Chapter 32—Blade of Fate

"We are what we were. But what we will be, might not be us" 

The Auditorium was drowning in noise.

The thunder of Garid’s laughter rang across the stone chamber, shaking the banners that hung above the duel floor. He paced forward with twin blades glinting, one steel, one ice, both stained with Raiden’s blood. His face shone with manic triumph.

And Raiden—Raiden staggered back on trembling legs, his right arm limp, his ribs bleeding, his collar burning cold from frostbite. The wounds screamed, but he did not. His eyes were glassy, his breaths ragged, and each step back left a smear of red across the polished floor.

Ophelin’s chest tightened. She gripped her walking stick with white knuckles, heart pounding against her ribs. That stance… I know it. She remembered herself—her first duel, the mock battle at the training grounds, the ambush at the stables. She had charged recklessly, lost herself to fury, and paid the price. Watching Raiden now, battered, defensive, reactive, she saw her own flaw mirrored in him.

Randall sat stiff, arms crossed, lips pressed tight. He said nothing, but inside his gut churned. Each cut Raiden took, each stagger backward, pressed against his nerves like a blade.

Halia clasped her hands together so tightly they trembled. She bowed her head where she sat beside Ledios and Rudo on the third floor, lips whispering silent prayers. Please, please…

Ledios himself leaned forward, elbows on knees, sweat beading his brow. His heir’s mask of composure cracked; his cousin was bleeding out before him, and he could not reach him.

Behind Ophelin’s row, Lynda gasped softly with every strike. Her nails dug into her palms until blood pricked skin. She wanted to cry Raiden’s name aloud, but her throat locked.

Beside her, Liana Ravenwatch’s expression was unreadable, her chin propped on one gloved hand. Her eyes stayed fixed on the battered boy below, and when Lynda could no longer contain her trembling, Liana’s voice whispered like a knife slipping free:
“Relax. He won’t lose. He hasn’t shown his hand yet.”

But even she clenched her staff just a little tighter.

Below, Raiden’s world wavered.

The Auditorium bled away in flashes. Each blink of his eyes brought another scene, dissonant and surreal. One frame: Garid lunging, blades dancing. The next: a battlefield vast and broken, corpses and banners scattered, the stench of smoke and iron filling the air.

He staggered, and the vision deepened.

He saw a standard snapping in the wind—golden, eight-pronged, radiant like a star. Beneath it, warriors of many kinds surged: men, elves, dwarves, beastkin. United. Clashing against a tide of monsters that roared like storms given flesh.

Raiden’s stomach churned. He knew this war. He should not, could not—but every thread of his being screamed recognition.

Garid pressed close, twin blades flashing. Raiden blocked with his left hand, the steel ringing, his feet stumbling backward. Another cut opened along his ribs, hot blood spilling. Another thrust pierced his thigh, freezing bone-deep. His body faltered.

But his mind—his mind was elsewhere.

The battlefield. The phantom war.

He saw an opponent striding toward him through the haze, armored in pale, bluish steel. Cold mist coiled around twin swords of ice. The warrior moved like water given shape, blades tracing arcs that dazzled and froze.

Raiden raised a weapon in his vision—a curved, slender blade gripped in his left hand. He parried. He survived.

The world lurched.

On the floor of the Auditorium, Garid’s ice blade struck low, cutting at Raiden’s leg. In his vision, the bluish warrior mirrored the same strike. They were the same. Exactly the same.

Raiden’s breaths came ragged, but he forced his gaze steady. One frame, Garid. The next, the phantom. Then Garid again. Then the phantom. Then both at once.

His blood dripped steadily, but he no longer felt the pain. It was as though his body had numbed itself, shutting the doors to agony.

Slowly, realization crept through him. They are the same. The visions are not illusions. They are memory. The enemy before me has walked before. These are the same steps.

He tightened his grip on the sword in his left hand.

The next strike fell.

And Raiden moved not by instinct, not by desperation, but by memory.

The overhead slash came, Garid’s steel sword raised high, twin hands poised to cleave him apart.

In the vision, the phantom raised its bluish sword the same way.

Raiden’s left hand rose. His blade caught the arc, deflecting it wide. Sparks sang.

The second blade followed, the ice sword lunging to carve into his flank. In the vision, the phantom struck too.

Raiden twisted, using the momentum of his first parry to sweep his guard across. The second blade was knocked aside, not blocked but flowed away, as though he had always known the rhythm.

Gasps tore from the crowd.

Ophelin half rose, eyes blazing. Yes. Like that. Like you’ve practiced it forever.

Garid snarled, his twin blades whirling again. He struck low, a diagonal slash.

In the vision, the phantom slashed the same.

Raiden stepped forward instead of retreating. His shoulder slammed into Garid’s chest, driving him off balance. The ice sword hissed past his back harmlessly.

For the first time, Garid stumbled.

The crowd roared.

Randall’s eyes widened, a sharp smile flickering. “He’s—he’s matching him.”

Tadari’s fists clenched so tight his nails cut skin. “Finally.”

Another strike came, Garid’s steel blade sweeping waist-high.

In the vision, the phantom mirrored the strike.

Raiden’s blade intercepted perfectly at Garid’s belly, steel ringing.

Their bodies locked. Raiden pressed forward, every ounce of his weight behind the guard. His muscles screamed, but the vision steadied his movement. He adjusted the angle, his edge sliding into position.

The phantom in his mind slashed.

And Raiden slashed with it.

The cut was fluid, practiced, inevitable. It was as if thunder had stroke.

His sword carved a horizontal arc across Garid’s abdomen. Steel bit flesh. Blood spattered the stone in a bright, sudden spray.

The world froze.

Garid’s eyes went wide. His body lurched, his blades faltering. He staggered backward, hands clutching his belly as crimson poured between his fingers. His knees buckled, his mouth opening in a soundless gasp.

And then he fell.

The Auditorium held its breath.

Silence crashed across the chamber, suffocating, absolute. Hundreds of eyes stared, but none could process what they had just witnessed.

One heartbeat. Two.

Then Bergalion Lynthor rose from his seat, his voice like a hammer striking iron:

“The duel is decided. By steel and will, victory is claimed. Raiden Rymboven stands!”

The words shattered the silence.

The Auditorium erupted.

Cheers thundered from the common seats, students of lesser Houses and common birth chanting Raiden’s name. Nobles leaned into hurried whispers, some shocked, some angry, some calculating. The banners of Arkantez rippled as if stirred by wind, and Olwen’s colors hung still, cold as ice.

On the floor, Raiden stood swaying, his sword crimson, his body a lattice of wounds. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. His vision still blurred between battlefield and present, but the phantom was gone, fading into mist.

He looked down at Garid’s motionless form.

The pest of whispers. The heir of Barowen. Defeated.

Ophelin’s fist pumped the air, a wide grin splitting her face. Tears welled, but she did not care. “He did it,” she whispered. “He did it.”

Randall exhaled through clenched teeth, a thin smile breaking only to hide the dread that lingered in his eyes.

Tadari slumped back into his seat, breath heaving, relief spilling from every pore.

Halia wept openly, clutching her brothers, while Ledios rose at last, shock and relief mingling on his face.

Lynda pressed her hands to her mouth, unable to stop the tears that fell.

And Liana… Liana only leaned back, exhaling softly. “So. That’s what you are.”

The roar of the crowd swelled to the rafters.

Raiden staggered, blade still clutched in his left hand. His right arm hung useless, blood soaking his sleeve. But he did not fall. He stood, bearing the weight of the moment, the weight of victory, the weight of memory stirring deep within him.