Chapter 13: The Rivalries Take Shape

  Elaine Verdant massaged her temples, already regretting signing up for the academy.

  Healing magic was rare, which meant she was in constant demand. If someone wasn’t nursing burns from an overzealous fire mage, they were dealing with cracked ribs from “honorable duels.”

  And today? Today was a disaster.

  “Sit still,” she snapped at a noble whose broken nose she was resetting.

  The rivalries were getting out of hand. Lucien and Hannelore were practically at each other’s throats, Magnus and the royal prince had apparently decided to settle their dominance, and the knight-blooded students were forming their own power plays.

  And then there was that one.

  Jessica Moran.

  Elaine wasn’t involved in combat rankings, but she had noticed something unsettling. Jessica had been limping to the infirmary less over the past few days. Her swordsmanship—at first a complete joke—had become dangerous.

  It was unnatural.

  Magic cripples weren’t supposed to get stronger.

  Elaine wasn’t the only one noticing.

  —

  On one of the upper terraces, the clash of fire and frost had drawn spectators.

  “You look angry, Hannelore.”

  Lucien grinned as he circled his opponent, flames flickering at his fingertips. Across from him, Hannelore Eisendreich, the infamous Ice Queen, stood poised with her rapier—her movements flawless, yet rigid.

  “I don’t get angry,” she replied coolly.

  “Then you won’t mind if I win.”

  His sword burst into flame as he lunged.

  Hannelore sidestepped effortlessly, ice coating the ground beneath her. Lucien’s blade hissed against her parry, fire and frost clashing as they exchanged blows.

  This wasn’t just practice anymore. This was personal.

  Lucien wanted to break that unshakable composure. Hannelore wanted to prove he never could.

  The duel ended in a draw. Neither looked satisfied.

  —

  Elsewhere on the training grounds, Alistair von Aurelius faced off against Magnus Reinhardt.

  Magnus blocked Alistair’s sword with an annoying amount of ease.

  The royal prince narrowed his eyes. Damn it.

  Magnus was strong. Unfairly strong. First-year students weren’t supposed to be this monstrous.

  Alistair had challenged him because he couldn’t accept that.

  He stepped back, shifting his stance. Wind gathered at his feet—his family’s second element—and he vanished in a burst of speed.

  Magnus didn’t react.

  Alistair swung—fast—but Magnus blocked like he had all the time in the world.

  The fight was over before it could begin.

  Magnus hadn’t even tried.

  “...You’re not fighting seriously,” Alistair muttered.

  Magnus shrugged. “Didn’t need to.”

  That pissed him off even more.

  —

  Closer to the inner courts, two squires clashed under the watch of disinterested instructors.

  Edgar Valerius and Roland Gottfried weren’t the top of the class, but they were both skilled, disciplined, and fiercely competitive.

  Their rivalry was different from the nobles’. It wasn’t about politics or family honor—it was about proving who was the better warrior.

  Right now, neither could land a hit.

  Roland’s flame-coated sword clashed against Edgar’s lightning-fast footwork, sparks and embers flying as they dueled.

  They didn’t talk.

  They didn’t need to.

  This fight wasn’t about words. It was about who would stand last.

  —

  From the shaded edge of the field, Callum Fairfax observed everything.

  Callum Fairfax didn’t fight.

  Not because he couldn’t—but because he didn’t need to.

  From the sidelines, he analyzed every move, every rivalry, every dynamic.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Hohenfeld and Eisendreich? A classic elemental opposition, but personal pride drove their battles more than strategy.

  Reinhardt and Aurelius? Power vs. technique—the prince was overconfident. Magnus didn’t even see him as a threat.

  The squires? Honorable, but predictable.

  And then there was... her.

  Callum’s sharp eyes flickered to Jessica Moran.

  He didn’t care about politics, but he understood patterns.

  And Jessica was breaking them.

  —

  At the edge of the dueling platform, Seraphina von Aurelius remained seated.

  She had watched all of today’s duels, noting the unspoken rivalries forming.

  She had also watched Jessica Moran’s progression.

  It wasn’t talent. It was something worse.

  A magic cripple improving this quickly was impossible.

  Yet... there she was.

  Seraphina didn’t know what Jessica was hiding.

  But she was going to find out.

  —

  In the noble observation rows, Cécile de Montfort and Beatrice von Amsberg watched with visible disdain.

  Cécile sneered as she watched Jessica fight.

  Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Is she seriously using a rapier like that?”

  “She fights like a peasant.”

  Jessica was fast. Too fast. But there was no grace, no refinement—only raw brutality disguised behind delicate footwork.

  The nobles watching could barely contain their disgust.

  It didn’t matter how fast she was.

  She was still beneath them.

  —

  Gideon von Hohenfeld leaned against a balcony railing above the sparring rings.

  He had been ignoring the rumors.

  But even he had to admit—Jessica Moran was unnerving.

  She had no right to be this fast.

  And yet, even now, Lucien himself was watching her.

  “She’s nothing,” Gideon muttered. “A magic cripple. She’ll plateau.”

  Lucien’s red eyes flickered with something unreadable.

  “...We’ll see.”

  Chapter 14: The Elite Class Expedition

  The lecture hall of the magic knight academy was abuzz with murmurs and whispered speculations. The elite class had been gathered—thirty of the most exceptional first-years, the academy’s supposed finest. However, the room’s energy felt divided, as it always did. Nobles huddled with nobles, knight-borns kept their distance, and the handful of first-generation commoners were all but ignored.

  At the front of the hall, Grandmaster Wolfram von Eisenwald stood with his arms crossed, his presence enough to silence the chatter. Lady Isabeau de Montclair, the instructor of magic theory, stood beside him, her sharp violet gaze sweeping over the class. A few of the students straightened their postures under her scrutinizing eyes.

  “The time has come for your first true trial,” Wolfram announced. His deep voice carried through the hall with ease. “A practical combat mission: a monster subjugation in the eastern wildlands.”

  At once, the murmurs returned, but this time with a restrained excitement.

  “The monsters are not expected to be formidable,” Lady Isabeau continued, her voice smooth but indifferent. “Your true test is teamwork. Lone wolves will not survive.”

  Her words were pointed, though she did not look at anyone in particular.

  Jessica Moran was seated in the back, silent as usual. She already knew where this was going. They were going to shove her into a team, despite the fact that no one wanted her there.

  “The mission will be conducted in teams of five,” Wolfram stated. “Teams have been predetermined based on prior assessments.”

  That was enough to set some of the more entitled students off.

  “Predetermined?” Lucien von Hohenfeld scoffed, his red eyes narrowing. “What, pray tell, is the criteria for such an assignment?”

  Lucien was a golden-haired Marquess’ son, widely considered the top of their year. His presence alone was enough to draw attention.

  “Skill distribution and compatibility,” Lady Isabeau answered curtly.

  “And yet you expect us to work with the likes of... that?”

  A few students followed Lucien’s gaze, which inevitably landed on Jessica.

  Jessica did not react.

  “You mean the magic cripple?” One of the noble girls, Lisette du Chastillon, spoke with mock pity. “I understand charity work, but must we waste a team slot?”

  Jessica had long since grown accustomed to their jeers. She did not expect them to accept her.

  “You are to work with your assigned teams,” Wolfram said coolly, though there was an edge to his tone. “If you cannot handle this, perhaps you are unfit for the elite class.”

  That shut them up.

  —

  Team assignments were distributed later that morning in the courtyard. Jessica, unsurprisingly, was placed with a group of students who wanted nothing to do with her.

  Her assigned team consisted of:

  ? Derick von Riefenstahl – a serious knight-born with wind magic, skilled but rigid.

  ? Selene d’Avril – a noble prodigy, skilled in ice magic, but arrogant.

  ? Damien Bellerose – a fire magic user from a Viscount’s family, who only respected strength.

  ? Rufus Kriegsmann – a brute with earth magic, all muscle and no subtlety.

  ? Jessica Moran – the “dead weight.”

  Jessica’s mere presence seemed to infuriate them.

  “This is a joke,” Selene muttered, folding her arms. “If we fail because of her—”

  “You won’t fail because of me,” Jessica cut in, her voice even. “You’ll fail because you’re incompetent.”

  That earned her several glares.

  “You think you’re clever, gutter rat?” Damien sneered.

  Jessica merely tilted her head, her refined posture subtly off-putting. Despite her lowly status, she did not slouch or cower. Her gestures were precise, her speech articulate. Yet, it was not the noble etiquette they recognized—it was older, stranger.

  Even among the aristocrats, something about her mannerisms unsettled them.

  “You speak well for a magic cripple,” Edgar noted, though his tone was not mocking—just observant.

  “She plays at being noble,” Selene said with distaste. “It’s pathetic.”

  Jessica did not react. She merely inclined her head ever so slightly, a motion reminiscent of an archaic courtly acknowledgment—not a bow, but something else entirely.

  It irritated them more than if she had snapped back.

  —

  From the upper balcony of the training grounds, Lady Isabeau observed the students preparing. Instructor Reynard Falkenrath stood beside her, arms crossed.

  “You let them rile her up,” Reynard mused.

  “I did nothing,” Isabeau replied. “They chose their own reactions.”

  Reynard smirked. “She unsettles them. And not just because she’s a magic cripple.”

  Isabeau’s gaze followed Jessica.

  “I’ve seen many noble houses,” she murmured. “And many forms of etiquette. Hers is... not one of them.”

  Reynard raised an eyebrow. “What are you suggesting?”

  Isabeau did not answer. Instead, she turned away.

  “We will see how she fares,” she said.

  —

  Later, the students were deployed to the eastern wildlands. The terrain was rough—dense woods, uneven stone, and sprawling underbrush. The instructors kept their distance, monitoring only from afar.

  Jessica carried her newly acquired rapier, a royal-grade weapon gifted by Princess Seraphina—though “gifted” was generous. The princess had only handed it over after days of complaints about the family-standard broadsword.

  It was a fine weapon. Too fine for someone of Jessica’s standing. That alone made the others suspicious.

  “A gutter rat wielding a royal sword,” Selene muttered. “Disgraceful.”

  Jessica ignored them.

  The hunt began.

  —

  The first wave came fast.

  Low-class gnarwolves—twisted canine creatures with elongated limbs and glowing red eyes. Fast, but not strong.

  Jessica stayed back, observing.

  Selene’s ice magic was sharp, but lacked flexibility. Damien’s firepower was overkill. Edgar was precise, but predictable. Rufus? Pure muscle, no strategy.

  Jessica could have ended it quickly. But that wasn’t the point.

  She let them fight. Watched how they moved. Stepped in only when needed—sidestepping attacks with minimal effort, offering no more than a flicker of her blade when required.

  Even that was too much.

  “Are you even doing anything?” Damien snapped after the last corpse hit the ground.

  “I’m conserving energy,” Jessica said evenly.

  Selene scoffed. “Or you’re just useless.”

  Jessica smiled. “Perhaps.”

  They moved deeper into the wildlands.

  —

  Far above, the instructors were shifting. The tone of the mission was changing.

  Something was watching.

  The gnarwolves had only been scouts.

  And something worse was waiting in the dark.

  Everything was about to fall apart.