The dawn mist curled around the courtyard's marble benches, each stone carved with tutors and scholars long gone. Izen stood at the edge of the training field, feeling the chill settle into his bones. His breath formed thin clouds that drifted away, disappearing as soon as they appeared—like secrets he couldn't hold.
Today, the academy would test them differently. No elaborate illusions. No hidden chambers. Instead, a real person: another student chosen to challenge those of unusual potential. Someone who would test them not just physically, but mentally.
Izen climbed onto the raised platform, joining other selected candidates. The field below was wide and open—a clean stage for a duel. The instructors stood in the shadows, their expressions calm yet measuring. Somewhere against the far wall, the robed figure of the new adversary waited.
When everyone was in place, Master Kellan stepped forward.
"No illusions today," he announced. "You will fight a peer. One who has caused... concern. Each of you must use everything you've learned—strategy, reflex, endurance."
He turned to a tall figure stepping from behind the crowd. The newcomer was a student in a dark crimson uniform—personalized, trimmed with gold. He was familiar, though Izen had seen him only in passing: Silas Draven, noble-born, proud, consistently top of his class. His posture was rigid, face cold.
He carried a blade of silvery steel, etched with his family crest. When he glanced at Izen, their eyes locked. There was no fear—only recognition.
Silas raised an eyebrow. "Shall we begin?"
Izen took a breath and nodded.
Silas moved first. His blade flickered in the morning light, aimed low to provoke a response. Izen ducked, stepping back, feeling the gauntlet hum beneath his sleeve. It wasn't anger I sensed from Silas—it was a challenge. A deliberate one.
Izen closed his eyes for the fraction of a second needed to calm his mind. When he opened them, he saw clearly—not just Silas's immediate motion, but the subtle shift in his stance. He stepped forward, blade slicing across Silas's side… and stopped short of contact.
Silas froze, surprised. "Not enough," he sneered.
"So be it." Izen suited the words with action.
They clashed again, sword ringing on sword. Silas attacked with disciplined precision, jabbing toward Izen's heart before spinning to strike open flesh. Izen parried, the gauntlet responding softly, reinforcing his grip.
Targeting Silas's momentum, Izen sidestepped and aimed for the knee joint. His blade tapped bone, drawing first blood. The field gasped. Silas snarled, but didn't collapse. Instead, he shifted stance and lunged again—this time lower and faster.
Izen braced. The strike would have caught his thigh, but he adjusted mid-motion, twisting his upper body so the blade nicked only cloth. The world slowed around the point of contact. He saw Silas's cheek twitch—another flicker of recognition.
Time snapped forward. Izen moved before the next attack came. A swift thrust to Silas's left shoulder, pushing him backward.
They circled, tension thick on the field. Blood seeped along Izen's blade edge—his own blood—and still he held fast. Each movement mirrored the other: disciplined, clinical, dangerous. But Izen's timing had shifted. The soft hum from the gauntlet increased.
Silas lunged again—fast, precise, nearly lethal. Izen intercepted, pressing forward, using his opponent's rhythm to guide each deflection. Before Silas could adjust, Izen pulled him off-balance and disarmed him.
Silas stumbled, blade clattering to the stone. He reached to his side, only to find Izen's dagger at his wrist.
Silence stretched across the field.
Silas's chest heaved. He looked from the knife to Izen's face—no triumph, no ire. Just quiet determination.
Master Kellan stepped onto the field. "Enough," he ordered. "That concludes the trial."
Izen released his hold and stepped back. Silas straightened, yanking his blade free.
"I didn't expect that," Silas said quietly. "Not from you."
Izen didn't answer.
After the crowd dispersed, Izen remained on the platform. The taste of his own blood lingered in his mouth. Silas approached, stopping a few feet away—not with hostility, but purpose.
"You have... skill," Silas said, voice low. "And something else."
Izen's grip tightened on his dagger.
Silas continued: "What you did today… that edge wasn't born of training. It's... unusual."
"That's the point," Izen replied. "I'm not ordinary."
Silas nodded once, considering. Then he looked past Izen at the empty platform. "You'll kill someone with that someday," he said bluntly. "Could be you. Choose carefully."
With that, he walked away. Izen watched him go, face unreadable.
Later that evening, the sun was setting when Mira found Izen near the armory door. She approached quietly, eyes studying his expression.
"Silas?" she asked softly.
Izen nodded. "He got cut pretty deep—and talked about more than just the fight."
Mira studied him. "Is that a problem?"
He paused. "He saw... something. I don't want him to be a problem either."
She offered a small smile. "Best to have potential allies—even unlikely ones. But watch him."
Izen nodded. He was thinking not just of Silas, but of the edge he'd tipped during the fight—the timing, the slow-motion awareness. It was no longer accidental; a fragment of control had emerged.
"I know," he said quietly.
That night, the academy was silent except for distant guards pacing the halls. Izen crept toward the courtyard—the one with the ancient iron ring—seeking that weight of legacy, that intangible pull of power.
He sat cross-legged in the center of the ring, the air cool around him. He removed his jacket and shifted the gauntlet to his uncovered arm. The metal was cool, familiar. He closed his eyes.
He breathed in slowly, counting to four. Held for four. Breathed out. Held. The rhythm matched the pulse beneath the metal.
Then—just for a heartbeat—he reached deeper.
Time slowed. Not completely. Just enough that the ring's rusted edges shimmered in slow arcs. His heartbeat slowed. His mind focused. The hum within the gauntlet grew warmer, brighter—and then faded as he pulled back.
He opened his eyes.
No grand spectacle. No sound. The world carried on. But inside him, something had shifted.
He stood.
Morning came with chill light filtering through the trees. The academy's courtyard was quiet, but Izen arrived early, not for drills but for demonstration. At the armory, Silas was already waiting—organized and watchful.
"Want to spar?" Silas asked quietly.
Izen hesitated a moment. "All right."
They moved to an empty training area. Izen flexed the gauntlet-covered hand and drew his dagger. Silas retrieved the silver blade of his own.
The fight began.
But this time, Izen fought not to win, but to test himself. He watched every shift in the air, every breath, every blink. Silas struck with disciplined strikes, but Izen answered with controlled rhythm. The gauntlet hummed with every connection.
Mid-fight, Silas lunged and feigned left—real feign. Izen anticipated it—precognitively. He ducked under and swept the dagger across Silas's arm. Blood spurted. Pain flared bright.
Silas staggered, gripping the wound. "Okay…" he said, voice strained. "You're different."
Izen ended the fight with a disengage and stepped back.
"I'm just practicing," he replied, voice steady.
Silas nodded, pain and respect in his eyes. "Next time... don't hold back."
Later, in the training hall, instructors evaluated sparring sessions. Izen and Silas stood side by side, informal partners. They practiced drills, timing their attacks and parries. Each clash sharpened awareness—not just for Izen, but for Silas too.
They fell into a strange rhythm together—rivals and collaborators, each pushing the other to refine their strengths.
Izen began to understand what the academy meant by power progression—not just stronger arms, but sharper minds.
By dusk, Izen withdrew to the courtyard again. The gauntlet glowed faintly beneath the fading light. He felt control—not full power, but a step closer.
He breathed deeply, recalling laughter, pain, regret.
He would not stop.
Because within the quiet ring of iron, he had found direction.