Chapter 13: The Rivalries Take Shape
Elaine Verdant massaged her temples, already regretting signing up for the academy.
Healing magic was rare, which meant she was in constant demand. If someone wasn't nursing burns from an overzealous fire mage, they were dealing with cracked ribs from "honorable duels."
And today? Today was a disaster.
"Sit still," she snapped at a noble whose broken nose she was resetting.
The rivalries were getting out of hand. Lucien and Hannelore were practically at each other's throats, Magnus and the royal prince had apparently decided to settle their dominance, and the knight-blooded students were forming their own power plays.
And then there was that one.
Jessica Moran.
Elaine wasn't involved in combat rankings, but she had noticed something unsettling. Jessica had been limping to the infirmary less over the past few days. Her swordsmanship—at first a complete joke—had become dangerous.
It was unnatural.
Magic cripples weren't supposed to get stronger.
Elaine wasn't the only one noticing.
—
On one of the upper terraces, the clash of fire and frost had drawn spectators.
"You look angry, Hannelore."
Lucien grinned as he circled his opponent, flames flickering at his fingertips. Across from him, Hannelore Eisendreich, the infamous Ice Queen, stood poised with her rapier—her movements flawless, yet rigid.
"I don't get angry," she replied coolly.
"Then you won't mind if I win."
His sword burst into flame as he lunged.
Hannelore sidestepped effortlessly, ice coating the ground beneath her. Lucien's blade hissed against her parry, fire and frost clashing as they exchanged blows.
This wasn't just practice anymore. This was personal.
Lucien wanted to break that unshakable composure. Hannelore wanted to prove he never could.
The duel ended in a draw. Neither looked satisfied.
—
Elsewhere on the training grounds, Alistair von Aurelius faced off against Magnus Reinhardt.
Magnus blocked Alistair's sword with an annoying amount of ease.
The royal prince narrowed his eyes. Damn it.
Magnus was strong. Unfairly strong. First-year students weren't supposed to be this monstrous.
Alistair had challenged him because he couldn't accept that.
He stepped back, shifting his stance. Wind gathered at his feet—his family's second element—and he vanished in a burst of speed.
Magnus didn't react.
Alistair swung—fast—but Magnus blocked like he had all the time in the world.
The fight was over before it could begin.
Magnus hadn't even tried.
"...You're not fighting seriously," Alistair muttered.
Magnus shrugged. "Didn't need to."
That pissed him off even more.
—
Closer to the inner courts, two squires clashed under the watch of disinterested instructors.
Edgar Valerius and Roland Gottfried weren't the top of the class, but they were both skilled, disciplined, and fiercely competitive.
Their rivalry was different from the nobles'. It wasn't about politics or family honor—it was about proving who was the better warrior.
Right now, neither could land a hit.
Roland's flame-coated sword clashed against Edgar's lightning-fast footwork, sparks and embers flying as they dueled.
They didn't talk.
They didn't need to.
This fight wasn't about words. It was about who would stand last.
—
From the shaded edge of the field, Callum Fairfax observed everything.
Callum Fairfax didn't fight.
Not because he couldn't—but because he didn't need to.
From the sidelines, he analyzed every move, every rivalry, every dynamic.
Hohenfeld and Eisendreich? A classic elemental opposition, but personal pride drove their battles more than strategy.
Reinhardt and Aurelius? Power vs. technique—the prince was overconfident. Magnus didn't even see him as a threat.
The squires? Honorable, but predictable.
And then there was... her.
Callum's sharp eyes flickered to Jessica Moran.
He didn't care about politics, but he understood patterns.
And Jessica was breaking them.
—
At the edge of the dueling platform, Seraphina von Aurelius remained seated.
She had watched all of today's duels, noting the unspoken rivalries forming.
She had also watched Jessica Moran's progression.
It wasn't talent. It was something worse.
A magic cripple improving this quickly was impossible.
Yet... there she was.
Seraphina didn't know what Jessica was hiding.
But she was going to find out.
—
In the noble observation rows, Cécile de Montfort and Beatrice von Amsberg watched with visible disdain.
Cécile sneered as she watched Jessica fight.
Beatrice rolled her eyes. "Is she seriously using a rapier like that?"
"She fights like a peasant."
Jessica was fast. Too fast. But there was no grace, no refinement—only raw brutality disguised behind delicate footwork.
The nobles watching could barely contain their disgust.
It didn't matter how fast she was.
She was still beneath them.
—
Gideon von Hohenfeld leaned against a balcony railing above the sparring rings.
He had been ignoring the rumors.
But even he had to admit—Jessica Moran was unnerving.
She had no right to be this fast.
And yet, even now, Lucien himself was watching her.
"She's nothing," Gideon muttered. "A magic cripple. She'll plateau."
Lucien's red eyes flickered with something unreadable.
"...We'll see."