Battle raged beyond the closed gate. Swords clashed, spells flew, and the audience clamored. The last mock battle of the day reached its peak.

In the dimly lit tunnel leading into the arena, Jon waited in a line along with seven other students. Like himself, they were all first-year students who had been defeated on the fourth day. Some of the faces were familiar such as Rina, a mild-mannered woman who sits two rows in front of Jon during Basic Spell Theory, or Darrik, a quick-footed man who Jon once sparred against after Bella became an Archmage.

Neither of them captured so much of Jon’s attention as Garrel, though. Inside a black armor of similar design to Jon’s, the nobleman stood at the front of the line. They were the only two mages at this stage of the competition, so they needed triotium for protection against spells.

After reaching a peak, the sounds of battle gradually began to die down. It should be ending soon, Jon thought. If he had to guess, Evelyn Olsandre and her soldiers would come out on top. The duke’s daughter was apparently quite talented at commanding troops, having won all other battles in the tourney up until then.

Jon tapped his feet, anxiously waiting for the single duels to begin. Tylan Lowther, his opponent, stood behind Garrel with both arms crossed. He wore a sturdy-looking red brigandine, the same color as the plume attached to the top of his sallet.

Compared to when he was about to fight Bella, Jon felt more confident. Tylan was only a first-level Crusader, which left him at a disadvantage. In fact, he only managed to come this far thanks to his talent with spells. Unfortunately for Tylan, his only affinity was with the element of fire, which could do little against triotium.

Casting spells near the metal was impossible given its disruptive effect on the flow of mana. Tylan could send a jet of fire from far away, but it would quickly lose power as it approached Jon.

A wave of applause sounded from the arena. That, combined with the gates opening, signaled the end of the mock battle. A mass of people funneled into the narrow tunnel, most of them too old to be part of the academy.

The mock battles allowed non-students to take part as long as they were neither Paladins nor Warlocks, and they needed to be commanded by an actual student.

The men and women were separated into two sets of colors. The first wore orange and green, Olsandre colors, while the second had blue and black instead. Trailing behind the group was a stocky man with a deep frown on his face and a blue stripe cutting through his black cuirass. He was followed by a contrastingly slender Olsandre woman. Her fire-colored hair flowed freely past her shoulders, and her face was sprinkled with tiny freckles and splattered blood.

“Don’t be sad, Anton,” her cheerful voice echoed through the tunnel. “You put up a good fight this time.”

Jon looked back to the passing soldiers and struggled to find more than a handful of injuries on the Olsandre side. This contrasted with their opponents who, more often than not, were either bleeding or walking with a limp. It had been anything but a close battle.

Anton and Evelyn continued walking. As the two passed by the waiting students, the duke’s daughter nodded to the noble ones, which was everyone but Jon. Although she didn’t address him directly, Evelyn locked eyes with Jon a moment too long for comfort and he could swear he saw the hint of a smile on her face.

She neither spoke nor stopped walking, leaving Jon to wonder what was that about.

Soon after the arena being emptied, the eight students were brought in. Other than four large circles, the sands were completely undisturbed. Jon and Tylan stood on opposite sides, waiting for the duke’s signal. When it finally came, Tylan took to running. He arrived with a swing aimed at Jon’s helmet, who answered in kind. Their blades clashed and locked together.

Jon pulled his arms back, allowing Tylan’s sword to awkwardly connect with his shoulder. The joint, already repaired after the duel with Bella, held strong, allowing Jon to focus on counter-attacking. He slashed from the left, striking Tylan in the torso. The blade cut through a heavy layer of cloth and stopped at the metal plate underneath.

Tylan staggered backward from the blow. Before Jon could follow through on the initial attack, Tylan raised his free arm and summoned forth a stream of fire towards his opponent’s head.

Jon stopped in his tracks, not because the fire might harm him but because it blocked his vision. In fact, the fire lost power as soon as it approached the triotium armor, meaning he could withstand the spell without breaking a sweat.

When the spell died out, Tylan had already regained his footing. Jon jumped forward and swiped broadly, his blade drawing a wide arc. Noticeably fazed after their first clash, Tylan refrained from attacking and focused on defending himself.

Not willing to let the duel turn into a battle of attrition, Jon held his sword in one hand and stabbed low. Tylan slashed down to deflect the blow, leaving himself exposed. Jon’s offhand delivered a vicious punch to Tylan’s temple, who was once again knocked back. Dazed and desperate, he summoned another stream of fire, this one large enough to engulf Jon in normal circumstances.

Jon could rush straight in, but that would mean losing sight of his opponent. An unnecessary risk. So instead, he sprinted around it. Tylan had barely recovered when Jon fell upon him, chopping down with as much strength as he could muster. The blade connected with Tylan’s shoulder and the man fell down to one knee. He tried to stand back up, but the sword was already coming down again. It struck the red plume atop his helmet, cutting it off.

Both the plume and Tylan collapsed, unmoving. Jon considered striking again, just to be sure.

A good three paces in front of him, the sands shifted and a man in earth-brown robes rose from beneath. His voice was firm. “Contestant Tylan Lowther has been defeated. Step back.”

Jon didn’t argue. There was no reason to. He retreated to where his armor wouldn’t prevent Tylan’s unconscious body from being carried down.

***

High above in the air, clouds moved and a few rays of light managed to pierce through. Jon hoped it to be a good omen. He gripped the sword’s hilt only to release it and then grip it again as he waited for the duel to start.

Maybe because these were the duels that would decide the two last spots for the King’s Tourney, the duke found it wise to deliver a speech. He congratulated the four students for getting this far, wished them good luck, and also found time to a few praises to himself and his family.

Jon studied his opponent for the hundredth time. Sabas stood only a couple of inches shorter than himself. Other than a somewhat large visor slit, he showed not an inch of skin under the bulky, grey plate. He was a third-level Crusader, meaning that Jon wouldn’t have the same physical advantage as the previous duel.

Fortunately for Jon, Sabas too had a bad spell affinity to use against triotium: Lightning. The most destructive of the seven elements was also the least versatile. Its spells often resumed to either a lightning bolt or a bigger lightning bolt. This made it useless for the current duel.

The duke finally ended his speech and signaled the two duels to start. The audience exploded into a cacophony of cheers, louder than Jon had ever heard from them.

Sabas held an engraved greatsword in both hands, its tip so low that it almost touched the sands as he walked. The two of them took deliberately slow steps towards one another until they were on striking range. Having the advantage in reach thanks to his larger weapon, Sabas took the initiative and swiped slow and wide at Jon’s torso, who easily jumped back to avoid it.

Jon moved closer, ready to attack. Sabas stepped forward and swiped from the opposite direction, much faster this time. Caught by surprise, Jon had no choice but to block the attack. He held the blade to his side, directly in the path of Sabas’ weapon. The greatsword lost most of its momentum knocking the smaller sword out of the way and only came to a stop after a dull thud against the plate.

A cheap trick, Jon concluded. A cheap trick and I almost fell for it. Anger boiled inside of him and he realized this must be how Bella felt.

Before Sabas could pull his weapon back, Jon hugged the blade with his left arm, pinning it against his own body. From there, he proceeded to treat his own sword like a heavy stick and battered Sabas’ helmet.

At first, the nobleman used his left hand to protect himself while the right one tried, unsuccessfully, to yank his weapon free. Realizing that his efforts were being in vain, Sabas soon stopped defending himself so he could use both hands to pull. Jon landed two good hits to his helmet before he finally managed to set the weapon free.

Sabas jumped back to create some space. Jon immediately closed the distance, slashing from the left and right to keep up the pressure. Jon soon found himself panting for air as he maintained the sequence of attacks. His opponent had it even worse thanks to the bulky armor and heavy greatsword.

Sabas’ movements turned more sluggish with each passing moment, and opportunities to end the duel began to pile up. An overextended arm after a block. A gap underneath his arm protected only by mail and worn-out leather. A weak grip that would lose hold of the weapon after a strong enough strike.

Jon ignored them all. As far as he knew, these could all be baits to get him to overcommit. Besides, time was on his side and he didn’t care how long it took to win.

Maybe out of desperation, or maybe because he gave up on trying to bait Jon, Sabas stopped defending himself and went on the offensive. He shrugged off a blow to his side and did an overhead swing that narrowly missed its target before digging into the sand.

Jon kicked the blade, and Sabas immediately let go of it before tackling him. Air escaped his lungs as his back hit the ground. Sabas tried to get on top, and Jon hit him in the helmet with the sword’s pommel. Once, twice. Sabas tried to grab the sword. Jon hit him again and then thrust with the hips to buck him off. The two rolled over and traded positions so that Sabas has his back against the ground. Jon pressed one knee to the nobleman’s arm while his offhand held the other one.

“You lost. Yield,” Jon ordered.

Sabas struggled to break free, trying everything he could to push Jon away.

Jon hit him again, and the helmet’s metal dented. The better positioning allowed him to strike with all of his strength. Sabas continued to struggle, making it hard to stab into the small slit of his visor. Pommeling was the easier option, and that’s what Jon chose.

“Say it!” he yelled. One word. One single word was all that stood between Jon and his goal. He wouldn’t stop before hearing. “Fucking. Say. It!” Each word was punctuated by another strike. Blood leaked from inside the crooked mess of a helmet. Sabas finally slurred something, and Jon had to pause to hear it. He kept the bloodstained pommel poised to resume the beating. “What did you say? Repeat it.”

“I thaid I yield,” he lisped between sobs. “Yield. Pleath thtop.”

Jon immediately jumped back to his feet, partly out of excitement and partly so that Sabas could be carried into the underground for healing.

He had won.

The cacophony of applause that ensued sounded like the sweetest melody. It felt like a heavy weight would soon be lifted off his shoulders. It didn’t matter if he won or lost tomorrow. He had achieved what he set out to do in the tourney.

Still, out of pure curiosity, Jon turned to the other side of the arena where the second ring was placed. The other duel had just ended.

A woman in silver-colored armor limped away with her head down, defeated. The victor stood at the center of the ring, hands on his hips and staring back at Jon. His face was hidden under the helmet, but the black triotium armor left no doubts about his identity.

After all, only one Mage other than Jon had managed to get this far in the tourney.

Jon’s lips parted into an evil grin. Maybe he could still get that cherry after all.