Chapter 7
Valen
Istood in the middle of the fencing salle, suited up with my mask already on, as the students filtered into the room.
It was a big dramatic, but I did it every year.
I found that students, when they couldn’t see my face, fought harder during tryouts.
They couldn’t rely on facial expressions or try to read my mood, which meant they had to focus purely on technique and instinct.
I’d spent the morning setting up the equipment and reviewing the roster. Twenty-three students had signed up for tryouts, which was more than I’d expected. Most were returning team members, but there were a handful of new faces that caught my attention.
“Welcome to fencing tryouts,” I called out, my voice slightly muffled by the mask but carrying clearly across the salle. “I’m Professor Crowe, and I’ll be your coach this season. For those of you who don’t know me, I’ve been fencing for... a very long time.”
A few chuckles rippled through the group. If only they knew just how long.
“Today’s tryouts will consist of three parts,” I continued, pacing in front of the assembled students.
In the back I noticed Lila sitting in the shadows, her purple eyes following me.
“First, individual skill assessment. I’ll be testing each of you personally to gauge your current level and technique.
Second, sparring matches between candidates.
And third...” I paused for dramatic effect. “A special challenge.”
I could see them exchanging glances, curiosity and nervousness radiating from the group in waves that my enhanced senses picked up easily.
“Whoever can successfully unmask me during our individual bout will automatically become team captain,” I announced. “No questions asked, no further evaluation needed.”
The silence that followed was telling. Some looked intrigued, others intimidated. A few of the returning students who knew my reputation were already shaking their heads.
“Now, before we begin, let me be clear about expectations,” I said, selecting a sabre from the equipment rack with deliberate precision.
“This team represents Widdershins Academy at the highest levels of collegiate competition. I expect discipline, dedication, and absolute commitment to excellence. If you’re here because you think fencing is an easy way to fulfill your athletic requirement, there’s the door. ”
Nobody moved.
“Excellent.” I turned back to face them, the familiar weight of the weapon in my hand centering me. “We’ll start with individual assessments. When I call your name, step forward and show me what you’ve got.”
I consulted the roster, though I’d already memorized every name. “R. Smith.”
A petite junior with short black hair stepped forward, selecting her weapon with confident movements. I’d coached her last year. She was technically proficient but lacked the killer instinct needed for real competition.
“En garde,” I called, falling into position.
The bout was over in thirty seconds. She was good, but she telegraphed her attacks and relied too heavily on textbook combinations. I disarmed her with a simple bind-and-thrust that she should have seen coming from miles away.
“Better footwork than last year,” I told her as she retrieved her weapon. “But you’re still thinking too much. Trust your instincts more.”
“M. Wigard.”
A tall sophomore werewolf stepped forward, and I immediately caught the scent of nervous excitement rolling off him. Werewolves could be excellent fencers if they learned to channel their natural aggression, but they often struggled with the precision required.
He lasted forty-five seconds, which was actually impressive. His attacks were powerful and his reflexes were lightning-fast, but he got frustrated when his initial assault didn’t work and started taking wild swings.
“Good aggression,” I told him. “Work on your patience. The blade is a scalpel, not a club.”
One by one, I worked through the roster. Most performed about as expected. They were competent but not exceptional. A few surprised me with significant improvement over the summer. Others clearly hadn’t touched a sword since last season.
“D. Rosewood.”
A senior witch I’d never seen before stepped forward, and something about her stance immediately caught my attention. She moved with the fluid grace of someone who’d been training since childhood, her grip on the sabre both relaxed and ready.
This bout lasted nearly two minutes. She was genuinely skilled, with excellent distance management and a deceptive style that kept me guessing. She even managed to score a touch on my shoulder before I finally caught her with a counterattack to the chest.
“Very impressive,” I said, and I meant it. “Where did you train before coming here?”
“Private tutors,” she replied, pulling off her mask to reveal sharp features and calculating dark eyes. “My family takes fencing seriously.”
Old money witch family, then. They often hired former Olympic coaches or master instructors. It showed.
I continued through the list, making mental notes about team composition and who would work well together. We were nearly at the end when I called the next name.
“A. Quinn.”
A figure stepped forward from the back of the group, and something about his movement made me pause. There was something familiar about the way he carried himself, the confident stride, the natural athletic grace. But his mask was already on, so I couldn’t make out anything else.
He selected a sabre and turned to face me, falling into an en garde position that was textbook perfect. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d seen him somewhere before.
“Ready?” I asked.
He nodded, and we began.
The first exchange told me everything I needed to know. He wasn’t just good, he was exceptional. His technique was flawless, his timing impeccable, and his tactical awareness was beyond anything I’d seen from a college student in decades.
But it was more than that. There was something about his style, his rhythm, the way he moved that sent a shot of adrenaline through my body. He was good. Maybe even as good as me. And I hadn’t had a real challenge in decades.
We danced around each other for nearly three minutes, trading attacks and parries in a display that had the other students watching in awed silence. He was pushing me harder than I’d been pushed in years, forcing me to actually work for every point.
He caught me off guard with a beautiful disengage that nearly took my head off, and I had to throw myself backward to avoid the point. The movement was so sudden that my mask shifted slightly, but I managed to adjust it before continuing.
This was getting dangerous. Not physically, I could handle myself in any fight, but emotionally. The way he moved, the precise control, the almost intuitive understanding of distance and timing... it was stirring something in me that had nothing to do with coaching. It was… beautiful.
I pressed my attack, using a complex combination that should have overwhelmed him, but he read it perfectly and countered with a riposte that forced me to give ground. The other students were murmuring now, clearly impressed by what they were witnessing.
“Impressive,” I called out, circling him slowly. “Where did you learn to fence like that?”
He didn’t answer, just reset his stance and waited for my next attack. Smart. Don’t give away information to your opponent.
I came at him with everything I had, drawing on centuries of experience and muscle memory that predated most modern fencing techniques. But somehow, impossibly, he kept up. Every attack I threw at him, he had an answer for. Every trap I set, he avoided with split-second timing.
It was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. When was the last time someone had challenged me like this? When was the last time I’d had to actually think during a bout instead of just going through the motions?
He lunged forward with a perfectly timed attack aimed at my chest, and I barely managed to parry it. But the force of his strike combined with my desperate defense sent me stumbling backward, and I felt my mask loosen.
Before I could adjust it, he was coming at me again with a lightning-fast series of cuts that had me backpedaling across the salle. I tried to bring my weapon up to block, but his final thrust caught the edge of my mask and sent it flying across the room.
For a moment, we both froze. I stood there, exposed, my amber eyes meeting his through his mask as the room fell completely silent. Then, slowly, he reached up and pulled off his own mask.
Dark hair. Blue eyes. That perfect jawline I’d been dreaming about for days.
“Fuck,” I breathed, the word escaping before I could stop it.
Archer stood there staring at me with the same shock I was feeling, his lips parted in surprise. The sabre trembled slightly in his grip as recognition dawned in those beautiful blue eyes.
“Holy shit,” someone whispered from the group of watching students, and I realized we’d been standing there gaping at each other for far too long.
The rest of the team erupted into cheers and applause, completely oblivious to the personal drama unfolding in front of them.
“Quinn did it!” someone shouted. “He actually unmasked Professor Crowe!”
“That was incredible!”
“New team captain!”
I forced myself to move, to break eye contact with Archer and address the team like a professional. Like I wasn’t currently having an internal crisis about the fact that my perfect one-night stand was apparently one of my students.
“Congratulations,” I managed, my voice only slightly strained. “Mr. Quinn, it seems you’ve earned yourself the captain’s position.”
Archer was still staring at me, his face cycling through what looked like the same mixture of shock, confusion, and that familiar oh-shit-we’re-fucked that I was feeling too.
I noticed Lila appear in the corner of the room out of the shadows, her eyes sharp and calculating as she took in the scene. She’d clearly picked up on the tension between Archer and me, and I could practically see the wheels turning in her head.
“Alright everyone,” I called out, trying to regain some semblance of control over the situation.
“That concludes tryouts for today. The team roster will be posted tomorrow morning. Captain Quinn,” I emphasized his new title, hoping it would help me remember the professional boundaries I was supposed to maintain, “please stay behind. We need to discuss your responsibilities.”
The other students began filtering out, still buzzing with excitement over the dramatic conclusion to tryouts. I caught several of them shooting impressed glances at Archer as they left.
Once the salle was empty except for Archer, myself, and Lila lurking in the shadows, I finally allowed myself to really look at him again.
He was still in his fencing whites, hair slightly messed from the mask, and looking absolutely gorgeous despite the deer-in-headlights expression he was wearing.
“So,” Lila’s voice cut through the tension as she stepped out of the shadows, “this is interesting.”
I shot her a look that could have melted steel, but she just grinned wider, clearly enjoying my discomfort. Of all the times for her to make an appearance, she had to pick now.
“Lila,” I said through gritted teeth, “don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
“Not really,” she replied cheerfully, settling onto one of the benches like she was planning to stay for the entire show. “Besides, I wouldn’t miss this for the world. You remember my brother, don’t you, Archer?”
Archer’s eyes went wide, his gaze darting between Lila and me. “Brother?” he repeated faintly.
“Adopted sister,” I corrected quickly, though technically that wasn’t accurate either. Vampires didn’t really do family in the traditional sense, but explaining our actual relationship would require revealing far more than I was prepared to discuss. “And she was just leaving.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Lila said, examining her nails with theatrical interest. “This is far too entertaining. Though I have to say, Valen, when you mentioned your mystery human had elegant movement, I didn’t expect it to be quite this elegant.
” She gestured toward Archer with obvious appreciation. “No wonder you’ve been so distracted.”
“Lila,” I warned, my voice dropping into dangerous territory.
Archer was looking between us with growing confusion, and I could practically see him trying to piece together what was happening. The color had drained from his face, and he was gripping his sabre like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
“Professor Crowe,” he said carefully, his voice barely above a whisper. “I... we need to talk.”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” I replied more sternly than I meant to. It was better just not to acknowledge the elephant in the room. If we never spoke it aloud, it didn’t happen, right? “You are the new team captain. During our next practice we’ll go over your responsibilities for the team.”
“Like hell there isn’t,” Archer said, his voice gaining strength. He had some spunk, I had to give him that. “You can’t just pretend—”
“Actually, I can,” I cut him off, turning away to start collecting the equipment. My hands were trembling slightly, and I hoped he couldn’t see it. “Nothing ever happened between us. You’re my student. This is a professional relationship. That’s all there is to it, Quinn.”
“Valen,” Lila started. “You don’t have to be like that—”
“Shut up, Lila,” I snapped, my voice almost a hiss. “Practice is over. Both of you go back to your dorms.”
Then, without bothering to clean up, I stormed out of the fencing salle, my face burning with more embarrassment than I’d felt in my entire three centuries of existence.