No magick, no elements. Just bone, muscle, and lethal intent.
A nod from the headmaster, and they begin.
Tsvetan flicks out the first strike—a lightning-fast jab aimed at Gavrail’s ribs. It connects with a hard thud, and Gavrail’s shoulders dip on the impact. He inhales sharply, eyes narrowing. But he doesn’t fall back.
He breathes in once—slowly.
Then retaliates.
He drops low, sweeping for Tsvetan’s feet. Tsvetan dodges, coiling away from the sweep, and a knee slams into Gavrail’s side as he rises. A lesser fighter would’ve stumbled.
But not Gavrail.
He shifts, pivots, and strikes.
The room seems to shrink around them, the scrape of bare feet on canvas loud in the silence, every impact echoing sharp against the walls. He moves so fast it’s like trying to capture lightning mid-strike—impossible to see where one move lands before another one begins.
Gavrail comes back with a feint—a straight punch that whistles toward Tsvetan’s guard. Tsvetan bites, throwing up a block.Exactly what Gavrail wants. Gavrail catches him by the forearm and yanks him in close, knee snapping up—too close for Tsvetan to slip—before a devastating hook buries itself in his ribs. The air hisses from Tsvetan’s lungs, and his stance finally falters.
The crowd sees brilliance. I see calculation. That faint tightening of his mouth, as if Tsvetan’s pain was inevitable. As if Gavrail decided the ending long before it began. If last week’s duel proved Tsvetan to be an expert at chess and manipulation, then Gavrail is a grandmaster—knowing precisely how to unmake someone, piece by piece.
Sensing the opening, Gavrail pivots on his lead foot and whips a knife-hand across the side of Tsvetan’s head—ear and jawline—so vicious, it sends a hush through the crowd as Tsvetan’s head snaps back. His eyes glass over for a heartbeat, then sharpen as he jerks his head side to side, like he’s trying to force his vision to steady.
Gavrail steps in, pressing his advantage, strike after strike. Each move looks effortless. He’s not reacting—he’s directing. Controlling the pace. The space.
A jab to the shoulder. A cross to the chest. A brutal front kick to the gut that caves Tsvetan forward with a raw groan?—
—and then Gavrail has him. Wrist trapped, balance stolen. One smooth turn and Tsvetan is airborne for a heartbeat before he slams onto the mat, the impact reverberating through the space. Gavrail follows him down, never letting go.
For a moment, Tsvetan just lies there, sucking air. Gavrail holds the lock until Tsvetan’s hand hovers, then taps twice in quick surrender.
Gavrail releases him instantly and rises, breathing evenly, every muscle coiled but relaxed. A body meant for fighting, and winning.
A hush falls, broken by Headmaster Thorne’s voice: “Gavrail wins. Well fought.”
Whittaker students erupt into cheers. Even the Vikhrostrum delegates allow themselves a quiet nod of respect. Gavrail offers his hand; Tsvetan takes it and pushes to his feet.
It’s clear the Vikhrostrum students hold the edge in pure physical combat—their movements executed with military precision, each strike as deadly as it is flawless, showcasing them as weapons honed to perfection.
Headmaster Thorne steps forward. “We will continue with the next challenger—except I have a surprise for my Whittaker students. I’ve arranged for each Vikhrostrum delegate to now select aWhittakeropponent of their own choosing.”
A ripple of nervous laughter and eager shouts runs through the crowd as some Whittaker students—pulsing with adrenaline—step up to the ring, offering themselves in challenge.
Thorne gestures. “Tsvetan—choose.”
Tsvetan’s dark eyes lock on Noa. He inclines his head once. Noa steps forward, jaw set. The crowd parts for him, whispers trailing, but all I see is the controlled fury in his stride. A charged silence. The look in Noa’s eye is beyond deadly. Ready to pay back Tsvetan for what he did to Finn at the Mountain.
One by one, each delegate selects an opponent. Jazz grins and bounds off to a black mat, squaring up near the gym doors. The room is now divided up into little rings of combat.
Finally, Gavrail stands up next to Headmaster Thorne. Still. Focused. A blade in its sheath. He scans the crowd again.
Until his eyes lock on mine.
A slow, unmistakable smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. Confident. Inevitable. Like he knew exactly where I’d be standing. “Her,” he says, with a slight nod in my direction.
The word slams into me like a strike. My breath catches, a sharp, involuntary sound.
Rozsen’s hand finds my shoulder—steadying. “Breathe,” she murmurs, eyes flicking toward where Noa disappeared with Tsvetan, as if willing him to come back and put a stop to this.
