Chapter 2—Fractured Shields

“Every feud begins in whispers, before it roars upon the field.”
— Chronicler of the Legendaire Wars

The training grounds breathed with noise and dust, a restless hive of students scattered across its breadth. Wooden blades clattered, shields collided, voices barked in challenge and laughter. The air was thick with the heat of young warriors eager to prove themselves.

Raiden, Randall, and Ophelin wove through the crowd. Some students stretched, others practiced drills in pairs, and a handful simply boasted in knots of friends. The morning sun hung low but already burned with promise, catching glints off the wooden practice arms stacked by the racks.

“Look who crawled out of bed,” Garid Barowen’s voice cut across the training yard. He lounged against a post, practice sword resting on his shoulder, eyes locked on Raiden with that familiar contempt. “The Calamity himself. Late again, or just planning to faint this time?”

Raiden kept his gaze low, moving to the gear racks without so much as a glance. His hands busied themselves, weighing a wooden short sword, testing its balance. He said nothing.

Randall’s eyes narrowed into a scowl that would have cut stone. He shifted, clearly fighting the urge to speak.

Ophelin, however, grinned like a wolf. Her fingers traced along a shield’s rim before gripping it tight.
“Finally,” she said, almost under her breath, though her voice carried enough for Garid to hear. “Time to loosen my arms a little.”

The Barowen noble smirked but said no more. Raiden knew that silence wasn’t a concession; it was a promise.

When all were gathered, the instructors entered.

Mr. Lorig walked first, his frame wiry but strong, spear strapped to his back with the ease of a man who’d carried one longer than most students had lived. He surveyed the field with practiced patience.

Next came Mr. Carn, broad and upright. Unlike many in the Academy, his doublet bore no noble sigil. A commoner-born knight, one of the rare few who had clawed his way to knighthood by sheer grit and skill. Whispers often followed him, yet his presence commanded respect.

Behind them was Ms. Lila, robed and poised, her healer’s eyes scanning with detached sharpness. Born of nobility—though her House went unnamed—she carried the aura of one who mended not out of kindness but out of duty.

Lastly came Sir Falden of Barowen. His noble bearing was unmistakable, chin tilted just so, every stride proclaiming pedigree. Threads of pale magic already danced at his fingertips as he raised a hand. A ripple of power shivered outward, cloaking the grounds in a subtle hum.

Carn spoke, voice booming across the yard.
“Today is joint training. No smaller groups—your entire grade will spar, with fifth-years among you. Each team, three members: two of your year, one fifth-year assigned.”

He paused as students shifted uneasily.
“Matches will be supervised. We act as referees, stepping in if need be. Should accidents occur, Ms. Lila is here as Mender.”

His hand gestured toward Sir Falden. “To limit risk, Sir Falden weaves a dampening field. Spells will be weaker, though not harmless. Remember—emotions rise in battle, and restraint falters. This safeguard ensures you walk away with bruises, not funerals.”

The air pulsed faintly again as Falden finished his weaving, smugness barely concealed on his face.

Ophelin leaned toward Raiden, voice a sly whisper. “Or maybe the real danger is him. Barowen threads always reek of trickery.”

Raiden’s lips pressed thin. She wasn’t wrong.

When the teamings began, Ophelin surged forward.
“He’s mine,” she declared, jerking her chin at Raiden.

Raiden frowned. “Ophel, don’t—”

Her hand landed firm on his shoulder. “You’ll be their target. I’ll be your wall. Done deal.”

Raiden muttered, “Juggernaut.”

Randall paired with Otis, a shield-bearer. Their fifth-year was Maron, wiry and fast, twin daggers twirling restlessly in her hands.

Across the field, Randall noticed their opponents all had melee weapons: pole, sword, sword and shield.

The first of matches began.

Otis blundered forward, shield raised high. The enemy fifth-year—a lanky boy with a wooden pole—drove its butt into his side with brutal efficiency. Otis crumpled, groaning.

Randall didn’t flinch. He slid a step back, bow drawn in one fluid motion. His first arrow smacked into the pole-user’s chest. Maron swept in, ducking low, and sent her dagger cracking against a sword-wielder’s ribs. Together they dismantled the trio with clinical precision: the second arrow pinned the sword-bearer, Maron knocked his partner sprawling, and the last shielded foe crumbled under their combined weight.

The fight ended quickly, Randall’s breathing steady, Maron barely scuffed.

Across the grounds, Garid whispered to his circle, loud enough for nearby ears.
“Fortunate Rymboven didn’t get paired with Crotis. Randall makes three-on-three meaningless. Too easy for him.”

Though Garid mocked, his tone carried a frustrated edge. He never dared test Randall himself—outcast though he was, Randall’s bow spoke for him, and no one wanted to be the mark.

The instructors called for the next bout.

Raiden and Ophelin stepped forward, joined by their fifth-year ally: a girl with the sigil of Lynthor stitched bright on her doublet, orb above open book in ocean blue. She twirled strands of wind magic between her fingers, gaze sharp, mouth curved in disdain.

“Name’s Lynda,” she said curtly. “Try to keep up.” Her eyes fell on Raiden’s lone short sword. “No shield? Pathetic. Go fetch one—you’ll need it.”

Ophelin’s grip tightened on her club, but she held her tongue.

Raiden strapped the shield reluctantly, sighing. “Club and shield, Ophel? Where’s your polearm?”

“For fights like these?” She swung the club with relish. “I’d rather drag it out. More hits. More fun.”

Raiden winced. “I pity your victims.”

Their opponents waited: two commoners, each armed with shield and weapon, standing solid. Behind them, a Barowen mage, frost already curling at his palms.

Ophelin muttered, “One of Garid’s lackeys, no doubt.”

The next horn blew, sharp and low, calling them forward.

The match began.

Ophelin crashed into the shield wall like thunder, the ground shuddering under her force. The pair bent but did not break, straining to hold her off.

Lynda strode forward, wind gathering at her palms. Too slow. The Barowen mage’s ice spear flew first.

Raiden reacted on instinct, shield raised. The impact shattered it, wood exploding in his grip. Pain jolted up his arm, numb and burning all at once. His eyes widened. Too heavy. That wasn’t Academy sparring magic. That was battle-forged, real.

On the sideline, Ms. Lila’s brows knit faintly. Her healer’s eye caught the way Raiden’s arm trembled—the shock alone should have broken bone. She glanced, just once, toward Sir Falden, then smoothed her expression.

For a heartbeat, suspicion flared in Raiden. Barowen tampered with the field.

“Raiden!” Ophelin’s shout broke his focus.

The shield-wielders dove, grabbing her legs and pinning her.

Lynda faltered, panic flashing in her eyes. The next spear spun into being, its frost trailing white mist.

Raiden didn’t think. His body remembered. He spun, sword arcing, twisting his weight in a perfect circle. The blade caught the ice, deflecting it downward to shatter against the dirt.

From the sideline, Carn’s gaze sharpened. That spin… one of mine. Mimicked cleanly.

Ophelin kicked free with a roar, surging across the ground in a single blur of motion. Her club sank deep into the enemy mage’s gut, knocking him sprawling.

The match was called.

Ophelin jogged back, face tight. “Sorry. Those shields stalled me longer than I thought.”

Raiden shrugged, tossing aside the ruined shield. “Be sorry for our teammate instead.”

Lynda sat pale, lips pressed thin, muttering excuses about timing and dampened spells.

Across the field, Garid watched, irritation twitching at his jaw. Not fury—not yet—but close.

Ophelin followed his gaze, then smirked. “This is just the start.”