Tsvetan has been playing chess, not checkers.
A crack sounds as red light spills through thin, spiderwebbing fractures in the stones below them, and the air pulses with sudden heat. The oxygen begins to creep back in, sucked greedily into the vacuum Finn just made.
And just like that—everything ignites.
Flames erupt in a spiral pattern from the earth below him that Finn didn’t see coming, snaring his path and trapping him mid-stride. Fire coils up around his legs, searing-hot and fast. His wind falters as his panic flares. He tries to leap out with a gust of wind, to twist away—but the fire only surges higher, burning across his legs and pulling him back in like a snare.
There is a sharp, sickening crack as Finn hits the ground hard, smoke curling around him. His left arm lies at an irregular angle at his side. He doesn’t cry out, but his eyes squeeze shut in pain.
“Enough!”
Professor Stroud’s voice slices through the magick-thick air. The flames die in an instant, as if snuffed out by a god’s breath. The silence that follows is worse than the noise.
Rozsen is the first to move. She breaks past the perimeter line without permission, barely seeming to register the shouted protests. Her knees hit the ground beside Finn, frantic. Noa and I are close behind her.
“Finn, hey—hey. Look at me,” she murmurs, brushing singed curls from his forehead. Stroud and Professor Neris are downbeside him in an instant, taking stock of the damage in clipped, hushed voices.
“I’m fine,” he lies through a wince. “Just… dramatic flare. Get it? Flair? Flare?” He tries to smile—then sucks in a breath as Neris’s hands find the worst of it. His shoulder sits wrong, arm shaking as he tries to shift. He draws another breath and chokes on a groan. Rozsen tries to roll her eyes at his attempt at humor, but I can see the worry in her face. She goes quiet, staring at his injuries—like if she looks hard enough, she can undo them.
Stroud’s gaze flicks over Finn, fast and grim. “Shoulder’s dislocated. Possible rib fractures. The burns…” His mouth tightens. “Madame Ching will deal with those.”
“I should’ve seen it,” Finn finally mutters, voice hoarse. “He baited me. Played me.”
“You don’t always have to win, Finn,” Rozsen says softly, barely audible over the dying wind.
“Thought I had him,” Finn mumbles, voice raw.
Rozsen swallows, reaching for his hand. “You just had the wrong game.”
Stroud interrupts. “We need to get him to the infirmary.”
“I’ve got him,” Noa says quickly, sliding an arm beneath Finn’s shoulders, his eyes daring anyone to argue.
As they help him to his feet, Finn winces, face going shock-white, leaning into Noa as they guide him out of the circle.
Behind us, the arena stays quiet—no cheers, no whistles. Only scorched earth and the ugly truth: these aren’t matches. They’re lessons.
Whittaker. Vikhrostrum. Different crests, same purpose—to create soldiers.
And maybe one day we won’t meet on an arena at all.
Maybe we’ll face each other across a battlefield, with no one there to stop the bleeding.
CHAPTER 27
Some holds are meant to subdue. Others are meant to test how long one chooses not to submit.
—Combat Theory I: Foundations of Defense
The Training Room falls silent as the Vikhrostrum delegates file in. The rows of polished wooden bleachers have been pushed back, revealing an elevated platform with a thick tan sparring mat at its center. Radiating out are the black rectangular training mats that have been moved into a pattern like spokes of a wheel.
Whittaker students press in around the perimeter—close, curious, and tense. The collective body heat and tang of iron from the stacked weights in the corner is a sharp contrast to the icy-cold wind tapping at the windows above.
At the front, Headmaster Thorne stands between two Vikhrostrum students: Gavrail and Tsvetan. I swallow, my eyes tracing the way light glances off the lines of his forearms. Thesilver in his eyes cuts brighter today as he scans the room—restless, searching. For something. Or maybe someone.
Thorne addresses the gathered crowd. “The Vikhrostrum delegates have agreed to a showcase of sorts, to share with us some of their combat training and tactics from their own school. We are honored with the chance to learn from and observe them in action.”
The two friends enter the ring and bow to each other. Tsvetan’s stance is impossibly still, feet shoulder-width apart, relaxed, eyes hooded. But Gavrail—he looks like he was born for this. Shoulders coiled, ready. A weapon waiting to be drawn. Controlled tension held beneath the sharp planes of muscle. Like shadow folded into flesh. He cracks his neck with slow precision.
