Kael didn't speak about what he'd seen in the mirror.
Not to Soren. Not to the half-fae girl who teased him every time he tripped in the library. Not even to himself, really.
Some truths stayed stronger when left unnamed.
The next morning, the academy was already buzzing.
The First Combat Trial had been posted.
A public list hung at the center of the main courtyard, ink still fresh, names carved in glowing letters.
"Mandatory duel testing. Grouped by house rank. Observers permitted. Three days from now."
Soren nearly threw his bread across the mess hall.
"Did they have to post it like an execution schedule?"
"Maybe they did," Lyrix grinned, biting into an apple. "You'll be fine, Kael. Just die quick."
Kael said nothing.
But his palm tingled beneath the bandages he now wore constantly. The rune burned quietly beneath, like a coal wrapped in cloth.
That afternoon, as Kael stepped out of a tactics class, Professor Lioren was waiting by the stairs.
His face was unreadable, as always—half-grim, half-thoughtful. His long coat drifted slightly in the breeze. Kael nodded respectfully and started to pass.
Lioren spoke without looking at him.
"You're slow in the classroom," he said.
Kael stopped.
"And weaker than the rest physically," Lioren continued. "But not without... potential."
That word again. Potential. It stung. Kael hated it.
But Lioren wasn't praising him. His tone was flat. Cold.
"Meet me in the upper courtyard tomorrow before sunrise," Lioren said. "Bring nothing but yourself. If you're going to survive this place, you need more than a library."
Kael blinked.
"Am I in trouble?"
"No. Not yet."
Then Lioren walked away.
The next morning, it was still dark when Kael arrived.
The courtyard was silent. Fog curled low over the cobblestones. Lioren stood there already, stretching his arms like a man preparing for battle.
No books. No magic.
Just fists.
"First rule," Lioren said. "You fight until you can't breathe. Then you breathe and fight again."
Kael didn't ask why.
He just nodded.
And so it began.
The training was brutal.
No weapons.
No spell circles.
Just raw movement. Muscle. Blood. Endurance.
Lioren knocked him down five times in the first ten minutes. Then made him run the perimeter. Then made him do it again with sandbags tied to his legs.
Kael's body burned.
But his mind was colder than ever.
With each strike, he imagined Torran's smug smirk. Lyrix's laughter. The other students pointing. Whispering. Dismissing.
Let them.
This was not for them.
This was for what was inside him.
He would play their game.
He would lose, stumble, fall—just enough.
And then, when they were sure they understood him—
He would change the rules.