armor—led by Captain Edric Vale, a veteran of the Southern Purge and commander of the elite Battle-Mage Division.
His voice cut through the murmurs like a war horn.
"Today marks a new phase of the Trial of Heirs. You've proven endurance. You've shown control."
He paused, surveying them.
"Now you'll prove intent."
The heirs tensed. A few exchanged nervous glances.
"You will spar—not in pairs of choice, but assigned. You will be watched, judged, scored. And in the circle, there are no ties. You win, or you fall."
He turned.
"First match. Ari Calvarin. Versus Valen Calvarin-Darros."
A few groans and surprised whistles rang out.
Valen.
The heir of House Darros—one of the wealthiest noble families in Vaelora, second only to the royal bloodline. Valen was tall, broad-shouldered, and had always strutted through the camp like he owned the soil itself. His elemental affinity was wind, and he wielded a storm as easily as most men held a dagger.
He stepped forward with a smirk, his short blond hair tousled by the breeze that curled around his fists.
"Finally," Valen said, drawing his thin curved blade. "Let's see what the 'that rat' is made of."
Ari stepped into the ring. No expression. No reply.
Just quiet, steady breath.
---
The whistle blew.
Valen moved first—fast. A gust of wind coiled around him like armor as he dashed to the left, sword gleaming. His movements were elegant, refined—perfect form born from a privileged life.
He swung.
Ari blocked it. The force of wind behind the strike pushed him back a step, but he planted his foot, grounded.
Valen leapt again, summoning twin blades of compressed wind that shot toward Ari.
Ari ducked, rolled, and advanced.
His eyes never left Valen.
The crowd began to cheer—not for Ari, but for the show Valen was putting on. Sparks of magic. Flashy spells. Twirls and smirks.
Then Valen said something under his breath.
"Time to kill this mistake."
He raised his hand—and the air exploded.
A violent cyclone surged forward, aimed not to disarm—but to rip Ari apart.
Gasps filled the training yard. Even the instructors shouted, "Enough!"
But it was too late.
The spell hit.
Dust clouded the entire ring.
Silence.
Then—steel slicing wind.
The cyclone split open—
And Ari emerged.
Blood streaked his cheek. His shirt was torn. But his sword was intact, and his eyes burned with a focus so cold it froze the air around him.
He moved.
Too fast for Valen to react.
One slash knocked Valen's blade aside.
The next hit his chest—sending him flying backward.
Before Valen could recover, Ari was already behind him.
He grabbed the noble by the collar and slammed him into the dirt. Hard.
Valen coughed blood.
"No flashy spells now?" Ari muttered, voice like gravel.
The crowd stared, stunned.
Ari raised his sword—and this time, there was no hesitation.
He slammed it down— just inches from Valen's neck.
The blade bit into the dirt. Valen flinched, frozen in fear.
Silence.
Even the wind dared not move.
Ari leaned in, close enough for Valen alone to hear.
"If you ever aim to kill me again," he said, "I'll make sure yo'll die, and next time, I won't leave witnesses."
Then he stood, pulled his blade from the ground, and walked out of the circle.
No instructor stopped him.
No one dared speak.
---
Later that evening, the whispers returned.
But they were different now.
Quieter. Uneasy. Reverent.
"He doesn't even have magic..."
"Valen almost pissed himself..."
"He could've killed him. He chose not to."
"He's... terrifying."
And in the shadows, among the guards, two magic knights exchanged glances.
One of them muttered, "That boy… he's going to change everything."