The auxiliary yard no longer sounded like training.
It sounded like preparation.
Wood cracked. Metal rang. Someone shouted in pain and didn't stop fighting. The instructors didn't correct stances anymore — they corrected hesitation. Every drill carried urgency now, a quiet understanding that the arena wasn't sport.
It was selection, an opportunity wrapped in pain.
Frankie stood against the far wall beneath the shade of a broken stone overhang, arms folded, watching the others wear themselves down. Dust clung to sweat. Shirts were already dark at the collar though the sun had barely climbed.
No one laughed anymore.
A week ago they had been classmates.
Now they were competitors.
The blessing had turned everyone into a future enemy.
Across the yard, Luca fought.
He didn't move like the others — not faster, not stronger. Cleaner. Each motion ended exactly where it needed to. No extra steps. No wasted reach. When his opponent tried to overpower him, Luca gave ground just enough to break their balance, then guided them into falling for him.
A shove to the shoulder.
A turn of the spear haft.
A soft tap to the ribs.
"Down," the instructor said.
The third opponent in a row.
Luca stepped back, breathing steady. Not triumphant. Not proud. Focused.
Frankie frowned faintly.
He was becoming visible.
And visibility was dangerous.
A pair of auxiliary boys nearby muttered.
"He's going to get it."
"No chance anyone else does."
"Unless a gifted takes the auxiliary bracket."
"They won't waste the blessing on us if they can avoid it."
Frankie filed that away.
Important.
Very important.
The blessing wasn't just reward — it was politics.
Marco stood beside her, leaning lightly on the cane though she knew he didn't actually need it anymore.
"You're thinking again," he said quietly.
"I always am."
"You're working out his chances"
Frankie didn't answer.
He smiled faintly. "You think Luca will win."
"I think he's becoming unavoidable, noticable even."
Marco watched the yard. "He deserves it."
Frankie's jaw tightened slightly.
Deserved had never meant safe.
An instructor pointed toward Marco.
"You. Step in."
Several trainees perked up.
They'd noticed Marco avoided matches when possible — and people were curious.
Marco sighed softly. "I should lose."
Frankie shook her head. "Lose naturally. Not strangely."
He gave her a small look. He understood.
Marco stepped into the circle.
His opponent was Brenn — heavy shoulders, aggressive stance, the type who fought like volume equaled victory.
They saluted.
"Begin."
Brenn attacked immediately.
Marco didn't block.
He shifted — barely — letting the strike pass close enough to feel, redirecting with the lightest touch of the spear shaft. Brenn stumbled two steps forward.
Marco could have ended it.
Instead he retreated.
The second attack came faster. Brenn angry now. Sloppy.
The spear grazed Marco's forearm.
A shallow slice opened.
Several people saw it.
Blood welled—
—and stopped.
Not slowed.
Stopped.
The cut sealed as they watched.
For a heartbeat the yard went silent.
Marco tapped Brenn's chest.
"Down," the instructor said automatically.
The noise resumed too quickly.
"Barely a scratch."
"Didn't even land right."
"Angle of the light."
People explained what they needed to.
But they had seen it.
Frankie walked forward immediately, intercepting Marco before attention could linger.
"Water break," she said calmly to the instructor.
He hesitated, then waved dismissal.
The yard scattered.
Marco flexed his arm. Smooth skin.
"You worried?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I held back."
"You healed in front of witnesses."
He shrugged. "They want to believe their version."
Frankie glanced around.
Some were still watching.
Suspicion didn't need certainty.
It needed repetition.
Luca approached, wiping sweat from his brow.
"You alright?" he asked Marco.
"Fine."
"You barely bled."
"Lucky cut."
Luca studied him a moment longer than comfortable, then nodded slowly.
Not convinced.
But trusting.
That made Frankie feel worse.
Nearby, a cluster of auxiliaries argued.
"If I get the blessing I'm transferring units."
"You'd leave the district?"
"Immediately."
"They won't let you."
"They will if a god claims you."
Frankie listened carefully.
Blessings didn't just grant power — they reassigned lives.
Which meant whoever won would leave this balance behind.
That changed things.
Luca looked toward the next sparring rotation. "They're pushing harder today."
"They're afraid," Frankie said.
"Of losing?"
"Of not being chosen."
Marco leaned on the wall. "Same thing."
The next match started — two fighters far more vicious than necessary. The instructor didn't stop them until one couldn't stand.
Frankie watched silently.
The yard had shifted.
This wasn't practice anymore.
It was proof.
And proof drew attention.
Across the yard a gifted observer watched from the balcony — not intervening, only noting names.
Frankie followed his gaze.
He wrote Luca's down.
Her stomach tightened.
Luca noticed her expression. "What?"
"Nothing."
"You get that look when it's not nothing."
Frankie hesitated.
Then said carefully, "Winning changes where you stand. Not just what you gain."
He smiled slightly. "Good. I'm tired of standing at the bottom."
Marco watched both of them.
"You'll get it," he said simply.
Frankie didn't interrupt.
Because she believed it too.
And that was the problem.
The instructor clapped once.
"Final rounds. Pairs."
The trainees moved quickly.
Marco stayed beside Frankie.
"You're not fighting," he noted.
"I shouldn't."
"You could win."
"I'm not supposed to."
He nodded slowly.
Across the yard, Luca took position again — this time against two opponents at once.
They rushed together.
Luca moved between them, redirecting the first into the second, striking low, pivoting high. Within seconds both lay in the dust.
No one spoke this time.
The silence held longer.
Then whispers.
Frankie felt the moment settle into something heavier.
Recognition.
The yard now had a favorite.
And favorites were watched.
She leaned her head lightly back against the stone.
"Hiding me is easy," she murmured.
Marco heard.
"Hiding me won't be."
"And hiding him…" she finished quietly.
They both watched Luca accept a hand up from a fallen opponent.
"…may soon be impossible."
The games hadn't started yet.
But the consequences already had.