The Spark Of Steel

Darian, annoyance still heavy on his face, reluctantly deactivated his magic. Eirene stalked up to him and stared him down; he lowered his head as if dug in shame.

“Darian,” she said quietly, every syllable a command, “after class. You’re coming with me. Do you understand?”

He clicked his tongue and answered in a huff, “Yes, ma’am.”

Eirene gave a short nod to Minato, and he loosened his grip on the black feathers that had bound Darian. The shadow-feathers slid back to him like ink drawn by a slow tide, and Minato flexed his fingers, feeling the familiar weight return. Eirene dismissed the others with a flick of her hand; the clamour of the classroom ebbed as students prepared to leave.

A young noble who had stood up to Darian jogged to catch up with Minato. He grabbed Minato’s shoulder, breathless, then bent over with his hands on his knees, chest rising and falling. Minato glanced at him over tousled dark blond hair, dirt at the collar and then the boy straightened, grin splitting his face. His eyes were an arresting green, bright as new leaves.

“Minato, that was incredible,” he said. “How’d you stop him?”

Minato jumped back a little at the enthusiasm and felt a private, amused flutter at the boy’s unfiltered energy. He sorted himself, smoothed his coat, and answered as best he could.

“It wasn’t much. Somebody had to stop him. You looked like you could handle it.”

The noble’s smile softened into something more respectful. “You have quite the eye. Sorry I didn’t introduce myself. Tristan Drakemont. Frontier nobility. My father’s a baron out on the southern border.”

Minato’s mind supplied a memory like a caption: Celis had mentioned the southern border wild country, dark beasts, a line of defence against chaos. The Drakemonts were always at the front, sword and blood, living off the land and battle. Tristan’s posture and scars confirmed the rumour: faint lines crossed his forearms and chest where muscle met callous.

Minato bowed slightly. “Minato Caelestis. Pleasure.”

Tristan’s grin widened until it looked like a shout. “Woohoo! I made my first friend at school!” He danced on the balls of his feet, then sobered and leaned in. “So, how exactly did you stop Darian? I need details.”

Minato blinked, then explained with the awkward candour that came easy after a lifetime of simple truths. “I can control the feathers I make. When they attached to his limbs I just made them move the opposite way he was moving. He ended up stuck.”

Tristan’s face shifted from curiosity to reverence. “Woah how’d you think of that?”

Minato laughed, trying to disguise his embarrassment. “Honestly? I tried to push him and didn’t use enough force; he just stopped in place. Please believe me that's all it was. Luck and a little physics from my world.”

Tristan’s grin faded and then his expression softened into something like thoughtfulness. He stared for a long beat at nothing in particular, eyes distant, as if drawing lines through the air. Minato reached out to tap his shoulder then Eirene moved, soundlessly, to intercept his hand and guide it back.

“Slow down, Minato,” she murmured. “Watch.”

After a long moment Tristan blinked and muttered almost to himself, “So that’s it…even strength can be negated if you find the right point equal and opposite.”

Then he turned to Minato at full volume. “MINATO! Thank you. Teacher, am I to assume this is important?”

Eirene smiled, not unkindly. “Nothing’s wrong. It seems you’ve made a breakthrough.”

Tristan’s hands tightened on the hilt at his side. He looked like a man who’d found a key he’d been searching for his whole life.

Minato, bewildered, asked, “What do you mean? He looked dazed for a moment.”

Eirene settled into an explanation with the patient precision of a scholar. “Martial Archana users do not grow their abilities like spellcasters by reading or copying. Their talents blossom as technique: instinct, timing, a physical epiphany. When inspiration strikes, they lapse into a trance. Some stare into space, some swing mindlessly. You must never interrupt them in that state; breaking the moment can halt development entirely. I stopped you because that moment mattered.”

Minato’s cheeks warmed with guilt. “Sorry I nearly ruined it.”

Tristan’s laugh was bright and wholehearted. “No, if anything, you gave me that breakthrough. I owe you.”

Eirene’s knuckles rapped both of their heads in a fond gesture. “All right. Back to class.”

They shuffled back into the room, where another teacher waited in the doorway. He appeared frail: long grey hair that fell to his shoulders, a thin frame wrapped in a heavy coat, a leather-bound book tucked under his arm. His eyes, though sunken, were sharp as pinpricks.

“Students,” Eirene announced. “Meet your combat instructor: Sylas Drevel. Be respectful and do not underestimate him despite his illness.”

Sylas inclined his head with a ribbon of a smile. “Good afternoon. Follow me to the training grounds. Combat is best learned with sweat and air, not desks.”

As they left the classroom, a pair of commoners bowed and greeted Sylas with effusive warmth. He patted their heads as if they were children, answering their chatter with a gentle tease. Minato watched, surprised; Sylas’s patient manner didn’t fit the sickly frame.

Outside, the training ground door opened on a landscape so large it swallowed hesitation. The field stretched farther than reason suggested, grass shifting in patterns that made the eye dizzy. Minato felt something like vertigo. This place did not care for the rules of a simple building.

“How” he began.

“That's Archana,” Sylas said, delighted at Minato’s wonder. “An Atlas network meshes with resonance Archana to craft subspace; we maintain this field with those magics. It’s a training arena that would otherwise exist beyond the city. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Minato’s mouth went dry with longing. He could imagine whole lessons inside that expanse.

Sylas clapped. “Form pairs. Simple sparring for now. Test weapons, footwork, and control.”

Hands lifted, groups formed. Rowan scanned the crowd for Minato only to be bested for his attention by Tristan’s shout. “MINATO! Come on, let's spar!”

Tristan charged with the directness of a lancer. Rowan frowned, defeated, and paired with another. Minato and Tristan faced each other. The air was taut, curious faces crowding the perimeter.

Minato produced a blade of shadow as naturally as breathing. Tristan drew a sword that looked as if it had seen a hundred battles.

They met in the middle with the clank of metal and the whisper of shadow. Sparks blossomed where steel met summoned darkness, and the field hummed with the energy of two styles colliding.

They traded strikes fast, measured. Tristan’s eyes flared. The familiar flush of martial Archana activated around him; wind curled like smoke along his limbs and into his blade. He inhaled deep and released a backhand slash that tore the air; the gust hit Minato like a wall and sent him skidding back as if a storm had passed through.

Tristan didn’t relent. He followed with a cross-shaped slash of wind that carved a pressure-slice through the field and aimed straight for Minato.

Minato dispersed his shadow sword and remade it into a massive great sword, meeting the cross-slice head on. The collision bent the air; the cross-slice deflected, skittering aside, and Tristan’s eyes widened in surprise. Around them, students murmured.

Seizing the moment, Minato formed wings and launched a barrage of feather-blades. The projectiles flashed white and black toward Tristan like a slew of thrown knives. Tristan, training steeped into reflex, transformed the feathers into short blades he could catch and parry. He then drove his sword into the ground and wept wind up around him into a defensive dome; the blades struck and skittered harmlessly away.

Momentum was a living thing between them. Tristan used the surge to charge; Minato knew he could not hold the distance. He remade his shadow into a sword and met Tristan with rings of clashing steel and pulsed mana.

Tristan’s strikes were faster now wind granting them weight and speed. A stomp of his boot sent a gust that wrenched Minato’s footing and pushed him backward.

Unbalanced, Minato let go of his sword. Instead of a blade he spun it into shadow chains that lashed out and wrapped Tristan’s foot and arm, anchoring him. The chains hummed and tightened, stealing his momentum.

Both fighters surged Minato aiming for a quick, decisive strike; Tristan trying to break free and answer in kind. The crowd held its breath as their blades traced arcs of midnight and storm. Sparks ate the air.

Before the next exchange could land, Sylas clapped once hard enough to ring across the field.

“That’s enough!” His voice carried as if honed for control. “Well fought. Any objections?”

The cheers rose like a tide. Students stamped and clapped. Even the commoners at the edge applauded.

Darian, face flushed with fury, stood at the perimeter. His hand flicked, carelessly a rogue fireball spat free and streaked into the crowd. Rowan took the brunt of it and collapsed, smoke and panic tearing through the watchers.

Minato’s heart stopped for an instant. He saw Darian’s expression of pleasure smeared across it like a lie. He pushed through the ring of students and confronted the noble.

“What the hell was that for?” he demanded. “Answer me, Darian!”

Darian blinked, feigning innocence with an absurd, practiced ease. “Oh no so sorry. We weren’t watching properly and” He shrugged, as if the burning girl were a trivial inconvenience. “we hit the commoner by mistake. Very unfortunate.”

Minato’s hands tightened on Darian’s collar. “Like hell you were. Come out and face me. Enough of your games. Are you scared of me?”

Darian’s temper snapped. He head-butted Minato; Minato reeled. Darian gripped his own forehead, pointing at him with a venomous sneer. “HAVE IT YOUR WAY THEN. DUEL. I’LL PUT YOU IN YOUR PLACE, YOU GOOD-FOR-NOTHING COMMONER. TEACHERWITNESS THIS!”

Sylas walked forward, an unreadable expression on his face. “Fine. If both parties consent, I will organize a duel.”

Minato let go of his collar and took a step back, feeling the hollow, sudden chill of being singled out for violence. He scanned the crowd, eyes ran like knives over him. At the edge of the field, Tristan’s face was a mask of concern. Rowan lay coughing, soot beneath her hair, but alive.

Sylas’s smile had a blade beneath it. “Then settle it. Here. Now. We will see who stands.”

The field exhaled, and every student felt the slow, inevitable pull toward something that would change the tenor of their year.