The morning after their first sparring session, Lost Voss woke to the clang of Vanguard Academy's bell, its echo reverberating through the stone dormitory like a call to battle. His body ached from yesterday's duel with Athena Kade, her fluid parries still vivid in his mind. 'She moves like she's reading my soul,' he thought, rolling out of his bunk. The memory of her smirk—half-challenge, half-invitation—lingered, a dangerous distraction from his true purpose. But Harlan Drake's cold gaze during the sparring session burned hotter. 'He knows something. I need to get closer.'
The Edge Alliance gathered in the dorm, their camaraderie already taking root. Joren Hale was braiding a leather cord into his sword's hilt, humming a folk tune. Mira Sol adjusted her pristine jacket, muttering about the dust in the arena. Finn Reed scribbled notes in a small journal, muttering about blade angles, while Garrick Thorne wolfed down a loaf of bread, crumbs scattering across his chest.
"Save some for the rest of us, bear," Mira teased, tossing him a napkin.
Garrick grinned. "Gotta fuel up. Today's schedule says 'Practical Combat.' Sounds like more bruises."
Athena, leaning against the wall, sharpened her blade with a whetstone. Her eyes flicked to Lost. "Ready to lose again, Voss?"
He met her gaze, a spark igniting. "Only if you're ready to keep up."
Joren laughed. "You two are gonna burn the arena down. Save it for the enemy."
'If only they knew who the real enemy is,' Lost thought, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword. The weight of his vow—to hunt the ten espadachins who massacred his family—pressed heavy. Flashbacks crept in: the Voss estate in flames, his father's blade clashing against three foes, his mother's scream as she shielded Lira and Thorne. The súditos, loyal swords sworn to his family, had spirited his siblings away, now serving them in secret. Lira's coded letter, tucked in his pack, arrived yesterday via a hidden courier: "Drake is at Vanguard. His style—low guard, quick thrust—matches one from that night. Be cautious." Lost's jaw tightened. 'Cautious, but relentless.'
The group joined the stream of first-years heading to the Lower Arena, a sunken pit surrounded by tiered stone seats where upperclassmen and instructors watched like hawks. The air buzzed with anticipation, the scent of sweat and steel sharp. Lost scanned the crowd, noting familiar faces: Torin Blaze, the arrogant first-year from yesterday, swaggered with his clique, flashing his gaudy sword. Lila Wren, the quiet scholar from the Blade Library, stood alone, her eyes darting as if cataloging everything. And Royce Blackthorn, the smug upperclassman, leaned against a pillar, his gaze predatory.
"Fresh meat's back," Royce called, smirking at Lost. "Hope you've got more than fancy footwork."
"Hope you've got more than a big mouth," Athena shot back, earning a scowl from Royce.
Lost suppressed a smile. 'She's fearless. Useful.' But he caught Professor Elara Voss watching from the instructor's platform, her expression unreadable. Her name—a cruel coincidence—gnawed at him, but her reputation as a political player suggested she might know the ten. 'Ally or enemy? I'll find out.'
Instructor Harlan Drake stepped into the arena's center, his presence silencing the chatter. His sword, a sleek rapier, hung at his side, its grip worn from years of use. "Today's lesson: adaptability," he announced, his voice sharp as a blade. "The battlefield shifts—your foe may be one, or many. You'll face a gauntlet: three waves of opponents, simulated by our training constructs. Survive, and you earn your place. Fail, and you're out. Form teams of six."
The Edge Alliance grouped instinctively, their trial against the dire wolves forging a trust that held. Joren clapped Finn's shoulder. "No tripping this time, scholar."
Finn flushed. "I'll manage."
Mira adjusted her stance. "Let's make this quick."
Garrick cracked his knuckles. "Bring it on."
Athena glanced at Lost. "Stick with me, Voss. We'll carve through."
He nodded, her confidence steadying him. 'She's already part of this, whether I like it or not.'
The constructs—wooden mannequins animated by ancient mechanisms—emerged from trapdoors in the arena floor. The first wave was six, each wielding a different weapon: swords, spears, axes. The Edge Alliance spread out, blades drawn. Lost and Athena took the center, their movements syncing as if rehearsed. His Echo Strike—a feint followed by a triple thrust—shattered a construct's arm. Athena's Intuitive Parry deflected a spear, her counterstrike splintering its core.
Joren fought with heart, his swings bold but imprecise, while Mira's calculated cuts dismantled her foe. Finn surprised them, dodging an axe with agility and striking weak joints. Garrick barreled through, his raw power smashing two constructs at once. The wave fell quickly, the crowd cheering.
The second wave was tougher—eight constructs, faster, with coordinated attacks. A spear grazed Joren's arm, drawing blood. "I'm fine!" he shouted, but his face paled. Lost pivoted, covering him, while Athena redirected a sword aimed at Finn. The group tightened their formation, trust holding them together. They prevailed, but exhaustion crept in.
The third wave was brutal: four constructs, larger, with blades that hummed with unnatural speed. One charged Lost, its sword arcing for his chest. He parried, but the force drove him back. Athena leaped in, her blade intercepting the construct's follow-up. They fought side by side, a seamless dance—his precision, her instinct. Together, they shattered the construct, their breaths heavy, eyes locked for a moment.
"You're not bad, Voss," she said, a grin breaking through.
"You're not just good," he replied, heart racing. 'She's more than I expected.'
The Edge Alliance finished the gauntlet, battered but victorious. Drake's eyes lingered on Lost as he dismissed them. "Adequate. Report tomorrow for dueling assignments."
As they left the arena, Torin Blaze shoved past, muttering, "Lucky break, Voss." But Lila Wren approached, her voice soft. "You move like you've fought worse than constructs. Why?"
Lost tensed. 'Too observant.' "Just training," he said, deflecting.
She nodded, unconvinced, and walked away. 'Another to watch,' he thought.
That evening, the Edge Alliance gathered in the dorm, tending bruises and sharing stories. Joren recounted a village tale, making Finn laugh. Mira teased Garrick about his snoring, earning a playful shove. The warmth of their bond surprised Lost. 'They're becoming family. Dangerous, but… necessary.'
Athena sat beside him, cleaning her blade. "You held back again," she said quietly. "Why?"
He met her gaze, her storm-cloud eyes searching. 'She sees too much.' "Saving my best for the real fights," he said, a half-truth.
She leaned closer, voice low. "Whatever you're hiding, I'm patient. But I'm here when you're ready."
His chest tightened. 'Trust her? Not yet. But soon.' "Thanks," he said, his voice softer than intended.
As the group settled for the night, Lost lay awake, Lira's letter heavy in his mind. Harlan Drake's low guard flashed in his memory—the same stance from that night. 'One step closer,' he thought. But Athena's words echoed too, a flicker of warmth in his cold resolve.