The Coliseum roared with the voices of a hundred students. The stone arches trembled under the weight of cheers, jeers, and the collective hunger to see blood. In the sand below, Gareth stood alone—cloak torn, knuckles tight, every eye on him.
Across from him, his opponent strode into the arena like a prince. Roran Valis. Tall, sharp-eyed, robes shimmering with etched runes, his steps oozed confidence. Whispers followed him like incense.
The Academy's genius. The untouchable prodigy.
Roran gave a polite bow, a smile that wasn't quite a smile. "I'll make this quick, Valven. You've caused enough spectacle already."
The crowd erupted—laughter, chants, mockery. Somewhere above, the class clown shouted, "Better not trip this time, Gareth!" and the beauty queen covered her smirk with delicate fingers, her followers giggling behind her.
Gareth said nothing. His jaw clenched, his curse whispering at the back of his skull.
Then the horn sounded.
Roran moved first. His sigils flared and a lattice of crystal spears erupted from the ground, racing toward Gareth in perfect formation. Precision, elegance—pure genius.
Gareth ducked and rolled, barely avoiding the first volley. Dust scorched his lungs as another wave of ice-etched blades split the air where he had stood.
"You can't win," Roran called, not mocking—just certain. "You're all struggle. I am talent."
Gareth's teeth bared. He hurled himself forward, drawing on the raw, chaotic tug of his Veilbound Root. Shadows coiled at his fists, striking out like venomous serpents. For a moment, Roran's smirk faltered as the tendrils snapped at his defenses, cracking the sigils around him.
The crowd gasped. Even the beauty queen's laughter caught in her throat.Then it struck him.
A spike of pain, a flash of darkness. The Coliseum blurred, voices drowned.
Gareth saw Shalkeer. The forgotten god's form loomed in a void, a titan of ash and chains. Its voice slithered into his skull:
"You are mine, boy of the Eclipse. Give in."
His body convulsed. Veins burned black as his control slipped. The shadow he wielded lashed wildly, tearing at the sand, sending shards of stone flying. The crowd screamed in awe and horror.
Roran's eyes sharpened. "So this is your curse…"
For the first time, the genius shed his smile. His hands blurred through sigils, each motion precise and deadly. The arena floor cracked as a circle of light opened, and from it clawed its way a Level 1.3 Undead—a skeletal knight clad in spectral flame, eyes glowing like dying stars.
The creature surged forward, sword raised. Gareth staggered, still lost in Shalkeer's vision, his shadows thrashing out of control. He managed a strike—one that scorched the knight's armor—but the undead only pressed harder.
A single swing of its blazing blade smashed through Gareth's defenses, sending him sprawling into the sand. His chest heaved, shadows hissing away into nothing.
The horn sounded again.
The crowd erupted. Some cheered Roran's brilliance. Others whispered in shock at Gareth's terrifying display. The beauty queen smirked again, masking her unease. The class clown whistled low, muttering, "Guess cursed boys don't get fairy-tale wins."
And above it all, Kael's cold eyes followed Gareth, lips curled in disdain.
Slowly, impossibly, he pushed himself up. Blood trickled down his brow, shadows still writhing around him. His eyes burned—not with Shalkeer's corruption this time, but with something raw, primal.
The crowd went silent.
Roran arched a brow. "Still standing?"
Gareth spat blood into the sand. "I'm… not done."
He lunged. Faster, sharper, every step guided by instinct honed in survival, not classrooms. His fist crashed against Roran's guard, shadows flaring with each strike.
Roran stumbled back, surprise flashing across his polished mask. Gareth pressed harder, fists and shadows hammering through his defenses, every blow shaking the arena.
The undead knight faltered under Gareth's wild surge of energy before dissolving into ash.
The crowd roared—half in disbelief, half in awe.
Roran's smirk returned, but this time it was edged. He dismissed his sigils, lowered his stance, and cracked his knuckles.
"Very well," he said. "If you want to fight like a beast… I'll humor you."
The genius charged.
Their fists collided, the shockwave rattling the stands. The Coliseum floor cracked under their duel—punch for punch, strike for strike. Gareth's instincts carried him further than thought should have allowed, weaving, countering, landing blows that left the prodigy grimacing.
Sand and stone shattered around them. Students screamed as fragments rained into the stands. Even the beauty queen's mask slipped, her eyes wide with something dangerously close to admiration.
But instincts burn fast. Gareth's breathing grew ragged. His limbs trembled, his body screaming for release. Roran, relentless, pressed forward, every strike heavier, more precise.
Finally, Gareth swung one last desperate punch—Roran caught it, twisted, and slammed him into the sand.
The world spun. His vision dimmed.
As he fell into unconsciousness, Gareth thought he heard Shalkeer's laughter echoing through the void.
The horn blared, declaring Roran's victory.
The gates rumbled open, and the Coliseum erupted in cheers—not for Lyra, but for her opponent.
Talia Nyx. Draped in crimson silk threaded with sunfire sigils, the Academy's radiant darling. She bowed with perfect grace, golden hair catching the light, as her entourage in the stands shrieked praises.
Then Lyra stepped forward.
Her aura flared silver, skin laced with faint glowing veins that pulsed like moonlight—her Moon Veinroot form. The crowd's cheer turned instantly to mocking laughter.
"Look—the traitor's daughter shows her phases!"
"Careful, she might vanish when the sun comes up!"
"A cursed reflection, not real power!"
Even the beauty queen's clique fanned themselves dramatically, sneering as if the very sight of Lyra's affinity was offensive. The class clown howled, "Better not cry when the sun burns you, Moon-girl!"
Lyra's jaw tightened. She didn't flinch, didn't answer. She only let her pale light thrum brighter, casting faint shadows that bent unnaturally around her feet.
Across the arena, Talia smirked, lifting her jeweled spear. "Don't take it personally, Lyra. Some of us are born to shine. Others…" she gestured with mock pity, "…are doomed to reflect."
The crowd roared in cruel laughter.
Lyra raised her chin, eyes flashing silver. "Funny thing about the moon," she said coldly. "It only looks brightest when the sun is gone."
Gasps rippled. Talia's smile stiffened.
The horn blared.
Moonlight and sunfire collided.😎
Talia moved first, her spear spinning in a blaze of gold. Sunfire crackled around her, a radiant storm that set the air shimmering. She launched forward, each thrust sharp enough to pierce stone.
Lyra slid back, silver veins glowing brighter across her skin. Moonlight rippled from her palms, catching Talia's strikes and bending them, the fiery spearheads skewing inches away from her flesh. The crowd gasped—no one had ever seen sunfire turned aside so fluidly.
Talia snarled. "Tricks. Always tricks."
Lyra's eyes glowed silver. "Reflection isn't weakness. It's redirection."
She swept her hands in an arc, and the arena's shadows elongated unnaturally. Each spear of sunfire cast a tail of darkness—and those shadows whipped upward like serpents, striking at Talia's footing.
The beauty queen faltered, the crowd roaring in disbelief.
Talia recovered, fury twisting her graceful mask. She slammed her spear into the ground, unleashing a sunburst—a ring of golden fire expanding outward. Students in the stands screamed as the shockwave rattled the Coliseum.
Lyra planted her feet, Moon Veinroot thrumming. Silver light coiled around her, a soft hum against the roar of fire. The sunburst met her aura—and bent, folding inward, circling her like a crescent shield before dissipating into nothing.
The audience fell silent.
"She… she reflected it…" someone whispered.
The class clown's jaw dropped. "No way. Moon-girl just ate a sunburst."
Talia lunged again, desperate, her spear now blazing like a miniature sun. She struck in a furious flurry—each blow faster, hotter, heavier.
Lyra didn't retreat. She stepped in.
Her movements flowed like water under moonlight—every strike deflected, every thrust bent aside, her silver glow wrapping the golden flames until spear and wielder were ensnared in a tide of lunar energy.
Then Lyra's palm struck Talia's chest, releasing a concentrated pulse of silver light.
The explosion sent Talia crashing across the arena, her spear skittering uselessly from her grasp. She slammed into the sand, her sunfire aura sputtering out.
Silence.
Lyra stood tall, silver veins glowing like constellations etched in flesh. Her hair floated in the faint lunar aura around her, her eyes cold and radiant.
The horn blared. Victory.
Lyra stepped over the scattered sand, her silver aura still glowing faintly. Talia Nyx groaned, struggling to rise. The golden sunfire in her hair was tousled, her crimson robes scorched in patches.
Lyra crouched down, one hand extended. "Need some help, Talia? Or are you planning to stay on the ground all day?"
Talia blinked, fury and pride warring in her expression. "I… I don't need—"
"Relax," Lyra said, tugging her up anyway. The Moon Veinroot's silver glow coursed lightly along her fingers, supporting Talia's weight. "Wouldn't want you to faint again and ruin your perfect record in front of everyone."
The crowd murmured, some shocked, some amused. The beauty queen's followers hissed indignantly, but Lyra didn't care. She pivoted gracefully and led Talia toward the infirmary, her pace unhurried, almost teasing.
Talia stumbled slightly, caught by Lyra's steady hand. "You… you're impossible," she muttered.
Lyra smirked over her shoulder. "I know. But hey… even the sun could use a little moonlight sometimes."
From the infirmary balcony, Gareth's bruised face cracked into a grin. "Moonlight and chaos… perfect combination," he muttered, shaking his head.
Kael, watching from the shadows of the stands, clenched his fists. "That girl… she's going to make things very interesting."
The Coliseum's massive gates thundered open. Students, nobles, and teachers pressed against the stands, eager to witness a clash unlike any before.
Darius entered first—towering, calm, stone-light glimmering faintly along his arms. Every step made the sand tremble slightly, as if the ground itself acknowledged him.
From the shadows, Kael Draven stepped forward, smirk curling his lips. Darkness clung to him, writhing like liquid, shadows crawling over his armor. "Finally… someone worth my time," he hissed, eyes scanning the crowd, but always fixed on Darius.
The horn blared.
Kael was first to move. Shadows shot forward, slicing through the air like black lightning. He teleported, appearing behind Darius repeatedly, striking with precision. Each clash made the Coliseum's walls vibrate, the sand exploding into clouds.
Darius barely moved. His stone-infused fists absorbed the strikes, countering with Titan's Grasp—fist-shaped boulders erupting from the floor and smashing toward Kael.
The crowd gasped. Nobles whispered. Students cheered and jeered. Even Gareth, still recovering from his own fight, leaned forward on the infirmary balcony.
Kael's shadows merged, forming multiple copies of himself. They darted, vanished, and struck from every angle.
Darius pivoted effortlessly, manipulating gravity to crush the clones beneath immense stones, sending shards flying into the stands—cheers and screams erupted in equal measure.
Kael leapt atop a collapsed wall, sending shadow blades raining down. Darius slammed his fists together, a gravitational shockwave rolling outwards, shattering the shadow blades and tossing Kael back.
The Coliseum trembled, and spectators clutched their seats. Teachers' eyes widened. "He's… controlling the entire arena!" one whispered.
Kael, enraged, vanished entirely into darkness. Darius narrowed his eyes, sensing rather than seeing. As Kael reappeared mid-air, fists and shadow blades aimed at his head, Darius raised both fists, Titan's Grasp pulsing at maximum.
The impact detonated like a meteor strike, sending sand, stone, and shadows flying. Kael screamed, tumbling across the arena, his shadows dissipating in a haze of silver dust.
The crowd erupted—students standing, cheering, some even trembling at the sheer power. Darius walked calmly toward Kael, who was struggling to rise.
Kael's chest heaved, body battered, armor cracked. He glared, lips twisted in fury, but even he knew he was beaten.
Darius didn't taunt. He simply raised a hand to the officials. Kael was carefully lifted from the arena and carried to the infirmary, placed in a bed near Gareth.
Lyra, just returning from her victory, smirked at the scene. "Looks like the shadows got clipped today."
Gareth, bruised but conscious, turned his head weakly. "Close… call," he muttered, watching Kael groan beside him.
Kael's glare met Darius', simmering hatred beneath exhaustion. "This… isn't over," he whispered.
Darius' eyes were calm, unreadable. "Rest. You'll need it," he said.
The Coliseum settled into a stunned hush. The battle had ended, but everyone knew… the stakes had only just begun
The infirmary was quiet, the usual hum of healing wards replaced by the occasional groan of the injured. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, glinting off polished floors and the faint silver of Lyra's Moon Veinroot aura as she tended to some minor cuts.
Gareth stepped cautiously down the aisle of beds, leaning lightly on his own bandaged arm. Then he saw him—Kael Draven, half-conscious, chest bruised, a thin line of blood at the corner of his mouth. His armor was battered, and his usual shadow cloak seemed limp, almost defeated.
Kael's eyes snapped open. A glare sharp enough to cut stone met Gareth's gaze.
"You," Kael rasped, voice hoarse, "the cursed boy. I heard you survived the Coliseum…"
Gareth smirked faintly, adjusting his sling. "Survived. That's one word for it. You?"
Kael's jaw clenched, a vein twitching. "I've been… better. Darius made sure of that." His fingers twitched, shadows faintly writhing around his wrist, weak but still restless. "You should stay out of my way, boy. Next time, it won't be like this."
Gareth's smile widened. "Next time, huh? You sound almost… worried."
Kael growled low in his throat. "Don't test me. You've seen nothing yet."
The two locked eyes, silence stretching. Around them, Lyra tidied bandages, giving Gareth a knowing glance—silent warning that Kael was dangerous, even now.
Gareth leaned closer, his voice dropping. "Rest up, Kael. You'll need every ounce of shadow and anger you have for the next fight. I don't plan on going easy."
Kael's lips curled into a sneer, half in pain, half in contempt. "You… you think this changes anything?"
Gareth tilted his head, faint light glinting in his eyes. "It changes everything. For both of us."
Kael's glare didn't waver, but a flicker of something unspoken passed through his gaze—respect, fear, or perhaps the spark of rivalry burning hotter than before.
Outside the infirmary, the sun blazed over the Academy, but inside, two destinies had already begun their collision.
Gareth leaned casually against the bed rail, watching Kael Draven glare from his battered armor. The shadowy remnants around Kael writhed weakly, a dangerous whisper of his usual lethal presence.
Before the tension could grow unbearable, a soft hum echoed from the doorway. Lyra stepped in, Moon Veinroot glow faintly pulsing along her veins. Her eyes scanned the room, landing on Kael with a smirk.
"Well, well," she said, tilting her head. "Look at you, Draven. Half-dead and grumpy. Not the terrifying shadow king I'd imagined."
Kael's glare sharpened. "Shut it, traitor's daughter."
Lyra chuckled, stepping closer and leaning casually on the foot of his bed. "Oh, come on. Don't tell me Darius really bruised your ego that badly. You look… adorable when you're angry."
Gareth snorted, shaking his head. "Adorable? Really, Lyra?"
Lyra's smirk widened. "Hey, I call it as I see it. Besides…" She glanced at Gareth, her silver glow flickering in amusement. "…it's kind of fun watching you two stew together."
Kael growled low, trying to rise but wincing. "You… you're insufferable."
Lyra shrugged, still smirking. "Guilty as charged. But think about it—here we have the cursed boy and the shadow prince, both battered, and somehow I'm the only one keeping my cool."
Gareth laughed, leaning closer to Kael. "Careful, Draven. She's right. I'm the cursed one… but she might just be the real problem here."
Kael's eyes flickered with irritation—and something else, a grudging acknowledgment he didn't want to admit. Lyra noticed, smirked knowingly, and flicked a strand of her silver hair.
"You know," she said, tilting her head at both of them, "this is kind of a fun triangle. I win the banter, Gareth wins… maybe, and Kael…" She paused, letting her words hang like a knife. "…you just get to lie there looking moody. Lucky you."
Gareth chuckled, shaking his head again. "Somehow, you make everything ten times worse… and better."
Kael muttered under his breath, but the corner of his lips twitched, betraying that the banter had gotten under his skin in a way he didn't want to admit.
Lyra leaned back, satisfied. "Good. Keep that fire alive, boys. Makes life more interesting."
And with that, she drifted toward the door, her glow dimming as she left the two rivals simmering—one injured but proud, the other amused and exasperated—tied together in a strange, electric dynamic that neither could ignore.