A rare breeze drifted through the open courtyard of the student sanctum — not conjured, not artificially cycled — but real, crisp wind from the mountains beyond. It rustled through the grove of whiteleaf trees, sent glimmers across the fountain's surface, and tugged at the loose ends of robes worn too casually for formal training.
Dawn leaned back on the grass, arms crossed behind his head, eyes half-closed as he watched the clouds shift lazily in the sky he had once mirrored deep beneath the academy. Somewhere below, his forbidden realm churned and twisted, but up here… peace.
Ingrid sat cross-legged nearby, a faint hum surrounding her as sparks of pale gold energy danced between her fingers. Every now and then she winced as the motes crackled against her skin.
"You know," she muttered, not looking up, "there's something mildly concerning about testing volatile energy circuits on yourself."
"Concerning," Gary echoed dryly, "is one way to put it. Insane is another."
Ingrid rolled her eyes. "Spoken like someone who thinks punching a boulder into submission is a valid training regimen."
Gary, lounging against the bark of a whiteleaf, tilted his head. "It worked, didn't it?"
Dawn chuckled. "You lost the gauntlet."
Gary glanced at his hand, now gloved in a faint gleam of Origin Light — the Gauntlet of Resolve. "Gained something else."
Ingrid narrowed her eyes. "Not your sanity, that's for sure."
Dawn sat up, brushing stray grass off his tunic. "You two bicker like siblings. I'm starting to feel like the awkward cousin who showed up uninvited."
Gary smirked. "You're always invited. You just happen to come and go like a ghost king."
"Ghost emperor," Ingrid corrected. "Let's at least give him a proper title."
"Oh, please," Dawn said, grinning faintly. "If I were emperor, I'd at least mandate siestas."
A comfortable silence followed. The kind that only came when people trusted each other enough not to fill the quiet.
Gary pulled a flask from his belt — not wine, but chilled springwater. He offered it to Dawn, who took a sip before tossing it to Ingrid. She caught it with a quick flick of kinetic energy and drank with a graceful tilt of her head.
"You know," Gary said after a pause, his voice low, "sometimes I wonder how long this lasts. This… stillness."
Dawn didn't answer immediately. His eyes followed a flock of silverbeaks passing overhead.
"Not long," he said at last. "But long enough to matter."
Ingrid nodded. "That's why we sharpen our blades during peace. So that when war comes, we don't break."
"And when the war's not of swords but pride?" Gary asked, eyes shadowed.
Ingrid opened her mouth, but someone else answered.
"You break pride instead."
The voice came from behind them.
Elias Dunheart.
The silence snapped like thin ice.
He strode into the clearing like he owned the sky. His robes were a shade too perfect, hair swept back like a statue come to life. Twelve halos shimmered behind him — not active, but present. A silent chorus of celestial affirmation.
"Well, well," he said, voice oiled with pleasant venom. "Is this the famed trio of the expedition? What a delight."
Gary stood slowly. Not hostile, not deferent. Just upright.
"Elias," he said. "Didn't realize you'd lowered yourself to mingle with us lesser stars."
Elias's smile sharpened. "Oh, I'm here for one star in particular."
His eyes settled on Gary, and the air grew heavy.
Dawn didn't move. His gaze, unreadable. Ingrid's fingers glowed faintly.
"A friendly spar," Elias continued, hands spread innocently. "To showcase what a forged set of marks can do. After all, Gary's just achieved his, hasn't he? I thought… what better way to welcome him into the fold."
No one believed the words for a second.
But the trap had been sprung. The challenge made public.
And across the grove, students were already gathering — drawn by the weight of names, by the scent of battle in the breeze.
---
The courtyard transformed. Circles of students formed instinctively around the two figures. Some leaned in with excitement. Others whispered in hushed tones. A few — veterans — exchanged knowing looks. They knew Elias didn't "spar." He humiliated.
The two stepped into the open. No ceremony. Just purpose.
Elias's twelve marks flickered into being — some like burning sigils etched in air, others whispering illusions of grandeur. He wielded no weapon of sovereigns, but one of cruelty — a razor-thin blade of twilight origin light, curved and fast as a lie.
Gary stood tall, calm. The only visible glow was the faint shimmer of his lone mark — the Gauntlet of Resolve. A lesser man might have quivered. Gary met Elias's smirk with silent defiance.
The first blow was a blur.
Elias vanished — reappeared mid-air — then struck. His blade met Gary's arm, redirected by a sudden shimmer of energy as Gary raised his gauntlet instinctively. The recoil sent Gary skidding backward, heels grinding dirt.
The crowd gasped. But Gary didn't fall.
He came back swinging.
A hammering straight punch. A follow-up elbow. An earth-bound stomp to send debris into Elias's face.
Elias ducked, sidestepped, and retaliated with cruel precision. Cuts bloomed across Gary's side, his shoulder. Blood. But he didn't yield.
Minutes stretched.
Gary fell.
Got back up.
Fell again.
Wiped blood from his eye and rose again.
The ground cratered with every exchange. The air burned with stray marks. One of Elias's blade marks cracked a nearby statue; another sliced through a tree trunk — yet Gary stood firm, bruised but unbending.
He didn't speak. He didn't roar. He just fought.
The audience, initially entertained, began to quiet. Something changed.
Elias struck again — a combination meant to finish it. But Gary raised his arm — slower now, but deliberate — and caught the blow on his gauntlet. The Gauntlet of Resolve flared, golden lines streaking across its surface.
Elias's blade rebounded, shocked by the resistance.
Gary used the moment — a single uppercut, drenched in silent fury.
It didn't land. But Elias had to leap back.
A breath of pause.
For the first time, Elias's smile faltered.
Then came the final blow — Elias unleashed his final mark. A blade mark that split the air itself. It crashed into Gary like a falling mountain.
Gary fell, hard.
Dust rose. Silence stretched.
The crowd leaned in.
Then — a groan. A hand. A movement.
Gary was getting up again.
One knee. One breath.
Bleeding. Shaking.
But upright.
The silence was total.
Elias stepped forward, face twisted. "Why won't you just—"
Gary met his gaze, quiet as stone. His voice cracked, low and hoarse.
"Because you're not the one who decides when I fall."
A beat passed.
And suddenly, the audience wasn't looking at Elias anymore.
They were looking at Gary.
Bruised. Bloodied. Broken.
Unbent.
Unbowed.
The noble who never sneered. The fighter who never screamed. The man who refused to yield.
Elias's blade lowered slightly.
He had won — by the rules of combat.
But lost — by the measure of pride.
And he knew it.