Act One: Spectacular Failure

"To be a fool is a great luxury, for you can say any foolish thing and people will only laugh."

— Umberto Eco

———

The bell's echo died, and Vance Thorne exploded into motion.

He came at me like a force of nature—sword high, leather armor gleaming, every step calculated to showcase the perfect form they taught in the advanced combat classes. His blade swept down in a textbook overhead strike, the kind that would cleave through an amateur's guard and leave them sprawled in the sand.

I stumbled backward, my heel catching on absolutely nothing.

Arms windmilling wildly, I crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs and borrowed practice gear. My sword flew from my grip, spinning end over end before clattering to rest three feet away. Sand sprayed everywhere. The impact drove the breath from my lungs in a very genuine wheeze.

The crowd erupted.

Laughter rolled down from the stands like an avalanche, starting with scattered chuckles and building into full-throated guffaws. Someone in the Argent section shouted something about dancing lessons. Another voice called for bets on how many seconds I'd last—the odds weren't encouraging.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

I flailed on the sand for a moment, playing up my disorientation before scrambling toward my sword on hands and knees. Vance stood over me, his blade lowered, staring down with an expression caught between amusement and disgust.

"Get up, Leone." His voice carried across the amphitheater, pitched for the crowd. "I didn't come here to watch you grovel in the dirt."

I grabbed my sword and hauled myself upright, swaying slightly as if the fall had rattled my skull. When I raised the blade, my grip was all wrong—fingers too loose, wrist cocked at an awkward angle that would make any real swordsman weep.

"Sorry," I mumbled, loud enough for the front rows to hear. "I'm... I'm ready now."

Vance's smirk widened. He settled into a proper guard stance, sword angled just so, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. Everything about his posture screamed competence and control. A predator toying with wounded prey.

He lunged forward, not with the killing intent of our first exchange, but with the lazy confidence of someone who knew the outcome was never in doubt. His blade came in from the side—a simple cut that any first-year should be able to parry.

I swung to meet it.

And somehow managed to twist my wrist at exactly the wrong moment, turning what should have been a basic block into a wild overhead swing that left my entire right side exposed. Vance's sword slapped against my ribs with a meaty thunk that echoed through the amphitheater.

I yelped—part genuine surprise at the impact, part theatrical embellishment—and stumbled sideways. My own blade continued its wayward arc, nearly taking my head off before I jerked backward to avoid decapitating myself.

The laughter doubled.

"FIGHT, YOU USELESS FODDER!"

The bellow cut through the crowd's amusement like a blade through silk. Every head turned toward the House Onyx section, where Fen Grimhowl had erupted from her seat like a volcano achieving critical mass.

Her copper-red hair whipped around her shoulders as she leaned over the railing, golden eyes blazing with fury that could have melted steel. The wolf-kin's ears were pressed flat against her skull, and I could see the tips of her canines as she snarled down at me.

"STOP DANCING LIKE A FRIGHTENED GOAT! HIT HIM!"

Two Onyx students—Marcus Vellum and Thomlin Ashworth—grabbed her arms, trying to pull her back into her seat. She shrugged them off like they were children, her attention fixed entirely on the arena floor.

"I SWEAR TO THE ANCIENTS, LEONE, I WILL SKIN YOU MYSELF IF YOU DISHONOR US LIKE THIS!"

Oh, this is even better than I hoped.

Fen's rage was real, raw, completely unfiltered. She wasn't embarrassed by my performance—she was personally offended by it. Every stumble, every missed parry, every moment of apparent cowardice was a direct insult to her warrior's pride. The contrast between her volcanic fury and my pathetic display made me look even more hopeless by comparison.

The crowd's laughter took on a different quality now. Where before they'd been laughing with Vance at my expense, now they were laughing at the sheer absurdity of the spectacle. A wolf-kin warrior screaming at a trembling failure while said failure tried not to kill himself with his own sword.

Vance's confident smirk flickered.

This wasn't the glorious public execution he'd envisioned. The crowd wasn't admiring his skill or cheering his dominance. They were treating the entire thing like a comedy performance, and I was the star of the show.

"Focus on me, Leone," he snapped, advancing with his sword raised. "Not the rabble in the stands."

I backed away, raising my blade in what might charitably be called a guard position if you squinted and had never seen actual swordplay. "I'm trying! She's very loud!"

"VERY LOUD?" Fen's voice cracked like thunder. "I'LL SHOW YOU VERY LOUD WHEN I—"

"Fen, please!" Thomlin Ashworth's voice was strained as he struggled to keep the wolf-kin from vaulting over the railing. "You're making it worse!"

"WORSE? HOW COULD IT POSSIBLY BE WORSE? HE'S FIGHTING LIKE A WET KITTEN!"

Vance's eye twitched. He darted forward, his blade whistling through the air in a strike that would have opened my throat if it had been real steel instead of blunted practice metal.

I threw myself backward, arms flailing for balance. My foot caught on the uneven sand and I went down again, this time in a spectacular backwards tumble that sent me rolling across the arena floor like a dropped sack of grain.

The crowd lost what remained of its collective mind.

Even the faculty box wasn't immune. I caught a glimpse of Professor Blackthorne rubbing his temples as if fighting a headache, while Professor Delacroix had covered her mouth with one delicate hand—though whether to hide shock or stifle laughter, I couldn't tell.

I rolled to a stop near the arena's edge, covered in sand and breathing hard. My borrowed practice armor had twisted around my torso, and my hair stuck up at angles that defied both gravity and dignity.

"GET UP!" Fen roared from the stands. "STOP ROLLING AROUND LIKE A DYING FISH AND FIGHT!"

I struggled to my feet, swaying dramatically as I tried to straighten my armor. My sword lay halfway across the arena, abandoned during my strategic retreat that observers might charitably call "running away screaming." Vance stood in the center of the ring, his blade hanging loose at his side, staring at me with the expression of someone who'd ordered a feast and been served a plate of something that died under the kitchen last week.

"Are you going to retrieve your weapon," he asked, his voice tight with frustration, "or shall I just declare victory now and spare us all this... whatever this is?"

"Right! Yes! The sword! Very important tool of combat!" I stumbled toward where my blade lay gleaming in the sand, my gait resembling someone who'd not only forgotten how legs worked but was actively trying to invent new and incorrect ways to use them. I nearly tripped over nothing twice on the way there.

The crowd's mood had transformed entirely. What had started as bloodthirsty anticipation had curdled into scornful amusement tinged with the kind of secondhand embarrassment that makes people want to look away but can't. They weren't cheering for Vance anymore—they were just watching this slow-motion disaster unfold like spectators at a carriage wreck.

And the best part? This is exactly what Vance deserves.

I'd studied him for weeks. Watched him preen and posture in the dining hall, during training, in the corridors. Seen how he fed on admiration and respect like a vampire at a blood feast. He needed to be seen as superior, needed the validation of crushing those beneath him with elegant brutality. A quick, clean victory would have satisfied his ego and cemented his reputation as another golden child of Aurum.

This? This was a humiliation that cut both ways. Yes, I looked pathetic—but what did that make him? The noble warrior reduced to chasing a stumbling, whimpering fool around the arena while a wolf-kin screamed increasingly creative insults from the stands? The mighty hunter unable to catch the most pathetic prey imaginable?

I reached my sword and bent to pick it up, making a show of nearly toppling face-first into the sand in the process. When I straightened, Vance was stalking toward me, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts, his perfect composure crumbling with every step.

"Enough games, Leone." His voice had lost its theatrical projection, dropping to something cold and personal. "Stand still and let me finish this."

I raised my sword in another terrible guard, blade wavering like a reed in a strong wind. "I'm not playing games! I'm doing my best!"

"YOUR BEST?" Fen's voice carried clearly across the arena. "YOUR BEST IS AN INSULT TO SWORDS EVERYWHERE! MY GRANDMOTHER FOUGHT BETTER THAN THIS, AND SHE'S BEEN DEAD FOR TEN YEARS!"

Several students in the other sections had started laughing at Fen's commentary as much as my performance. Even some of the Onyx students looked like they were fighting smiles, though they tried to maintain solidarity with their screaming housemate.

Vance's face had gone red beneath his perfectly tousled hair. This wasn't the easy victory he'd been promised. This was a farce, and worse—a farce that made him look like a fool for participating in it.

That's it. Get angry. Lose that careful control.

He came at me again, faster this time, his blade cutting sharp lines through the morning air. I backpedaled frantically, my sword weaving wild patterns that occasionally intersected with his attacks more by accident than design.

Steel rang against steel in a series of clumsy collisions that bore no resemblance to actual swordplay. Each time our blades met, I staggered backward, my face a mask of desperate concentration as I fought to keep his sword away from my vital organs.

"Stand and fight!" Vance snarled, pressing his attack.

"I am standing! Mostly!"

"THAT'S NOT STANDING, THAT'S CONTROLLED FALLING!" Fen bellowed. "PLANT YOUR FEET AND SWING THE POINTY END AT THE BAD MAN!"

The crowd was in hysterics now. Even the Vermillion section, notorious for their cold composure, showed signs of amusement. Lady Elena Morgenthorne had her fan raised to cover the lower half of her face, but her ice-blue eyes sparkled with mirth.

Only the Aurum section remained subdued. Leo von Valerius sat rigid in his seat, his golden hair catching the sunlight as he watched the proceedings with what looked suspiciously like mortification. His noble sensibilities were clearly offended by the entire spectacle.

Sorry, cousin. Sometimes honor requires sacrifice. Even dignity.

Vance's next attack came harder, driven by frustration and wounded pride. His blade slammed into mine with enough force to send vibrations up my arm, and for the first time, I didn't have to fake my stumble.

"There we go," he muttered, advancing as I fought to regain my balance. "Finally showing some backbone—"

I tripped over my own feet again.

This time the fall was spectacular. I went down like a felled tree, arms spread wide, my sword flying from my grasp to land point-first in the sand where it quivered like an arrow. The impact drove a genuine grunt from my lungs and sent up a cloud of dust that momentarily obscured the arena floor.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then Fen's voice cut through the quiet like a blade through silk:

"I CAN'T WATCH THIS ANYMORE. SOMEONE PUT HIM OUT OF HIS MISERY. PLEASE. I'M BEGGING YOU."

The crowd exploded into fresh laughter, but it had a different quality now—less cruel, more absurd. They weren't laughing at a weakling being humiliated. They were laughing at the most ridiculous fight in academy history, a spectacle so far removed from actual combat that it had transcended into pure theater.

Vance stood over me, his chest rising and falling as he struggled to control his breathing. His sword hung at his side, and for the first time since entering the arena, he looked uncertain.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to be the hero of this story, the righteous noble putting an upstart in his place. Instead, he was trapped in a comedy where he couldn't even manage to look competent against an opponent who fought like he'd learned swordplay from a particularly uncoordinated chicken.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Now for the real show.