My thoughts were running at bullet train speed. New deity? Could it be Jerome? Unlikely, his domain covers ‘nearly infinite universes’, not just this world. He spoke as a seasoned caretaker, too, like he had been doing it for a while. The new deity is supposedly a recent arrival. Cold terror filled me, Jerome hinted there was no existential threat 'yet’. Is this it? Was some malevolent god about to descend? Am I an antichrist?

  My thoughts must have been written all over my face because Elder Konsteus placed his weathered hand on my shoulder, its warmth anchoring me back to reality from the whirlpool of my panic. “Don’t worry, Zar,” he said. “Things will play out all right. Most people don’t remember anymore, but there was a time when the world had only two deities. It is said that the God of Order and the exalted Mother Nature fell in love, and the Goddess of Balance is their cherished offspring. It was bound to happen that their heavenly family would increase in numbers eventually.”

  The woman paladin cut in, jaw tight. “That’s one theory,” she said, voice clipped. “But the Church has been investigating disturbing rumors from the East…”

  “Another possibility, yes, but not now,” the Elder said, his mismatched eyes locking on mine. “Could we count on your discretion for a few weeks? The three faiths need time to coordinate an announcement. This is not a gag order. I ask this as a favor.”

  “I understand. Could you please just keep my name out of public discourse, though?”

  “Wise request,” he nodded. “It’ll be a turbulent time. With that said, theology class will be riveting this year. You passed, by the way. Just so you know, unlike her,” he glanced at the priestess now slumped on the floor, “I’m actually a member of the faculty. So I’ll be seeing you in class, Zar.”

  “Thank you. I should go, or I’ll miss the knight course exam.”

  The mountain woman’s voice boomed through the antechamber, her enthusiasm ricocheting off the polished marble walls like a war cry. “How marvelous, another ordained warrior in the making! You should consider joining our Order if you pass!” Her weathered face split into a grin beneath her cropped salt-and-pepper hair. “I am Gila d’Orgremont, captain of The Silver Helmets. Once things settle down, come find us at our cozy little keep on the southern edge of town. We’ll talk.”

  I left the antechamber, then the main chamber, ignoring the piercing looks from other examinees. Yeah, it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together that I’m somehow involved in this exam reset. I noticed that the crying fairy was back. Good. Shielding my eyes from the blinding midday sun, I crossed the courtyard’s worn cobblestones toward the Academy training grounds and my final test.

  A little over a hundred prospective students milled about in various states of nervous anticipation. The delay from the theology exam had everyone on edge. I scanned the sea of faces and spotted Luciana’s golden hair catching the sunlight like a beacon. She rushed toward me, her dark eyes widening as they fixed on my bloodied paws.

  “Zar, what happened back there?” Luciana said, grabbing my wrist. “And how did you cut your hand?”

  I glanced at my wound, grimacing at the jagged scratch. The bleeding had stopped, but now some dried blood crusted my fur. "It’s not serious," I said, flexing my fingers. "I’d tell you, but I promised to keep quiet for a few weeks. Then you’ll know everything."

  Luciana’s eyes narrowed, the sunlight catching the flecks of ruby in her irises as she studied my face. The tension etched between her brows melted away, replaced first by a knowing smirk that tugged at one corner of her mouth, then blooming into a full, radiant smile. “Three divine graces,” she whispered, her voice thrumming with barely contained excitement. “That’s it, isn’t it? You received all three!”

  “What? Is that, I mean…” my ears twitched involuntarily, “can someone even get all three?”

  “Oh!” Her shoulders slumped, the excitement deflating visibly as she tucked a strand of golden hair behind her ear. “Not that, then. I got carried away. But honestly, Zar, if anyone were destined for sainthood, it would be you… not to mention how good it would be for the Isles to have a beastkin saint right now.”

  “Sainthood?” I tasted the word, surprised by how foreign and heavy it felt in my mouth. “Three divine graces lead to becoming a saint?”

  “Saint candidate, technically.” She leaned closer, her voice fading to a confidential whisper that carried a faint trace of cinnamon. “It’s incredibly rare, one in a million, perhaps even rarer. Not everyone gets the opportunity to touch a divine instrument, though, so many potential saints go unrecognized.” Her eyes gleamed with scholarly pride. “I’ve studied this extensively. Several of my ancestors were candidates themselves. There are family journals filled with their experiences back in the family library.”

  Our conversation was cut short as two armored knights emerged from the lone canvas tent at the edge of the training grounds. Sunlight glinted off their polished breastplates, each emblazoned with the Academy’s knight course crest, a golden sword crossed with a quill. The taller one, whose helm was tucked under one arm, revealing a face crosshatched with old battle scars, raised a gauntleted hand.

  "Gather 'round, recruith," he called. Strong lisp in his speech didn’t abate his thunderous voice much. "Apologieth for the delay. The theology exam cauthed quite a thtir. Now that all recruith are here, we can protheed."

  His companion, leaner, with a suit of armor that seemed to hang slightly loose on his frame, stepped forward. The leather straps of his pauldrons creaked as he moved. “We’re organizing a bout,” he announced. "You’ll be sorted into groups of six at random, fighting in rotation until each of you has faced every other member in your group. Win three of your five matches, and you’ve earned your place in the knight course. Additional rounds will be held for a second chance, in case you are unlucky to land in a group full of especially talented fighters. In such an instance, you will prove your worth by demonstrating endless stamina and relentless spirit."

  Without warning, he snatched a training sword from the rack beside him, a painted dull blade inlaid with thin, glowing blue runes along the fuller. With a fluid motion so swift it left a blur in the air between them, he executed a lightning-fast strike at his colleague’s midsection. The taller knight remained motionless, unflinching. Where the blade made contact, deep red light pulsed along the runes, illuminating both knights in its blood-red glow.

  “These enchanted training weapons,” the lean knight continued, lowering the still-glowing blade, “are calibrated to illuminate when striking your opponent with force sufficient to penetrate leather armor. In case you are curious, next year, they’ll be adjusted to register only blows that would pierce chainmail.”

  A lanky boy with jet-black hair raised his hand, the sleeve of his too-large tunic sliding down to reveal a thin wrist.

  "Yes, what is your question?" the knight called, his voice carrying across the training grounds.

  “Don’t tell us during the third year we are expected to pierce plate armor?” The boy’s voice cracked midway through, betraying his youth.

  “Of course not!” The knight’s laugh boomed, his teeth flashing white against his weather-beaten face. “Fighting a fully plated knight requires a team effort or the use of magic. Otherwise, they are practically invincible. No, in the third year, you will be sparring with real blades.”

  The boy’s already fair complexion drained to the color of curdled milk, a visible shudder running through his shoulders as his eyes widened to the size of gold coins.

  For the next ten minutes, the judges methodically drew paper slips from an ornate ebony box, each name announced with ceremonial gravity before being pinned to the qualifier board. I watched as several names were quietly rearranged, most likely to accommodate political repercussions of pairing two nobles of high stature or to account for some of the adults participating.

  When I finally pushed through the crowd to check my placement, my claw traced down the list to find my name right beneath Prince Thomin’s. Wonderful. My collection of royal adversaries was nearly complete. Now I only need to pick a fight with a Chogueux prince to complete the set. Gotta catch-em-all.

  The designated sparring area was ringed by worn stone markers, and my assigned group gathered there like mismatched pieces from different game sets. Three humans, including the prince in his bespoke training leathers, a tall and stocky girl with wild ashen hair, a few dyed braids mixed in, and a slender boy with a nervous tic. Next to them stood a dwarf, already shuffling through various training weapons on display. Behind him… another wolfkin, a year older than me. His fur was white as fresh snow under moonlight, and his eyes glowed crimson, like a spawn of the frozen level of hell. I am sure he was a nice kid, deep inside.

  My first duel was to be against the boy with the nervous tic, whose dirty blonde hair had been hastily secured in a lopsided ponytail that still allowed several strands to escape around his temples. We approached the weapons table together, my claws clicking against the worn wood as I surveyed the arsenal laid before us. Those training weapons came in a variety of shapes and sizes: regular swords, curved sabers, double-bladed axes, flanged maces, spears, and polearms of various lengths, and even a few exotic weapons I couldn’t quite identify.

  “We can’t accommodate every specialized weapon,” the referee explained. “But any knight worth their salt should master a sword. Imagine your primary weapon shattering mid-battle. If you can’t snatch something from the ground and wield it effectively, you’ll be carrion before the dust settles.”

  “The selection is actually quite impressive,” I replied, running my paw along the smooth shaft of a long spear. “I was expecting just basic swords.”

  His sun-burnt face relaxed as I finally selected a mock javelin, its weight perfectly balanced in my grip, and a short sword with a leather-wrapped hilt and a sheath that fastened securely to my belt. With a comfortable weight against my hip, I padded toward the ring. My opponent already stood in position, his knuckles tight around the grip of a longsword that seemed slightly too heavy for his frame.

  The referee cleared his throat, a man who had clearly recited these words a thousand times before. “This is a sparring match, not a duel,” the referee announced. “It ends with first blood, surrender, or when one combatant can no longer continue, whichever comes first. Do you both understand these terms?” The words are identical down to the last syllable to what Gieffroy used back in the day. It must be standard protocol. We both nodded, my opponent’s Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Then begin.”

  We circled each other, kicking up small clouds of dirt. The kid lunged with a telegraphed overhead strike that I saw coming before his muscles even tensed. His movements were sloppy, too predictable. It felt like fighting a yellow belt holder who just learned his first katas. I deflected his blows with the elongated tip of my javelin, one after another, the wood humming slightly with each contact, my paws barely shifting position.

  His face flushed crimson with exertion after just a minute. I tested him with a feint to the left before countering after his next wild swing, my javelin whistling through the air. I had to make sure he is not faking it, you never know. I counterattacked after deflecting his next swing, making sure I don’t overextend. His dodge was pure instinct rather than training. He reflexively threw his body back, barely escaping my thrust.

  “Gah!”

  “Your movements are sluggish. Move in anticipation of my attacks.” I said, then attacked again, aiming at his leg.

  “Ngh!” Again, he barely parried that attack, opening his whole side for me.

  “Come on, at least try to dodge! Watch your ear!” I arched my javelin tip towards his head.

  His face twisted in a grimace as he executed a decent dodge at last. “Agh!” The frustration in his eyes flashed like struck flint, and he launched an overreaching thrust with such desperate force that his knuckles blanched white around the hilt. I avoided it easily with a simple sidestep. His momentum carried him forward, leaving him completely exposed. He wasn’t faking it.

  Unlike my encounter with Aleamme half a year ago, where I’d broken his nose with a satisfying crunch, I showed mercy to this trembling novice. My javelin clattered against the packed earth as I released it. In one fluid motion, I seized his sword wrist, feeling the tendons strain beneath my grip, and wrenched it outward until his elbow locked painfully. My other paw slapped his face, thumb pressing firmly under the ridge of his nostril. I hooked my elbow and pushed his head back and downward with increasing pressure, feeling the vertebrae in his neck resist, then begin to yield. His knees buckled instantly, body crumpling to the dirt with a dull thud and a cloud of amber dust.

  Before he could recover, my blade hissed from its sheath, the dull metal pressing against his throat. My knee ground into his sword wrist, pinning it against the unyielding earth, small pebbles digging into his skin.

  “Do you submit?”

  “Y… yes.”

  “Good fight, but you need more practice,” I said, helping him off the ground.

  “Th… thank you, but you are too kind. You are on a completely different level from me.”

  “Just more training and some practical experience, and you will get there.”

  “I will, but I doubt I will be able to join the knight course as I am now,” he said with a frown. “Oh well, I will ask my family to hire a master to tutor me. I am not giving up just yet.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I said, patting him gently on the back.

  My next opponent was the white wolfkin. His fur gleamed like polished ivory under the midday sun, each strand catching the light as he rolled his muscular shoulders. The crimson of his eyes deepened as he sized me up, pupils narrowing to predatory slits. As I approached the weapons table, he leaned in close enough that I caught his scent, pine sap and a trace of metal.

  “Bro,” he said, voice rough with an unfamiliar accent, “you’re with clan or you city-folk?” His tail swished behind him, betraying his excitement despite his casual tone.

  I straightened my shoulders, meeting his gaze directly. “Neither. I have no clan, but I did pass my rite.”

  His muzzle split into a toothy grin, canines glinting. “Fun. Let’s fight the proper way, eh?” His ears perked forward eagerly, black claws extending from his fingertips with a soft scraping sound.

  “With claws?” I flexed my own, the dark keratin catching the light. “Only if this doesn’t disqualify me after I get a simple scratch.”

  We both turned to the referee, ears perked forward in question. The man’s weathered face crumpled in exasperation, sweat beading on his sunburnt forehead as he exhaled. “Every year you wolves do that. You are not original, you know that?” He wiped his brow with a kerchief. “Fine, since you both agree, you can keep fighting even after blood is drawn. You only have ten minutes, though, and if there’s no clear winner, it counts as a loss for both of you. Is that clear?”

  “Yes!” we both barked in unison, tails wagging with anticipation.

  Once in our stances, the referee repeated the usual speech, minus the blood part, his words droning beneath the pounding of my heart. When he barked "Begin!" the world narrowed to nothing but my opponent’s crimson eyes.

  The white wolfkin charged with feral intensity. His ivory fur bristled as he practically pounced at me. Three rapid slashes of his gleaming claws sliced the air with whistling precision. I dodged the first. Twisting my torso, I evaded the second. Then I pivoted and rolled across the packed dirt to escape the third, feeling the breeze of his claws graze past my ear. Barely a heartbeat after I regained my footing, he was already airborne. Muscles coiled beneath his bright coat as he plunged down with a double hammer punch.

  “Haaargh!”

  It was the first time I’d seen anyone in this world do anything but straight punches, hooks, or uppercuts. It caught me unprepared, and I raised my forearm in a desperate block. The impact reverberated through my bones like a struck bell, his full weight behind it. Pain exploded up my arm as I stumbled backward, tasting dust. He pressed his advantage with a flurry of claw swipes that glinted in the sunlight, each aimed at my vitals. Head, throat, stomach. I deflected several with the outer edges of my forearms, fur flying as one slash connected, leaving a hot, stinging line across my bicep.

  Our deadly dance continued, as we circled each other, exchanging tentative blows that rang out with dull thuds. I tried to mix in a few kicks, but he seemed used to them and got dangerously close to catching my leg once. Too dangerous. Finally, I spotted my opening, a slight overextension in his lunge gave me enough time to leap forward, wrapping my arms around his torso in a crushing bear hug. His eyes widened in surprise as I hoisted his muscular frame upward, his white tail thrashing wildly, before driving him down into the earth with a thunderous impact that sent dust billowing around us.

  The slam forced air from his lungs in an audible whoosh, his ribcage contracting beneath my weight. Seizing my advantage, I rained three precise punches to his muzzle, forcing him to throw his arms up to shield his face. I rolled, capturing his leg between mine and twisting it into a textbook leg lock, feeling the tendons strain beneath my grip.

  As I applied pressure to his knee, feeling the joint strain beneath my grip, I yelled, “Submit, or I’ll break your leg!” My voice echoed across the dusty arena.

  He squealed and thrashed, white fur now matted with dirt. His crimson eyes bulged with panic as his claws dug furrows in the packed earth. With each desperate twist of his body, I methodically increased torque on his knee, feeling the subtle resistance just before the breaking point. “Submit! It takes months to heal if I break it!”

  “Aaaarh, I give up, I give up!” His voice cracked, halfway between a snarl and a whimper.

  I released him immediately. The tension in his leg dissolved beneath my paws. I rolled backward and sprang to my feet with practiced ease. When I extended my hand, he grinned through gritted teeth, ears flat. He accepted my offer with a firm grip, wincing as his weight settled on his leg.

  “Bro, this was amazing,” he panted, eyes shining with admiration even in defeat. "Will you teach me this move?”

  I smiled, feeling the tension drain from my shoulders as I thanked the divines that he wasn’t angry at me. His crimson eyes still sparkled with excitement. “Sure,” I said, brushing dust from my fur, “if you get accepted to the knight course, I’ll teach you that leg lock and a few other grappling techniques.”

  “Easy!” he barked. His tail wagged so vigorously that it kicked up dust. “I doubt anyone is stronger than you here!” His nostrils flared as he tested his weight on his tender leg, wincing but still excited.

  “Maybe not in this group,” I replied, gesturing toward the other contestants with my muzzle, “but trust me, there are stronger people here in general.”

  “Good!” he growled enthusiastically, his ivory fur bristling with anticipation. “Will not be fun otherwise!”

  After receiving a touch of healing magic that tingled like mint across my fur, I squared off against my next opponent. She was a girl of about fifteen, her wild girly hair covered in colorful braids, which were absolutely inconsistent with her broad warrior’s shoulders. Her eyes gleamed with an unsettling eagerness that made my hackles rise. She hefted a training two-handed sword resembling a claymore, its length nearly as tall as she was.

  I selected a spear again from the rack, feeling its familiar balance despite knowing the tactical disadvantage. If wielded properly, claymores were better at countering spears than any other sword. Yet something in her stance, the way she bounced on her toes with barely restrained energy, warned me to keep my distance.

  “Aahaha, this is so light! Nothing like grandpa’s heavy sword!” She test-swung the massive blade with alarming speed as she entered the ring.

  The referee’s hand dropped. Before his arm had fully fallen, she exploded into motion like a coiled spring released.

  “HYAAAAAAH!” Her battle cry shattered the air like breaking glass, her teeth bared in a feral grin as the claymore arced toward my head.

  Her claymore became a blur as she swung in every direction. Upward, downward, sideways. Her braids whipped around her as she pivoted with each strike, like a colorful tornado. There was almost no pause between swings. The blade whistled through the air mere millimeters from my snout. I didn’t dare counterattack. Couldn’t even breathe for a full ten seconds. My lungs burned as I danced backward across the packed dirt. My paw pads scraped against the rough ground while I waited for an opportunity to strike back.

  Then she backswung at me, her movements fractionally slower, her shoulders heaving with the first signs of fatigue. I seized the moment, meeting the attack with my spear shaft. The impact sent vibrations up my arms. In one fluid motion, I planted my spear into the earth and used it as a pole vault. My body arced through the air. My hindpaws met her chest with a meaty thud, knocking the wind from her lungs.

  The impact lifted her completely off her feet. Her eyes widened as she crashed onto her back in a cloud of dust. But she didn’t stay down even for a second, her powerful legs coiled, and she tumbled backward in a surprisingly graceful roll, landing in a crouch with her claymore still clutched in her grip.

  “Hah… Hah… Kuh…” Her chest heaved, face drenched in sweat. I pressed forward mercilessly. I lunged with a flurry of spear thrusts, whistling through the air. The spearhead glinted in the sunlight, darting toward her throat, belly, and legs. She desperately twisted away, the wooden shaft grazing her sides when she managed to parry, until finally, with a precise flick of my wrist, the spear’s edge sliced across the side of her neck. The tip flashed bright red, signaling my victory.

  She doubled over, chest heaving with each ragged breath, but her lips curled into a wild grin. Sweat glistened on her brow, making her colorful braids stick to her flushed face as she managed, “Aaah, haah, gooood fight!”

  “Yeah, you’re strong and really fast,” I said, rolling my shoulder. “But you need more discipline if you want to be a knight.”

  Her eyes widened, crinkling at the corners as she laughed. “I have no such ambition.” Her voice carried across the arena.

  My ears flicked forward in confusion. “Huh? What?”

  She shrugged those powerful shoulders, her claymore’s tip now resting in the dirt. “I don’t have the coin for the Academy. I just joined the exam to fight.” Her teeth flashed white against her sun-bronzed skin. “It seemed fun.”

  I glanced at the referee, as he pressed a weathered hand against his face.

  “Well, maybe we’ll meet one of these days again. I am Zar.” I extended my arm, fur still bristling with leftover adrenaline.

  She clasped my paw in hers, her calloused palm nearly engulfing mine with a grip that made my knuckles crack. “Name’s Oraia,” she declared, her braids bouncing as she nodded enthusiastically. “Let’s hope we meet on the same side of the battlefield in the future!”

  My next opponent was a young beardless dwarf. His stocky fingers wrapped around a training shield, oak reinforced with iron bands, and a short-hafted axe that gleamed dully in the afternoon sun. I selected two straight short swords this time, testing their balance with a quick flourish. The dwarf’s amber eyes narrowed beneath heavy brows. He didn’t speak, just dipped his head in a curt nod. I returned the gesture, my tail swishing once against the packed dirt.

  When the referee’s arm dropped, I circled left, my paw pads silent on the ground. The dwarf pivoted smoothly, shield angled to protect his core. I feinted high, then slashed low with my off-hand, testing his defenses. Metal scraped against wood as his shield intercepted my blade with a hollow thunk. My short swords were effective at this range, but one solid bash from that shield would send me sprawling, leaving my throat exposed to his axe. Though we stood eye to eye, his shoulders were twice as broad as mine, muscles packed densely beneath his leather training vest. If it came to raw strength, his stocky frame would crush me like autumn berries.

  I needed to create an opening before my arms began to tremble. My strategy crystallized. Uncle Flo’s joke sputtered in my head. I pressed forward aggressively, my blades whistling through the air in alternating arcs. Each strike glanced off his shield with a crack, then the second, then the third. Each impact jarred my wrists. Behind his shield, I glimpsed the barest hint of a smile. He was playing the long game, a battle of attrition. I recognized the tactic. I’d relied on it myself before learning that battles are won in moments of opportunity, not through endurance. What do you know? I grew!

  After another flurry of desperate swings, I dropped low to the dirt, my knee pads scraping against the rough ground as I pivoted on my haunches. My tail whipped around for balance as I swept my leg in a wide arc toward his stocky ankles. The dwarf’s amber eyes widened in surprise. He managed to spring backward, his heavy boots barely clearing my outstretched limb.

  I used this momentary imbalance in his stance as I executed a risky double attack from both flanks. My main-hand sword crashed against his oak shield with a hollow thunk that reverberated up my arm, while my off-hand blade caught the underside of his axe with a metallic screech.

  In one swift motion, I slid my sword beneath the curved edge of his axe and wrenched upward, locking the weapon in place above us. As he strained to free it, I used my other sword to hook the rim of his shield and push it downward. With his face now exposed, our eyes locked for a brief instant before I lunged forward.

  “HEADBUTT!” The primal cry tore from my throat, my forehead connecting with the bridge of his nose with a sickening crunch that reverberated through my skull.

  “First blood is drawn!” the referee called, his voice cutting through the ringing in my ears. The dwarf stood dazed, confusion clouding his features. A crimson rivulet trickled from his nostrils, staining his upper lip as understanding dawned in his eyes.

  I doubled over, paws on my knees, lungs burning as I sucked in ragged breaths. “Fweeeh, sorry for a cheap trick,” I gasped. My tongue almost lolled out, though I fought to look dignified. “But you were trying to outmatch my stamina, weren’t you? My arms felt like jelly. Made me desperate for a second.”

  The dwarf dabbed at his bloodied nose with a leather-wrapped wrist. His amber eyes met mine, not with anger but solemn respect. A single drop of crimson splashed onto the packed dirt between us. “No, this was fair,” he rumbled, his voice like stones grinding together. “I need to be more aggressive. It is my weakness, I know.” His calloused palm engulfed mine in a firm handshake, our forearms pressing together in the traditional warrior's grip.

  My fur prickled with anticipation of my final match as I approached the weapons table. My opponent already stood there, examining the selection with calculated precision.

  “Zar,” he nodded my way, his manicured fingers wrapping around the leather-bound hilt of a long sword, its full metal blade catching the amber light of sundown.

  “Prince Thomin,” I responded with a similar nod, my paw pads feeling the familiar weight of two short swords once more, their balanced hilts fitting perfectly in my grip.

  “Shame they put us in different groups,” he said, examining his reflection in the blade. “I hoped to demonstrate to Lady Luciana what is only the proper natural order firsthand, not that I enjoy beating women, mind you.”

  “If you say so…” I said, walking to the dueling ring. My tail swished sharply behind me, the fur bristling with annoyance that I couldn’t quite keep from my face.

  Prince Thomn arched an eyebrow as he stretched his lean arms to either side. The training longsword tucked behind his shoulders gleamed dully, its worn leather grip contrasting with his immaculate silk-trimmed tunic. “So,” he drawled, his aristocratic accent clipping each word precisely, “I noticed you in the mage exam hall, then meeting with the Chancellor. And now here you are, ready for the knight exam. Triple majoring as well, hmm?” His lips curled into what might have been a smile, but his eyes betrayed it. “To be honest, I hoped I would be the only one this year. It would’ve done wonders to my public image, genius prince and all that, but I suppose that ship has sailed.”

  I dropped to all fours, stretching my back legs one at a time, feeling my tail swish for balance. “Actually, I am doing all courses,” I replied, rolling my shoulders until the joints popped satisfyingly. “The reason I even wanted to study at the Academy was specifically for the theology course… the rest kind of just folded together naturally.”

  Thomin’s eyes narrowed, the cold steel in his irises catching the afternoon light. “All courses, huh. Well, it does sound impressive… on paper.” His lips curled into a practiced smirk that never quite reached his eyes. “But you do know what they say about being a jack of all trades?” He settled into his fighting stance, weight centered, right foot forward, sword arm blade angled toward my throat. His left arm curved elegantly behind him, fingers splayed like a dancer’s. Every line of his body telegraphed his intention: a lightning thrust, not a power swing.

  “I do,” I replied, my whiskers twitching with amusement, “but I’d rather be a versatile generalist than a one-trick pony.” My fangs flashed in a smile as I dropped into my own stance, knees bent, tail low for balance, twin blades crossed protectively before my chest. My main paw tensed, ready to deflect his inevitable thrust while my off-hand blade hovered, eager for the opening his attack would create.

  “Begin!”

  Thomin’s thrust came like a viper strike, so blindingly fast that my parry was more instinct than skill, my blade meeting his with a metallic shriek that vibrated through my paw pads. The force of it numbed my fingers. His longsword became a blur in the afternoon light, each attack flowing seamlessly into the next. My ears flattened against my skull as I twisted, ducked, and pivoted, my twin blades catching his strikes with desperate recoil.

  He flowed from one attack to the next: a diagonal slash that would have opened my chest if we fought with real blades and if it landed true, an overhead swing that could have split my skull, a deceptive feint followed by a vicious backhand. Each movement was executed with deadly precision, his blade catching the afternoon sun in blinding flashes.

  The target of each strike also seemed impossible to read. It was like trying to block crossbow bolts. He was really strong. Not Bastien-strong, but stronger than anyone I’ve ever fought on equal terms. The only reason I was still standing was the hard training I did with Luciana.

  While I managed to just barely get one or both of my swords up in time to block each of his swings, I was starting to lose my ground. Longsword had more reach, but was generally slower. Not in Thomin’s hands. My lungs burned with each labored breath. My twin swords became heavier with every desperate parry. The packed dirt beneath my feet shifted treacherously as I gave more ground every second. I needed to get inside his guard, but his relentless assault left no gaps. No moments of respite.

  Finally, I caught the blow of his thrust with both of my swords, catching it like a pair of scissors, just for long enough to lunge forward and drive my knee upward into his groin with enough force to make my leg muscles burn. His eyes bulged, pupils contracting to pinpoints. Usually, I reserved such tactics only for life-or-death combat, but the memory of his passing comment about beating Luciana had kindled a fire in my belly that wouldn’t be quenched.

  Thomin’s aristocratic features contorted into a mask of agony, his porcelain skin somehow blanching to an even lighter shade of white. To his credit, he staggered backward despite the obvious pain, swinging his longsword in a wild, desperate arc that whistled through the air inches from my whiskers.

  He hopped from foot to foot, his polished boots raising small puffs of dust from the packed earth as he tried to shake off the pain, his free hand hovering protectively near his injured pride.

  “Ergh… what a crude display,” he spat through clenched teeth, voice an octave higher than normal.

  “If it works, don’t break it. Pun intended.” My fangs gleamed in the afternoon sun as I grinned and rushed at him, my twin blades weaving a deadly pattern before me.

  For the first time, I had him on the defensive. Thomin’s blade danced to meet mine, each parry executed with flawless precision despite his discomfort. He kept dancing with the grace of a butterfly, but I could tell that one wing was slightly off-balance now. He had his hands full just parrying my blows as he was slowly but surely forced to retreat.

  Then, taking another page from Uncle Flo’s training, I feigned right, my whiskers twitching with anticipation, only to immediately roll to the left, my fur collecting dust as I tumbled across the packed earth to the perfect position to execute my next move. I hurled one of my swords directly at Thomin’s aristocratic face from an unexpected angle of attack. His eyes widened in alarm as he arched his longsword in a desperate, overextended swing to deflect it, the clash of metal ringing across the training grounds.

  The moment his balance shifted, creating an opening, I pounced, launching myself upward and connecting my right clawed paw with his temple in a devastating kick. His eyes glazed momentarily as he staggered backward, ears surely ringing from the blow. There was a drop of blood there too, but I didn’t stop as long as the referee didn’t catch it yet.

  He attempted to regain his composure with a series of wild, defensive swings, but I was already flowing into my next attack as I drove another front kick into his exposed midsection, feeling his breath escape in a satisfying whoosh. My kick landed with enough force to send him sprawling backward onto the dirt, his polished boots kicking up a cloud of dust as he landed hard on his tailbone.

  As he struggled to rise, chest heaving and silk tunic now stained with sweat and dirt, I delivered my final strike. The practice blade’s enchantment activated on impact, the metal gleaming crimson from hilt to tip, a signal of a killing blow and my final victory of the day.

  Thomin spat a glob of saliva onto the dirt, his pristine white teeth now stained with a thin line of blood from his split lip. “Damn it,” he growled, wiping his mouth with the back of his trembling hand. “Fine. I admit, it was… relatively clean fight.”

  I flicked my ears forward, whiskers twitching with satisfaction as I sheathed my remaining blade. “Just for your frame of reference, you should know…” I paused, savoring the moment, “Luciana is stronger than I am.”

  “You are kidding me?” The aristocratic drawl in his voice momentarily vanished, replaced by raw disbelief.

  “Nope,” I said, dusting a patch of dust from my forearm fur. “She started training very late, but she’s already at my level. In three years' time, I have no doubt she’ll be stronger than either one of us, at least as far as swordsmanship is concerned.”

  “Oh no. No, not happening,” he muttered, straightening his sweat-darkened tunic with shaking fingers. “I cannot be weaker than my…” he coughed into his fist, ears reddening at the tips, “never mind that. I am going to train very hard now! I didn’t slack before, but there is certainly more I can do.”

  “Sure, sure… good luck with that!” I patted his back with a condescending grin, feeling the damp silk beneath my paw pads. His muscles tensed momentarily before relaxing, and he seemingly forgave me for my breach of protocol, at least for today.