Klara’s greatsword met her opponent’s mace with a final, sharp clang, flinging it from his grip with effortless, disarming power. The nobleman, Young Lord Perrin, stumbled back, his face a mask of frustration and resignation. He had been trying to best her since they’d been first years together, but they both knew it was a futile endeavor.

  “Yield,” Klara stated. It wasn’t a question.

  The onlookers erupted in applause, though it was laced with laughter from the onlookers who’d placed their bets on her inevitable victory. The defeated noble turned away, his pride wiped away clean. It had been a contest only in name—the entire three years they’d attended the Academy together.

  Just as she sheathed her large blade, a blur of blue silk and perfume hurled itself at her.

  “You won!” Julie squealed, wrapping both arms around Klara’s shoulders—and, annoyingly, rubbing their faces together.

  “It wasn’t hard,” Klara said, her tone cool as she shoved Julie off as nicely as she could. Her free hand went to the pendant at her throat—a stylized, crimson sword, the symbol of the Warfaring God.

  Julie huffed, brushing down her dress. “Ugh, I don’t like that thing. The whole religion is so…manly.”

  Klara fixed her with a stare of pure chagrin. “My family has served as war acolytes for seven generations. It is our legacy.”

  “Anything manly is ugly and gross,” Julie declared with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Especially the men.”

  Their bickering was interrupted by the arrival of a group across the lawn. Claude Edelyn stood beside a gleaming ivory carriage, its polish so bright it hurt to look at. The young man showing it off was Norlon Herlonde, whose family’s wealth was only surpassed by his pomposity. A cloud of sycophants trailed behind him.

  “Speaking of gross,” Julie murmured, nodding toward Norlon. “He’s rich, but look at him. Preening like a peacock in front of one of the good ones.”

  “I’m sorry for my brother,” Young Lord Perrin apologized, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. “He lets the family money get to his head sometimes…”

  “You’re still here?” Julie asked, side-eyeing him.

  Perrin’s shoulders slumped.

  Klara’s attention, however, was solely on Claude. Her war blessing, a low hum of energy in her body, pulsed at the sight of him. One of the candidates for the next Named Hero. To be a candidate so young just for his potential alone…that was worth testing one’s self against.

  Norlon, meanwhile, was gesturing to his carriage with theatrical flair. “It’s going to be grand, my dear Claude!” he was saying loud enough for all to hear. “The first-year parade is everything. You must make an impression as you ride into Vusric. See these beauties? A breed known to have descended from unicorns. Each one worth thousands of gold.”

  He stroked one horse’s mane with smug reverence before glancing back at Claude. “Tell me—what will you ride for your grand entrance?”

  Claude’s expression didn’t waver, though Klara caught the subtle tension at his jaw.

  “I’ll take the family carriage,” Claude answered simply.

  Norlon blinked. “That old thing?!” His laugh after was like a honking goose.

  Julie rolled her eyes, reading Klara’s expression perfectly. “And now you have that bloodlust thing going on when you really want to fight. It’s so gross and manly.”

  Klara exhaled slowly, the tension leaving her shoulders. “Remind me, why are we friends again, Julie?”

  Julie looped an arm around Klara’s waist in a half-hug, beaming. “Because we’re the most beautiful girls in the academy! We have to stick together.”

  Before Klara could muster another sigh, a sudden wave of excited murmurs swept through the celebration. A herald’s voice reached every ear, announcing an arrival that gripped the crowd with awe.

  “Make way! Swordmaster Eregnil, the Glorious Sword, has arrived!”

  The crowd moved like a tide, parting and surging again around the newcomer as word spread through the celebration.

  Swordmaster Eregnil had arrived.

  He towered head and shoulders above most men, commanding effortless reverence. A close-trimmed salt-and-pepper beard framed a stern, noble face. His vermilion coat draped gilded armor that gleamed like dawn’s first light—flawless despite years of fighting. At his hip hung a famed longsword and above it the badge of Vusric Academy, shining with quiet authority.

  He moved with purpose through the sea of nobles, his boots echoing with each deliberate step. Every gesture carried the weight of legend. But there was no mistaking where he was headed.

  “Lord Auric,” he said warmly as he approached.

  “Eregnil,” Auric replied with equal warmth.

  The two men clasped hands, not as noble and swordmaster, but as old comrades. The energy between them was almost palpable—two veterans of different fields, both carved from the same era of struggle and triumph.

  The murmur that ran through the crowd was electric.

  “They’re back together again,” someone whispered. “Just like in the old days.”

  Another voice, low and awed, added, “This can only mean one thing…”

  Lord Auric, his face alight with pride, turned and called, "Claude!"

  Claude, who had been weathering Norlon's comments with strained politeness, immediately brightened. The frustration melted away, replaced by a look of profound respect as he stepped forward to stand beside the legendary warrior.

  Eregnil placed a heavy hand on Claude's shoulder, his voice a resonant baritone that reached every corner of the courtyard. "Friends! I have an announcement. I have watched this young man's progress for years. I have seen his discipline, his character, and his boundless potential. It is with great honor that I declare I will be taking Claude Edelyn as my personal apprentice!"

  The crowd erupted in cheers. This was more than an acceptance to the academy; this was an anointing. It was the first, definitive step on the path to becoming a Named Hero.

  Julie rested her chin on Klara's shoulder, her voice a mix of awe and resignation. "Well, that was kind of obvious. Just like with Gareth True-Heart. Lord Auric provides the resources, Eregnil forges the warrior."

  Klara fell silent, a storm of anxiety and excitement warring within her. Her ultimate dream was to join the Hero’s Party, to stand on the front lines and personally take the head of the Demon King, ending the threat that loomed over the realms. She had known Claude since they were children, their fathers' friendship predating the Edelyn title. But to ask him to let her join the future party, now that his destiny was being formally sealed...it felt too forward, too shameless. She took a deep, steadying breath to calm her racing heart.

  Nearby, Norlon arrived with his coterie, his expression sour.

  "What's the point of being a Named Hero if you're poor?" he murmured to his friends, loud enough to be overheard. "He'll still need financial backing, just like Gareth True-Heart did. And from what I hear, the Edelyn coffers are more echo than coin."

  Julie rolled her eyes with such exaggeration it was a miracle they stayed in her head. Beside her, Klara despised Norlon’s crassness, yet she couldn’t deny the cold truth in his words. A Hero’s Party required an army’s worth of support. What made it worse was her own connection to the problem: she was betrothed to the man whose wastrel lifestyle had helped bring about the financial downfall of House Edelyn.

  Klara’s gaze remained fixed on Claude—his upright posture, the unwavering strength in his eyes. In him she saw the makings of a worthy rival, a pillar of integrity. And yet a single question clawed at her mind: How could the same house that raised him produce someone as fallen as his brother, Lucon?

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  She could only thank the gods that she had convinced her father to postpone announcing her betrothal to Lucon until a quieter moment. Not that the betrothal was going to last—at least not if she had anything to say about it.

  Julie’s lips curled into a knowing smile. She lifted a finger toward what appeared to be empty space beside Claude’s right flank. “Gareth True-Heart also wielded both Aura and Mana. He trained under two masters—one for each discipline.”

  The celebratory cheers shattered under a deafening crack. A bolt of lightning, pure white and blinding, speared into the center of the courtyard. The ground shuddered violently. Guests shrieked, stumbling back and shielding their eyes from the searing brilliance.

  Julie merely nodded, unfazed. “Just like a mage,” she murmured to Klara. “Always has to make an entrance—and always arriving precisely when you need them.”

  As the afterimage finally peeled away from their vision, a lone figure stood where the lightning had struck. An old, wizened man, cloaked in dark robes with a broad, pointed hat shading his sharp, intelligent eyes. In his hand he held a staff entwined with residual lightning—tendrils of light snapping and curling like living serpents.

  But Klara’s brow furrowed as she spotted a youth standing just behind the old mage—a young man with hair the color of fresh blood, handsome features and an expression of emotionless void.

  Lord Auric and Master Eregnil had initially looked excited, but the moment their eyes fell upon the red-haired youth, their expressions plummeted into something akin to dread.

  A whisper ran through the crowd. "Isn't that Dragnol 'Fire-Storm'? Gareth True-Heart's magic teacher!"

  "Why did he arrive separately from Swordmaster Eregnil?" another voice wondered.

  Ever the opportunist, Norlon was the first to move, rushing forward with his entourage scrambling in his wake. He offered an elaborate, theatrical bow to the red-haired youth. "Named Hero Candidate Rhavak Cysserian! An honor to have you grace us with your presence!"

  The youth, Rhavak, offered a single, slow nod in return, his eyes scanning the crowd as if assessing tools and their differing degrees of importance.

  Eregnil strode forward, his earlier joy replaced by a stern, almost confrontational demeanor.

  "So, you've chosen the Cysserian boy," he said to Dragnol, his voice low but carrying.

  The old mage met his gaze, unflinching. "We have tried it by the way of tradition, and tradition has failed us. If we are to succeed this time, then we go with power. Unfiltered. Uncompromising."

  Eregnil argued, an edge to his voice, "But Gareth wasn't what tradition demanded, not really—"

  "Not here," Dragnol cut him off, his aged eyes darting meaningfully to the surrounding crowds. "This is not the place, nor the time, to discuss such things."

  Eregnil looked at the sea of curious, anxious faces and exhaled heavily, conceding the point with a curt nod.

  "Still," he pressed, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "this is serious…"

  It was Lord Auric who stepped between them, his merchant's diplomacy a noteworthy force. "Then let us move this discussion inside, away from prying ears."

  Dragnol's sharp eyes turned to Auric, a flicker of old resentment in their depths. "The Merchant Hero will try to use his silver-tongue to make things go his way, as always. You will not sway me like last time."

  "It's not that, old friend," Auric said, his tone weary but sincere. "Let's think of it as speaking plainly—just as we used to."

  A heavy silence hung between the three legends.

  "Are we still friends?" Dragnol asked, the question stark and loaded. "After what happened last time?"

  Auric met his gaze without flinching. "We've always been friends. Then and now."

  Dragnol hesitated, the lightning around his staff finally dying out. He gave a slow, reluctant nod.

  "Very well. Let us speak, then," he murmured in a grave tone. "Let us speak of ghosts."

  A stunned silence fell over the guests as the three living legends—the Merchant Hero, the Arisen with the title of Glorious Sword, and the Fire-Storm Mage—disappeared inside, the weight of their private history closing the door behind them.

  Julie was the first to break the quiet, her voice a hushed whisper of disbelief. "I…I did not expect that. Dragnol 'Fire-Storm' not joining forces with Swordmaster Eregnil and Lord Auric? They were the foundation of the last party. Why wouldn't he support Claude?"

  Her confusion was mirrored on dozens of faces. The perfect narrative of Claude's ascension had been abruptly complicated.

  While the crowd murmured, the red-haired youth, Rhavak, turned his void-like gaze directly to Claude, who was still watching the door his father had just passed through.

  "Both of us are candidates," Rhavak stated. His voice was flat, devoid of pride or challenge, simply stating a fact. "We are here on potential alone. Even Gareth True-Heart had to prove himself before he was even considered."

  Klara watched, her heart a tumult of envy and fierce longing. This was history unfolding, both boys certain to either be the Named Hero or in the Hero’s Party. And she was on the outside, looking in. Her dream of being there when the Demon King fell felt both tantalizingly close and impossibly far. One of these two young men could be the one to strike the final blow.

  Claude met Rhavak's gaze, his own composure contrasting the other's eerie stillness.

  "You are lucky to be the apprentice to the Tower Master of the Final Light Mage Tower," Claude said, his tone diplomatically respectful. "It is an honor few mages ever receive."

  "Pleasantries are a waste of time," Rhavak dismissed him with a flick of his wrist. "We should determine who is more worthy. Here. Now. We duel. The winner gains the other's master. A more efficient path to power."

  Norlon, seeing his opportunity, stepped firmly to Rhavak's side, a smug grin on his face. "A sound proposition. We would, of course, be honored to have both masters who trained Gareth. And we have our own financing," he added, his eyes narrowing slightly at Claude. "We have no need for any kind of Merchant Hero in that regard."

  Perrin stepped forward to try and cut in, “Brother, have you discussed this with our father–”

  Norlon hissed, “Shut up, Perrin. Who do you think came up with the idea?”

  Perrin quieted and became thoroughly ignored by all.

  A muscle tensed in Claude’s cheek at the slight against his father.

  Before he could respond, Klara stepped forward, her voice wielding authority. “All Vusric celebrations adhere to tradition. The tradition is that incoming students may challenge only their seniors to duels, not their peers. You will have to wait.”

  Rhavak acted as if no one had spoken, his eyes still locked on Claude. Instantly, Klara felt a primal urge rise from her war blessing—a clear, compelling impulse to swing her greatsword at this arrogant boy.

  Norlon sneered, turning his condescension on her. “Back off, Acolyte Klara. The higher noble class is speaking now.”

  “There is no such official class,” Klara shot back, her hand instinctively drifting toward the hilt of the greatsword on her back.

  “Of course there is,” Norlon said, looking down his nose at her. “Rhavak is the son of a Northern Order Lord. Claude is the son of a Western Order Lord.” His gaze hardened with disdain. “You’re just a soldier’s daughter. The only reason you’re allowed to stand among us is your family’s quaint affiliation with the Warfaring Temple. Know your place.”

  Klara saw red. Her grip tightened on her sword, the urge to shatter his smug face becoming overwhelming.

  “That’s what I hate most about men,” Julie cut in, placing her ornate mage’s staff between Klara and Norlon like a barrier. “They always lead with their egos. Well, don’t mind me if I do the same.”

  She glowed blue with Mana. “I am Julie Othborro, daughter of the Southern Order Lord Heril Othborro.” Wind magic fluttered around her tight-fitting mage robes. “And I stand with Klara. Her lineage is as honorable as anyone’s here.”

  Norlon’s cocky expression faltered. He was wary of Julie; her family’s status and influence were unassailable.

  Rhavak, utterly uninterested in the social squabble, refocused on Claude. “Well? Will you hide behind tradition?”

  Claude’s voice was calm but resolute. “I would prefer to adhere to it, yes. There is wisdom in its structure.”

  “Tradition is a crutch for the weak,” Rhavak stated, his tone final. “It died when Gareth failed to slay the Demon King.”

  His expression remained blank, but his intent became clear. With an unhurried motion, he drew a slender, well-balanced sword from his hip with one hand, while the other pulled a short black mage’s staff from a holder at the back of his belt.

  “I tire of talk,” he said. “Let us prove, here and now, which of us is worthy of the title of Named Hero.”

  “Sister!”

  Two young women burst into the courtyard—one with long silver-gray hair and flushed cheeks, the other with mousy brown hair in a servant’s braid. The nobles turned, scandalized by the intrusion.

  “Lyris?” Klara blurted, unsure what could have prompted such an entrance.

  Lyris stormed straight toward her, face red with indignation.

  “Sister, I’m so angry for you!” she declared.

  At the same time, the servant girl ran to one of the armored guards near the door where Lord Auric disappeared into, her voice bubbling with excitement.

  “Brother! Look what Young Lord Lucon gave me for Mother!” She held up a small pouch that jingled heavily with gold coins.

  Klara’s Arisen hearing picked up both girls perfectly despite the chaos.

  “Kaeson, you don’t have to work so much!” the servant girl continued breathlessly. “Mother will not have to suffer this winter and you can come see her more!”

  And almost overtop of her, Lyris’ furious voice rang out, “Lucon Edelyn is missing his own brother’s celebration to ride around with whores and Mana Beasts!”

  The words rippled through the crowd like wildfire. Heads turned, whispers grew noisy, the buzz of nobles feeding on scandal like pack animals.

  The servant girl’s smile wouldn’t shrink.

  “Lucon’s the best!” she chirped.

  “Lucon’s the worst!” Lyris hissed, her cheeks flushed.

  No one heard the servant girl. The nobles heard only Lyris.

  Julie frowned.

  “Well,” she said dryly, “I thought Norlon was the worst kind of man, but perhaps I spoke too soon.”

  Norlon tried—and failed—not to laugh outright, biting his knuckle to hide his grin.

  His brother, Perrin, turned to Klara and offered, “I’m sorry you have to deal with such a man.” But no one bothered to listen.

  Claude stood silent, his face an unreadable mask, but his eyes were distant, certainly lost in a whirlwind of thoughts about his brother.

  Rhavak, his weapons still held ready, offered a pragmatic observation. “In House Cysserian, we prune the useless branches. Especially the weak links that taint the bloodline. It preserves the strength of the whole.”

  Klara’s felt as if she were falling into a chasm. This was the man she was betrothed to? A publicly shameless wastrel? Yet, the servant’s grateful, whispered praise echoed in her mind, a small, stubborn piece of evidence that refused to fit the narrative.

  As she wrestled with this, a calm presence materialized at her shoulder. It was Claude.

  “I have decided to keep to tradition,” he announced, his gaze locked on Klara. “As an incoming student, I challenge one of my seniors to a duel.” He gave a slight, formal bow. “Acolyte Klara of the Warfaring Temple, will you honor me with a spar?”

  Understanding flashed in Klara’s eyes. It was a masterful move. It upheld the tradition Rhavak scorned, gracefully sidestepped reckless and politically charged news, and gave people something else to talk about.

  Personally, it gave her exactly what she craved. A real challenge. A chance to test her steel against a Named Hero candidate.

  A fierce, grateful smile broke across her face, all her frustration and anger finding a perfect outlet. She met his gaze, her hand finally closing firmly around the hilt of her greatsword.

  “I really,” she said with anticipation, “could use a duel right now.”