The makeshift arena was a pit of trampled earth and judgment. A circle of grimy chains, held up by rusted iron posts, separated the fighters from a jeering, jostling crowd. The air was thick with the smells of hot metal, cheap oil, and sweat. It was a crucible designed to test more than just skill; it was built to break a man's nerve.
As Sorrin stepped under the chain, a hush fell over the immediate onlookers, followed by a ripple of whispers. He was an unknown quantity. His clothes were plain, his frame lean from labor rather than sculpted by formal training. The scarred wooden sword in his hand looked more like a tool than a weapon. He was, to them, fresh meat.
From the opposite side of the ring, his opponent swaggered into the light. The man was a head taller than Sorrin and wider at the shoulders, with a slab of a jaw covered in dark stubble. He wore a stained leather jerkin over a thick-muscled torso, and a cogwork brace whirred softly around his left forearm, a common low-grade augmentation for laborers or brawlers that was probably imported from Draethal. He carried his own wooden sword with the casual ease of long familiarity, spinning it in a lazy circle before planting its tip in the dirt.
"Well, look what the scrapyard dragged in," the man boomed, a grin splitting his face. The crowd chuckled. "First time in the ring, lad? Don't worry. Kael will be gentle."
A lanky man with a cash box and a bored expression stepped to the center. "Rules are the same as always. First to three clean hits, or until one of you can't stand. No eye-gouging, no biting, no Flow. This is a test of steel, not parlor tricks. Stakes are on the board. Begin when you're ready." He retreated without another word, already counting the coins bet against Sorrin.
Sorrin took a deep breath, trying to calm the frantic hammering in his chest. His palms were slick against the worn wood of the hilt. He could feel dozens of eyes on him, hungry for the spectacle of his failure. Beyond the chains, he knew Renn was listening, his head tilted slightly, parsing the sounds of the crowd and the shift of feet on dirt. The thought was both a comfort and a weight. He could not afford to disappoint him.
He raised his sword, settling into the clumsy stance he'd practiced for hours against the unmoving straw dummy. It felt different now. Wrong. The dummy never stared back with such predatory confidence.
Kael laughed aloud. "Look at that form. Did a scarecrow teach you to fight?"
He didn't wait for an answer. Kael exploded forward, a blur of motion that Sorrin was entirely unprepared for. The brawler didn't use elegant fencing lunges; he charged like a bull, his heavy practice sword swinging in a brutal, horizontal arc aimed at Sorrin's ribs.
Instinct screamed. Sorrin stumbled back, trying to bring his own blade up to parry. He was too slow. Kael's sword slammed into his side with a sickening thud that stole his breath and sent a jolt of white-hot pain through his body. He gasped, staggering, the impact echoing through his bones.
"One!" the ringmaster called out, his voice flat.
The crowd roared, a mix of triumphant shouts and groans of lost wagers. Kael stood back, smirking, tapping his sword against his shoulder. "See? Gentle. Now, are you going to fight back, or just stand there and take it?"
Sorrin's side throbbed, a deep, bruising ache that made it hard to breathe. The world felt distant, muffled by the ringing in his ears. The straw dummy had taught him motions, but it had never taught him about pain. It had never taught him about the speed of a living, thinking opponent who wanted to hurt him. Everything he had practiced felt useless, a child's game played in the fading light of a smith's yard.
He forced himself to stand straight, ignoring the fire in his ribs. He could hear Renn's voice in his mind, calm and steady. Everyone sees your mistakes. Few see the effort beneath them. He couldn't let this be just another mistake.
He raised his sword again, this time holding it lower, more defensively. Kael seemed to approve, nodding slightly. "Better. Now let's see if you can use it."
The brawler came at him again, but slower this time, testing him. He feinted high, then swung low. Sorrin managed to get his sword down in time, the wood clattering loudly as the two blades met. The force of the impact vibrated up his arm, making his teeth ache. Kael was stronger. Far stronger. A direct contest of strength was a battle he would lose every time.
Kael pressed his advantage, raining down a series of swift, powerful blows. A high chop, a side swipe, another thrust. It was all Sorrin could do to block, his feet shuffling backward in the dirt, his arms screaming in protest. Each block was a jarring shock. He felt less like a duelist and more like a door being battered by a ram. The carefully practiced forms were gone, replaced by a desperate, instinctual defense.
The crowd was a wall of sound around him. They were no longer cheering for Kael; they were simply enjoying the beating. He was the entertainment. The fool.
Think, a part of his mind pleaded, a quiet voice beneath the panic. You can't win this way. Think.
Kael overextended on a swing, leaving himself open for a fraction of a second. Sorrin saw the gap, a space near the brawler's shoulder. He tried to pivot and thrust as he'd practiced, but his muscles were stiff with pain and fear. His counter-attack was clumsy, slow, and easily brushed aside. Kael laughed and kicked a spray of dirt into Sorrin's face.
Blinded for a moment, Sorrin flinched. It was all the opening Kael needed. Another heavy blow caught him on the shoulder, staggering him. It wasn't a clean hit—more of a glancing impact—but it was enough to send him to one knee.
"Two!" the ringmaster declared, his voice laced with finality.
A groan went through the crowd. The fight was almost over. Kael stood over him, breathing easily, his shadow falling across Sorrin. "Stay down, lad. No shame in it. You lasted longer than some."
On one knee, panting, Sorrin stared at the packed earth. The smell of dust and sweat filled his nostrils. He could quit. He could concede, take his bruises and his shame, and walk away. It would be easy. But then he thought of the Academy exam tomorrow. He thought of the innkeeper's dismissive glare, the drunk man's taunts. He thought of Renn, standing blind in a world that had tried its best to break him, and who had never once considered quitting.
His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. The faint, familiar prickling sensation returned to his skin, the ghost of roots reaching for something that wasn't there.
He pushed himself back to his feet.
A murmur of surprise ran through the onlookers. Kael's smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of annoyance. "Stubborn, are you? Fine. I'll make this last one count."
This time, Kael's attack held no trace of sport. It was pure, focused aggression. He moved with a new intensity, his sword a blur. Sorrin didn't try to match him. He couldn't. Instead, he did the only thing he could: he watched.
He stopped trying to remember his training. He stopped trying to win. He just watched Kael's body. He saw the way the man's weight shifted to his right foot just before a heavy swing. He saw the slight twitch in his shoulder that telegraphed a thrust. These were not the clean tells of a trained swordsman, but the ingrained habits of a brawler. The straw dummy had no habits. It had no weight to shift, no shoulder to twitch.
Sorrin gave ground, letting Kael drive him back toward the edge of the ring. He blocked, dodged, and deflected, his body screaming with each impact. He took another glancing blow to his forearm that sent a numbing shock all the way to his fingertips. But he didn't fall. And he kept watching.
He was no longer fighting Kael's sword. He was fighting Kael.
From outside the ring, Renn stood perfectly still. He couldn't see the sweat on Sorrin's brow or the desperation in his eyes, but he could see the movements and hear the battle. The frantic, clumsy clatter of wood on wood had been replaced by a new rhythm. He heard Sorrin's retreating footsteps, quick and light, followed by the heavier, more deliberate stomp of his opponent. He heard the sharp crack of a successful block, followed not by a panicked shuffle, but by a steadying breath. Sorrin was learning.
Kael, growing frustrated by his opponent's refusal to break, let out a roar and charged, raising his sword for a final, decisive overhead blow. It was a move of pure power, meant to shatter Sorrin's guard and end the fight.
Sorrin saw the weight shift. He saw the muscles in Kael's back tense. He knew what was coming.
But this time, he didn't retreat. He didn't try to block.
At the last possible second, as the wooden sword began its descent, Sorrin dropped low, bending his knees and diving forward, inside Kael's reach. The brawler's weapon whistled through the air where his head had been a moment before.
Sorrin drove his own sword forward, not with the blade, but with his fist. The pommel, the heavy wooden base of the hilt, connected squarely with Kael's unprotected stomach.
Whump.
The sound was dull, sickening. All the air rushed out of Kael's lungs in a strangled gasp. His eyes went wide with shock and pain. His killing blow forgotten, his body convulsed, his sword slipping from his numb fingers to clatter in the dirt. He staggered back, clutching his midsection, his face a mask of disbelief.
Sorrin rose to his feet, breathing in ragged, painful gulps. His own sword felt impossibly heavy. He leveled the tip at Kael's throat.
The brawler sank to his knees, wheezing, unable to draw a breath. He couldn't continue.
A stunned silence gripped the ring. The crowd stared, unsure of what had just happened. There had been no elegant riposte, no masterful disarm. Just a brutal, unexpected gut punch with the wrong end of a sword. It wasn't swordsmanship. It was survival.
The ringmaster looked from the kneeling Kael to the swaying Sorrin. He hesitated, then shrugged. "Winner."
The silence broke. A few scattered cheers erupted, mostly from those who had placed long-shot bets. The rest was a mix of confused muttering and angry shouts from Kael's supporters.
Sorrin lowered his sword, the adrenaline draining out of him like sand from a broken glass. His body screamed in a dozen different places at once. His side felt like it was on fire. His shoulder was a knot of pure agony. But he was standing.
He limped out of the ring, collecting a small pouch of copper coins from the sullen ringmaster. It wasn't much, but it felt heavier than gold.
Renn was waiting for him just beyond the crowd, his expression unreadable. He didn't offer congratulations or ask if Sorrin was hurt. He simply fell into step beside him as they walked away from the din of the arena.
They moved through the chaotic aisles of the Tinker's Market in silence for a few minutes, the sounds of bargaining and whirring machinery washing over them.
Finally, Sorrin broke the quiet, his voice hoarse. "That wasn't sword-fighting."
"No," Renn agreed. "It wasn't."
"I only won because he was careless. Arrogant."
"Most people are," Renn said calmly. "You used it against him. That is a skill in itself." He tapped his cane on the cobblestones. "You learned something in that ring, Sorrin. More than you did in a week of hitting straw."
"I learned I'm not a swordsman," Sorrin muttered, wincing as he shifted his weight.
"You learned that a fight is not a performance. It is a question, and the only answer that matters is the one that lets you walk away. You stopped trying to fight like the duelists in stories and started fighting like yourself."
Sorrin looked down at his bruised and scraped knuckles. He hadn't just used the pommel. In that final, desperate moment, he had felt that hum of Life Flow inside him. It hadn't manifested as roots or vines, but as a clarity, a heightening of his senses that allowed him to see the opening. It was a terrifying, exhilarating feeling. He hadn't consciously called upon it; it had answered his need. And the madness, the curse that always followed, was blessedly absent. It had been too small a flicker, a spark rather than a flame.
Sorrin suddenly felt guilty.
That wasn't because of my own skill, either. I felt my life flow circulating, almost as if I couldn't control it. I think it gave me some sort of physical enhancement...
Sorrin paused for a moment before he muttered something under his breath.
"The Academy won't care if I fight like a brawler," Sorrin whispered.
"The Academy wants to see potential," Renn corrected him gently. "They want to see people who can adapt. People who can survive. Today, you proved you are one of them."