Chapter Seven #2
Liri beamed, still chattering as they headed for the exit. "Good, because I really don't want to be late. Did I mention the thing about third-years? Because apparently—"
Cassara stopped listening once they reached the upper field and stepped into the packed stone yard, a wide training ring etched with chalk lines and faded sigils from long-forgotten bouts. Her boots scuffed against the ground, already powdered with dust.
Julian was already there, stretching casually near the center line, a rolled towel slung around his neck and his sleeves pushed back to expose his forearms. He looked unfairly composed in the uniform, his blond hair windswept like it had been styled that way on purpose.
He caught her eye and offered a knowing smirk.
She didn’t return it, but her gaze lingered a second longer than necessary.
He did look good, even if she didn’t want to admit it.
At the far end of the field, Gideon turned from where he’d been adjusting the straps of his sparring gloves, his own uniform less crisp but somehow sharper for it.
He rolled his shoulders, taut and loose at the same time, like a coiled spring walking.
He didn’t smirk, just met her stare with a flick of interest that sent heat up her neck.
Which, naturally, was when she arrived.
A flash of auburn hair and carefully choreographed malice. Verena swept past, shoulder angled hard. The collision wasn’t accidental.
Cassara staggered half a step, teeth clenching as she whipped around.
“What the hell—”
“Ladies,” came a voice like a blade drawn slow from its sheath.
Instructor Nareen strode onto the field, a long halberd slung easily across her shoulders, dark braids twisted back from her sharp-angled face. Her eyes cut between the two of them with dispassionate ease.
“There will be plenty of time to bloody each other,” she said. “You want to throw a punch, you do it in the ring.”
Verena’s smile curled, clearly pleased by the implication. Cassara ignored her.
Nareen dropped the halberd with a metallic thud, letting its base settle in the center of the yard. Around them, the rest of the class filtered in, some still laughing, others already sizing up their competition.
“Welcome to Basic Combat,” Nareen said, her voice carrying without needing to be raised. “The rules here are simple. You hit fast. You hit clean. You listen. The moment you forget, someone else gets to teach you why you’re wrong.”
She began pacing slowly, the halberd dragging a line in the dirt.
“We train as if your lives depend on it, because one day, they will. You’ll learn strikes, holds, grapples. You’ll learn how to fight without your beast and how to survive long enough to summon it. You’ll learn what it means to face someone stronger and still win.”
She stopped, glancing between them.
“And if you don’t like getting hit, you better learn how to hit back harder or move faster.”
Cassara’s blood hummed.
Finally.
Nareen gave the group a long, measuring glance. “I can see you’re eager,” she said. “Good. Let’s see if you’re worth the bruises.”
She moved to the edge of the ring, halberd in hand, and stabbed the butt of it into the dirt. “This is not a spar for prestige, though I am obligated to provide the points. It’s an assessment. I want to see how you move. Your form. Your speed. How you handle a live opponent.”
The class shifted, murmurs rising as students straightened, eyes sharpening.
Nareen barked a few names, pairing off students.
The first matches were quick and unremarkable.
A girl with blonde hair managed to land a solid hit before getting swept off her feet by her opponent's counter.
Another pair circled each other cautiously, trading half-hearted jabs that Nareen criticized for lacking commitment.
A third match ended when one student overextended and took an elbow to the ribs that left him wheezing on the ground.
Cassara watched with detached interest. Adequate technique, but nothing impressive. No one moved with real confidence, and most were too focused on not getting hit to actually land anything meaningful.
When Nareen reached the middle of the list, her eyes flicked between two standing apart from the others.
“Tremaine. Delvanir. You’re up.”
Julian raised an eyebrow and gave a long-suffering sigh that couldn’t quite hide his excitement. “Going straight for the crowd-pleasers, are we?”
Across from him, Gideon said nothing. He just stepped forward, eyes narrowed, not at Julian, but at the space between them.
Cassara folded her arms as the two entered the ring, watching closely. Julian loosened his stance like a duelist preparing to perform, smiling faintly as he rolled his shoulders. Gideon didn’t smile. His expression never changed.
Nareen raised a hand. “Begin.”
Julian struck first, fast and clean, a classic forward lunge aimed low.
Gideon dodged, twisting just out of reach, and countered with a sweeping leg aimed at Julian’s feet intending to knock him off balance.
Julian hopped it easily, pivoted into a backhanded feint, and their rhythm snapped into motion.
Cassara leaned forward slightly, analyzing their forms. She’d seen Julian spar countless times at embassy functions and private lessons.
His movements were predictable to her, the slight twist of his wrist before a feint, the way his left foot pivoted when he was setting up a combination.
It was strange seeing those familiar patterns deployed against someone who wasn’t playing by the same rulebook.
It was clear they’d both been trained, their movements were fast, two distinct styles clashing in the dust. Julian moved like someone who’d learned from books and personal tutors, refined, flashy, confident.
Gideon was all instinct and tension, controlled but reactive, like he was waiting for a real fight to start.
The first strike landed with a sharp crack of contact: Julian’s elbow against Gideon’s ribs.
“Point Tremaine,” Nareen called, her voice cutting through the tense silence.
Cassara caught the flicker of satisfaction in Julian’s eyes. That familiar spark of pride when he executed something perfectly. She’d seen it a hundred times, usually followed by that same glance toward the audience, seeking admiration.
But Gideon didn’t falter. He twisted, ducked, and returned a jab to Julian’s shoulder that would’ve knocked someone less prepared to the ground.
“Point Delvanir,” Nareen acknowledged, circling the edge of the ring.
Julian’s jaw clenched, a small tell that only someone who knew him well would notice.
Cassara felt an unexpected twist in her stomach.
She should be rooting for Julian without question.
He was her… what? Friend? Ally? Almost-fiancé?
Yet part of her couldn’t help admiring the raw efficiency of Gideon’s movements, how little he seemed to care about looking good while fighting.
A breath passed. Another flurry of movement, bodies blurring in controlled aggression. Julian landed a precise strike to Gideon’s upper arm.
“Point Tremaine,” Nareen announced. “Two-one.”
Julian’s smile returned, sharper now. Cassara recognized the dangerous edge to it, the same look he got when someone challenged him at embassy galas.
That practiced charm hardening into something more territorial.
His next combination was flashier than necessary, designed to impress rather than simply win.
The tension in the ring shifted. Julian’s confidence swelled visibly, his movements becoming more theatrical. Gideon’s expression hardened, his focus sharpening. In a sudden burst of speed, he feinted left, spun right, and caught Julian with a sweep that nearly took his feet from under him.
“Point Delvanir,” Nareen called. “Two-two.”
Cassara’s breath caught. She hadn’t expected that. Neither had Julian, judging by the flush creeping up his neck. That wasn’t embarrassment, it was anger. Real anger, the kind he usually kept carefully hidden behind protocol and pedigree.
She found herself unexpectedly torn, uncomfortable with her own uncertainty.
Julian was supposed to win. That was the natural order of things in their world.
Yet watching Gideon match him point for point stirred something rebellious in her chest. If Julian could be challenged here, what else wasn’t as certain as she’d been taught?
The final exchange was lightning-fast. Both fighters abandoned caution, each seeking the winning point. Their strikes connected simultaneously, Julian’s palm to Gideon’s chest, Gideon’s forearm across Julian’s collar.
“Draw,” Nareen declared, stepping between them. “Final score: two-two.”
Julian straightened first, flicking a bit of dust off his sleeve. “Not bad,” he said, glancing toward the watching students like he’d meant it for them. But Cassara didn’t miss the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers flexed and curled at his sides. He was furious beneath that smile.
Gideon didn’t respond. He simply left the ring, but not before his gaze slid briefly toward Cassara. There was no triumph there, no seeking of approval. Just a quiet, measuring look that made her skin prickle with awareness.
She glanced away first, unsettled by her own reaction. By all rights, she should be disappointed for Julian. Instead, she felt oddly relieved at the tie, as if some decision had been postponed, some choice she wasn’t ready to make.
Nareen’s eyes lingered on them both, undecipherable. Then she gestured for the next pair.
“Halvorsen. Ashton. You’re up.”
Liri stepped into the ring with a hesitant bounce in her step, her hands flexing at her sides. Across from her, Evie looked a bit uncomfortable, offering a small smile as she adjusted the grip on her training staff.
Nareen didn’t waste time. “Begin.”
Evie moved first, tentative, controlled. Her stance was steady, grounded, but her hesitation was obvious. She’d been trained to defend, not push. Liri, in contrast, danced around the edge of the ring with more speed than power, staying light on her feet, eyes darting, calculating.
Cassara watched from the sidelines, arms crossed. This match didn’t have the tension of the last. There was no fire, no quiet seething beneath the surface, just two girls who didn’t want to hit each other.
Still, Liri surprised her.
The moment Evie went for a clumsy forward swing, Liri dropped low, slipped under it, and tapped her on the ribs with a swift, controlled blow.
“Point Halvorsen,” Nareen called. “Again.”
Cassara blinked, reassessing everything she’d assumed about Liri. The awkward, scattered girl who could barely keep her books together had just moved with unexpected precision. There was muscle memory there, the kind that came from training, not random luck.
They reset.
This time, Evie tried to strike first again, but Liri was faster. She ducked, twisted, and landed another clean touch to Olivette’s thigh. Gentle, but undeniable.
“Point Halvorsen. Two-zero”
Cassara found herself leaning forward, studying Liri’s footwork. It wasn’t the polished technique of formal training like Julian’s. This was something else, practical, efficient, almost instinctive. Where had a scholarship student learned to move like that? Not at any academy Cassara knew of.
Liri landed a third point and Nareen called the match.
Evie stepped back, cheeks flushed, but not angry. "You're quicker than you look," she said, brushing off her sleeves.
Liri smiled sheepishly. "Sorry."
"Don't be. That was impressive."
Still, as Liri returned to the sidelines, Cassara caught the way her shoulders were hunched, like she was disappointed in herself for winning.
The posture reminded her uncomfortably of herself in those moments when she'd outperformed the expectations her father had set, how she'd learned to temper her own successes to avoid drawing attention.
She nudged Liri lightly with her elbow when she reached her side.
"You're allowed to be good, you know," Cassara muttered.
Liri's cheeks went pink. "Right. Sorry. I mean, thanks."
Cassara's gaze lingered on Liri a moment longer. Perhaps there was more to her roommate than met the eye, and perhaps she wasn't the only one at Vallemont with secrets worth keeping.
"Next match, Allencourt and Norran."
Movement at the edge of the field caught her attention before she could step forward. Auren had appeared near the observation platform, hands in his pockets, posture casual. He didn't announce himself, just settled against one of the stone pillars like he'd been passing by and decided to linger.
Cassara's stomach tightened. Of course. The one instructor who already thought she was reckless had decided to show up and watch.
Nareen's gaze flicked toward him, one eyebrow rising. "Didn't realize first-year sparring was worth your time these days, Veth."
"Had a gap between classes," he said easily. "Thought I'd see what this year's cohort has to offer."
Cassara stepped forward trying to ignore the weight of Auren’s presence at the edge of her vision. Across the training ring, Talia took a single step toward the center.
Then Verena cut in front of her, striding into the ring with a smile that was all confidence and calculated provocation.
"You're not Norran," Nareen said, already moving to intercept.
"I know," Verena said, her tone light but pointed. "But I thought we'd give you something more interesting to watch. Let Allencourt show us all what a legacy really looks like."
Her eyes flicked briefly toward Auren as she said it, making sure he was paying attention.
Cassara's jaw tightened, but she kept her expression neutral as she entered the ring without a word. She wouldn't give Verena the satisfaction of a reaction.
Nareen frowned but didn't stop them. "Fine. Same as before. First to three wins. You break the rules, I bench you both."
Cassara took her place, settling into a ready stance. Across from her, Verena rolled her shoulders once, her copper hair pulled back tight, her eyes sharp and calculating.
And somewhere behind her, just out of sight, Auren was watching. Probably waiting to see if she'd do something reckless again.
She wouldn't.
"Begin," Nareen called.