Chapter 26
Stay light. Hit hard. Leave them breathless
—Elemental Mastery IV: Command of Wind and Sky
The next duel is set for Monday—the last week of classes before the holidays. Finn will be challenging Tsvetan, the Vikhrostrum fire-wielder.
When the final bell rings, the tide of students surges toward the highest point on campus.
The Mountain’s wind is already biting with cold, screaming, sharp, and restless.
The stone circle looms at the center, monolithic and silent—watching.
Waiting. Someone has already cleared the snow from the summit.
Pushing it out wide, creating a smooth lip around us—like a tiny amphitheater carved in white.
Fire magick warms the edges of the crowd, but it doesn’t stop the cold from seeping in.
I stand with my squad at the west end of the circle and my eyes find him instantly.
Gavrail.
He stands across from us, near the dueling boundary line with his year-mates, dark coat billowing in the afternoon wind.
The late sun lights across his face, catching the hard lines of his jaw, the dark stubble shadowing it—a perfect, infuriating contrast to the silver of his eyes.
Gods, he looks good, even from here. Untouchable. Dangerous. Entirely him.
A group of second-year Whittaker girls stands near, giggling and desperate for his and Teo’s attention. I roll my eyes, the urge to make a snowbank fall on top of their heads impossibly tempting at the moment.
His eyes flick my way, just once. The curve of his mouth flickers, almost as if he knows where my thoughts have gone—a ghost of a smirk, gone in an instant before his gaze cuts back to the arena.
Warmth envelops me as Noa steps behind, his strong arms pulling me in while he nuzzles my neck. I lean into him—cedar, mint, clove. His fire is just below the surface of his skin, burning away my irritation and drawing every thought toward him.
I turn as his hands slip inside my coat, smiling as he presses a soft kiss against my lips before turning us back to the field.
He keeps one hand inside my coat, moving it through layers of fabric until his hand finds the small of my back, tracing circles against flushed skin.
I bite my bottom lip as his hand dips lower, a reminder of just where those fingers and everything else of his claimed me this morning.
A knowing smile curves his mouth as he glances down at me. “You keep biting that lip and we’ll miss Finn’s duel while I take you for a private tour of the Air Hall below.”
“Is that a promise?” I murmur, leaning closer.
He only laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest before he kisses me again—heat curling through me all the way to my toes.
A prickling sensation creeps across my skin, a feeling of being watched. I glance across the field and meet Gavrail’s narrowed eyes for just a heartbeat before he looks away. His shadows quiver faintly at his feet as if readying for battle.
Professor Stroud’s voice booms, carried on the wind like a loudspeaker, pulling my focus back to the summit. “The second duel is about to begin!”
The crowd surges forward, every gaze drawn to the stone circle.
Finn stands at the center, rolling his shoulders, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, cocky grin in place as he faces Tsvetan across the ring. “Ready when you are, firefly,” he calls out, twirling a gust of wind between his fingers.
Tsvetan doesn’t answer. He just lifts one scarred hand, slow and precise, fire blooming along his palm with a deep, molten glow. Controlled. Focused. No theatrics.
Professor Stroud gives the signal, and the duel begins.
Finn is fast. He launches himself into motion, slicing the air with blasts of wind designed to disorient and harass. Dirt kicks up, elements colliding in midair, heat and chill lashing through the circle.
Tsvetan blasts fireballs, just barely missing Finn’s feet, scorching stones in a spiral pattern with unrelenting precision while Finn nimbly weaves around them, sending gusts of slicing wind at angles the fire-wielder can’t seem to anticipate.
A few wind blasts catch Tsvetan’s shoulder, pushing him back a few steps.
Finn’s smirk is confident. He’s fast—too fast. The crowd murmurs in surprise and admiration.
Finn’s hands lift, and the air itself begins to tighten. The crowd falls silent as wind magick condenses, compressing the oxygen until Tsvetan’s flames sputter and die, snuffed out mid-motion.
Smoke coils low and thick across the ground, curling up Tsvetan’s legs like shadows with teeth. A hush spreads—Finn has stolen the very breath from the air.
“Try burning something now,” he mutters, eyes gleaming.
And for a time, it looks like he has the upper hand.
A burst of compressed wind slams into Tsvetan, and Finn uses the opening to close in—until Tsvetan smiles.
It isn’t a kind smile.
Finn catches it too late. The placement of scorched stones. The subtle shifts in Tsvetan’s footwork. A ring of ash tightening like a noose. I see it the moment before it happens.
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 down beside 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.