Chapter 11—Under the Rumbling Sky (II)

Rain hammered the stables, a drumbeat on sodden wood. The doors groaned under the push of the gale, and then they swung wide with the crash of thunder.

Twelve hoods. A half-circle of bodies fanned out across the entrance, mud sucking at their boots. Lightning flashed, and faces briefly flickered—Rad with his short spear and shield, knuckles white. Beside him Weldin, the fifth-year, his staff humming faintly with restrained power.

Raiden’s grip tightened on the pitchfork. He felt Ophelin shift beside him, her weight forward, pole poised to charge. Yet her boots stayed rooted. If I rush, am I walking into their trap? For the first time, hesitation cracked the Juggernaut’s instinct.

The first attackers surged in. Two blades swung wide.

Tadari met them head-on, wooden sword a blur. He caught one strike on the flat, spun, and rapped the wielder across the knuckles hard enough to draw a cry. Raiden darted in, pitching the fork low—its prongs scraped against a shin, driving the second attacker back.

Ophelin joined late, her pole sweeping in a brutal arc that cracked against a shield. The sheer force shoved both enemies backward. But the moment was lost. The circle had closed.

The clash became chaos.

Steel—dampened but still sharp—rang against wood. Boots splashed in churned mud. Horses screamed, kicking their stalls as the fight rolled past them. Rain whipped in through the open doors, soaking grips, dulling balance.

Three Barowen students pressed on Tadari. He moved like water around rocks, every strike measured. His blade smacked against wrists and ribs, each counter precise, but his breath grew harsher with every exchange.

Raiden fought two at once, parrying one thrust with the shaft of the fork while kicking another square in the stomach. His movements weren’t polished, but muscle memory guided him—duck, twist, turn the force aside. Still, the prongs skittered across shields, never striking clean. His arms burned, and the pitchfork felt heavier with each swing.

Ophelin’s pole cleaved a path through three more. She caught one student square in the shoulder, spinning him into the mud. Another time, she thrust hard enough to splinter a shield. For a heartbeat, her eyes gleamed with that old reckless fire. But the third pressed in close, and her strikes turned wild. Thrusts became fewer; swings grew broader, slower. Each miss left her more open, more frustrated. Rad stepped forward, shield raised against her pole. His earlier flinch was gone, hidden under grim determination. He lunged, spear darting—but his strike stopped just short, enough to enforce Garid’s order: stall, bleed, grind them down.

Lightning blazed again, and Weldin lifted his staff. Raiden felt the charge in the air, the weight of gathering frost. A thin shard of ice streaked past Tadari’s shoulder, biting into the wall. Another hissed across Raiden’s leg, close enough to sting the skin.

They were being pushed back, step by step. Tadari parried but couldn’t press forward. Raiden shoved but gained no ground. Ophelin struck, but each blow met three waiting shields.

The storm swallowed their voices. Orders barked by Barowen students blurred into the thunder. Mud clung to boots, horses bucked, the world shrank to flashes of wood and pain.

Raiden’s fork hooked a shield rim and yanked it down. For one sharp instant, he drove his fist into the student’s jaw, toppling him into the muck. Relief flared—then another blade clipped his ribs, staggering him sideways. His arms shook, lungs burning.

Ophelin had her moment too: her pole swept low, smashing a student’s legs out from under him. She stamped him down hard, eyes blazing. But then Rad’s spear rammed into her pole, catching it mid-swing, while another blade raked across her arm. She hissed, and took a step back.

She landed a crushing sweep, snapping the haft of one foe’s spear. The boy reeled, crying out. She pressed forward—only to find Rad blocking her path again, immovable, spear and shield forming a wall. Rage rose, but her feet rooted. If I go wild… will I lose myself again?

Tadari’s sweat stung his eyes. His sword still moved with precision, but his strikes grew clipped, conserving breath. He pivoted, cut across a shoulder, then ducked a blow meant for his head. He exhaled sharply, murmuring to himself more than to anyone: “Control. Always control.” His blade worked like clockwork, precise and patient, but even his shoulders sagged under the unending press. One student slipped past his guard and clipped his ribs. He hissed, then rammed his hilt into the boy’s jaw, but the damage was done—blood streaked his side.

The circle pressed tighter. Twelve against three. Every step they gave, the walls closed, the storm roared.

Mud swallowed boots, water pooled at their feet, horses kicked harder. Rain lashed through the doors, soaking grips, making wood slick. Every strike slipped. Every block jarred. Thunder drowned their shouts until only flashes of eyes and teeth showed in the storm.

Blades rang against wood, shields shoved, boots slipped. Horses screamed, rearing against their stalls as the melee rolled past, the air filled with the musk of panic. Lightning flickered, catching faces in glimpses—grim, pale, teeth clenched.

Overhead, Weldin’s staff flared brighter.

The ice was coming.

Thunder rolled again, and this time it wasn’t the sky that cracked.

Weldin lifted his staff. Blue light bloomed at its tip like a frozen star—and then the heavens answered.

Shards of ice rained down, not in straight lines but angled diagonally, screaming from above like jagged spears. They smashed through the stable roof, slicing beams and exploding against the floor in showers of frost. The air turned white with mist, the ground glittering with shards of frost.

Raiden dove, mud sucking at his boots as one spear tore the earth where he’d stood. Tadari shielded his face with his arm, blade still in hand, as another struck inches from his shoulder. Ophelin raised her pole to block—and the weight of the impact split it in two, the shaft snapping like kindling. She cursed, stumbling back, bruised but alive.

The Barowen lackeys pressed the advantage, pouring into the broken stables. Rain lashed harder, horses screaming and kicking against their stalls.

“Move!” Tadari barked, his voice sharp through the chaos.

Raiden’s eyes snapped to Ophelin. Weaponless, hemmed in, she swung the broken half like a club, fending off two at once but already faltering. Without thinking, Raiden thrust his pitchfork into her hands.

“Use this!”

She seized it, braced her stance, and roared as she swung wide, knocking a shield-bearer off balance.

Raiden had no time to linger. He sprinted to the nearest stall—the Stormfoot Courser. The sleek gray horse stomped and snorted, eyes rolling white with fear. Raiden fumbled with the buckle, rain slicking the leather, but his hands worked fast. With one heave, he pulled the latch free.

The Courser burst forward. Raiden caught the reins, vaulted into the saddle, and dug his heels in. The horse bucked once, testing him, then lunged through the mud.

Tadari followed, precise even in chaos. He loosed another Stormfoot, vaulted astride with the practiced ease of years. His blade flashed once more to buy them room, then he wheeled his horse around—just in time to see Ophelin stumble.

She fought hard. Too hard. The pitchfork jabbed low, staggering one, but another blade slashed across her thigh, cutting deep. Pain ripped a scream from her throat. She struck wildly, but the weight of the wound slowed her. Another blow came—down across her forearm. Bone cracked, flesh rent. The fork dropped from her hand.

She fell.

“OPHELIN!” Raiden’s shout tore through the storm.

Tadari spurred his mount forward, sword carving space. In one sweep he leaned low, scooping Ophelin across his saddle before the mob could finish her. She cried out, but he locked his arm around her waist, forcing her upright against him. His teeth grit, sweat and rain mingling on his brow.

“Hold on!”

Together they burst through the stable doors, mud exploding beneath pounding hooves. Raiden on one side, Tadari on the other, Ophelin clutched tight.

And Weldin waited.

He stood beyond the crescent, cloak snapping in the gale, staff blazing. The storm answered his call—hail and ice forming above, circling like a crown of daggers.

“Ride!” Raiden shouted.

They surged forward, horses plunging through rain and muck. Weldin lifted his staff high, then slammed it down.

The sky screamed.

A volley of ice spikes tore downward, heavier, sharper than before. They hissed through the air, striking the ground in detonations of frost. Horses shrieked as shards sliced their flanks. Raiden’s Courser buckled, screaming, its body collapsing mid-stride. Tadari’s mount stumbled too, hooves skidding, then crashed into the muck with a thunderous splash.

All three riders fell.

Raiden hit hard but rolled, pain flaring across his shoulder. His vision spun, but his body moved—instinct dragging him to his feet. Tadari staggered, Ophelin clutched against him, both groaning, half-trapped beneath the horse. Raiden’s chest heaved, but his eyes locked on Weldin.

No more running.

He seized the whip dangling from the Courser’s saddle, leather slick in his grip, and broke into a sprint.

The mage sneered, raising his staff again. Ice spears shrieked through the rain, tearing toward him. Raiden veered, legs screaming with each step, cutting angles so the spears would pass wide, harmless to his fallen friends. One grazed his arm, blood splattering. Another tore across his ribs, the sting white-hot. His breath hitched, but he did not stop.

He leaned forward, boots splashing, hair plastered by rain, every step hammering into the earth. The whip lashed once at his side, useless as a weapon but alive in his hands.

The storm howled. The ice fell. And Raiden ran, closing the distance, bloodied but unbroken, eyes fixed on Weldin.