Their footsteps echoed as one.
Lucius and Darian stepped into the center of the arena like twin shadows silent, unwavering, wordless. The audience didn't cheer. Even the wind held its breath.
There were no greetings.
No taunts.
Words were meaningless here.
Magister Halvran Rusk stood at the edge of the arena, arms crossed. He looked between them and gave a single nod.
"You know what must be done. Begin."
Lucius stood straight, eyes focused ahead. He radiated a calm, regal pressure like a crown that didn't need to be worn.
Darian simply watched. Emotionless. Detached.
His sword remained sheathed, his steps deliberate.
Then Lucius moved.
A burst of magical flame erupted beneath his feet. A spiral of fire surged toward Darian, twisting through the air like a living whip.
Darian stepped aside.
No panic only unnatural precision.
With a flick of his fingers, gravitational force bent the flame's path just enough for it to scorch the ground harmlessly.
Lucius smiled faintly.
"You twist space."
"You're too quick to touch time."
Darian said nothing. He raised his sword then vanished.
Short-range teleportation. A flawless, clean step.
Lucius turned swiftly, catching the blade with a summoned shield of light. The clash rang like a bell, echoing across the stone.
"You're strong," Lucius said calmly.
"But this isn't over."
They retreated. Studied each other.
And charged again.
Magic exploded in waves. Elements shifted like lightning fire against air, gravity against reflex. Steel rang. Spells cracked. Two bodies moved beyond human limits, woven in a brutal dance of will.
And yet neither was wounded.
They weren't just fighting.
They were reading.
Matching.
Adapting.
Because both understood: this wasn't about victory.
It was about proving one thing:
"I exist."
Then, everything shifted.
Lucius twisted midair, hurling a vertical line of fire downward. The ground cracked as Darian charged straight through the flames, a barrier of reversed gravity distorting the heat.
They landed. Still silent.
Then Lucius did something different.
His hand moved not to cast, but to draw.
A soft metallic sound.
A flicker of silver beneath the setting light.
Lucius unsheathed his sword.
It was no grand weapon. No gem-studded heirloom.
A short blade of old silver, etched with faded imperial glyphs.
Gasps rippled through the noble seats.
Even the imperial officers cold observers shifted in their seats.
Lucius lifted the blade with one hand.
"This sword was given to me by my father,
as his father gave it to him.
Not to kill
but to weigh who is worthy to stand beside me."
Darian stared back.
His eyes narrowed not from fear, but clarity.
Lucius struck.
This time not magic.
A clean, precise cut.
Darian's sword met it with perfect timing.
Metal screamed.
Their physical strength matched.
But more than that their convictions had begun to collide. Strike after strike.
Magic flared, but now it was their bodies and blades that spoke the truth.
Sparks flew. Pressure grew. And then a line of red trailed down Lucius's cheek. A shallow cut.
He smiled. "You're not Soren's shadow.
You are… yourself."
Darian replied coldly: "I don't need your validation."
And they vanished into motion again.
The world faded.
Only two boys remained.
And two fates.
One from the Crown.
One from Ruin.