Under the closed, black helmet, a large scarf covered Jon’s nose and mouth. The heavy armor weighed down his body, giving a sense of being trapped inside. There was nothing he could do about it though as, for the third fight of the tourney, he would finally be facing an Archmage.

Sulvan Hawick was the third son of Viscountess Hawick, one of Hagen’s direct vassals. Jon remembered the woman from back when he lived at Rochdale’s castle. Her son took after her, with hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and straw-like hair that gave him a gaunt appearance. If not for his noble title, one might confuse him for some starving commoner.

Jon still remembered the look of glee on Sulvan’s face after the drawings the night before. After all, an Archmage should have little difficulty in defeating a simple Mage. That happiness turned to shock when Jon walked into the arena, dark triotium plates covering him from head to toes.

Similarly, Jon was too was surprised by his opponent’s choice for protection. Boiled leather covered Sulvan’s torso and that was it. Avoiding what seemed to be the norm amongst students, the Viscountess’ son chose to be as light as possible.

As soon as the duke’s hand came down, Sulvanexploded in a cloud of sand, using his powers as an aeromancer to propel himself forward. He covered half of the circle’s diameter in the time it took Jon to walk two steps. The tip of his sword led the way, aimed directly at the slit in Jon’s helmet.

Sulvan came too fast for Jon to have any hope of dodging. So instead, he raised his blade and swang it down onto the incoming sword, deflecting it towards his breastplate. The sword drew a bright line on the armor as it glanced off to his side, but was otherwise harmless. Jon brought his blade back with a slash, but Sulvan had already fallen back to escape the counter-attack.

Sulvan took some distance and then dashed, once again summoning a gust of wind to carry him forward. His sword stabbed in a flurry at Jon’s head, legs, hand, head, neck, and head again, all in quick succession.

Jon kept his sword high to block the attacks coming at his helmet. The rest, he had to trust his armor to handle, as trying to defend everything would be impossible even without the added weight.

Fortunately, the armor held on. Jon himself was another story. He became more tired with each clash of their swords. Eventually, his reaction would come a beat too late and he’d lose. He had been on the opposite side of this situation enough times to understand he needed to act and he needed to do it now.

He waited for the next attack coming for his head and, rather than blocking it, pulled his sword back and tilted his head down. Sulvan’s blade glanced off the top of his helmet. Jon stabbed at Sulvan’s body and felt a small bit of resistance as it sliced through flesh. He looked up to find Sulvan retreating, free hand pressing against the side of his neck as blood oozed through his fingers. The bleeding gave no sign of stopping anytime soon, likely from a tear in a major blood vessel.

Jon needed only to hold on for a few more moments and victory would be his.

SUlvan must have understood this as well. He stopped applying pressure to his neck and rushed forward in a desperate attempt to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. He covered half the distance in an instant before conjuring a gust towards the ground, blowing a cloud of sand at Jon.

Jon immediately closed his eyes and tilted his head down, doing little to prevent the sand from entering his helmet. The scarf prevented him from breathing it in, but there was nothing to protect his eyes. He swung his weapon blindly, left to right and right to left, finding only air both times.

Something smashed his helmet on the right side, hard enough to make his ears ring. Jon slashed at its general direction and his sword clashed against Sulvan’s. His eyes felt like they were on fire, and it only worsened as he forced them open, just in time to see Sulvan collapsing to the ground, no longer able to withstand the blood loss.

No sooner had Sulvan’s body hit the ground than the sands beneath him parted so he could be attended by the healers below. It was a swiftness that Jon didn’t see for other contestants, leaving him to wonder if was due to the gravity of the wound, or the rank of the one wounded.

Jon pulled his helmet off and the sand cascaded down through the gaps, brushing against his face. The sand in his eyes continued to burn, and there was even more of it inside his armor, irritating his skin whenever he moved.

And despite all of that, he felt happy.

Winning the first three duels left him amongst the sixteen best students from the first year. He needed only to win the next duel to achieve his goal.

*********

Boisterous conversations filled the feasting hall, the sadness of those defeated offset by the happiness of the victors. And there were few places with as many happy students as around Jon.

“One more victory,” Deon repeated the words like a mantra. “One more victory and I’ll have a trip scheduled to the best week of my life.” Like Jon, he also won his three first duels.

Bella shook her head in obvious disapproval. “Aren’t you even a bit ashamed of wanting to go to the capital solely to sate your lust?”

“Not in the slightest. The way I see it, other students will be doing the same regardless, so I might as well take part.”

“Not everyone is a good-for-nothing like you. I hope we get paired together so I can make sure you don’t classify.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say to a friend.”

“We’re not friends.”

“Of course we are. We are both friends with Nevil, Aeron, and Jon, and that makes us friends too. Right guys?” Deon patted Jon’s shoulder as if asking for confirmation.

Aeron limited his response to a non-commital shrug, while Jon failed to give to pay it any mind. His attention was entirely focused on the far end of the table, where most other nobles sat. Garrel, unlike his two cohorts, also won all duels until that point despite not being an Archmage, the only one other than Jon who managed to do so.

Jon hoped they would be paired together for the next day’s duels. Winning tomorrow would put him amongst the eight best first-year students. And doing so while also humiliating Garrel in front of thousands of spectators would be the cherry on top.

“See? They both agree with me.”

“No, they don’t. They are not even paying attention.”

The headmaster stood up from his seat, and Jon moved his gaze from Garrel to the old man. “Good evening. I won’t delay myself too much as I’m sure everyone here is extremely eager to learn of tomorrow’s duels. Sixteen students from each year have won all of their duels up until now. Those who win tomorrow will ensure their participation in the King’s Tourney. As for the losers, they will have to fight for the ninth and tenth spots.”

Nothing that the headmaster said was news for Jon, or anyone even slightly invested in the tourney. The speech was a formality more than anything.

The kingdom of Gwynland had twelve duchies in total, each one with its own academy. Each academy selected ten students from each year to participate in the tourney, totaling one hundred and twenty. As for the last eight spots, these were decided the week prior to the King’s tourney properly starting. From each academy, the students placed eleventh to sixteenth would fly to the capital and duel amongst themselves for their last chance of competing.

So technically, even if he lost all of his next duels, Jon would still be able to visit the capital. A worthless consolation prize considering that his goal was never the tourney itself, but the concoction that could push him to become an Archmage.

Finishing his speech, and with much ceremony, the headmaster fished inside the ever-increasing black bowls for an ever-shrinking list of numbers. “Thirty-seven,” he read the first number out loud.

Excited for being picked first, Jon watched his own name being projected high in the air for all to see. “Eighty-eight,” he muttered Garrel’s number, again and again, hoping he’d be picked as his opponent.

Finally, the headmaster produced the second piece of paper. He unfolded it and the hint of a smile flashed over his face as he read it. “Fifteen,” he declared, holding the paper up high.

Jon’s heart sank to his stomach as he watched the name taking shape directly below his own: Bellatrix Teer.