Chapter3

Yesterday, my fireball missed the target. Thirty-two pairs of eyes in the arena; thirty-one poorly stifled snickers. The instructor slashed a red line across his roster, and the violent scratch of his quill was louder than my fizzling flame.

Today was a rerun. The instructor didn't even bother with the red ink; he just flipped straight to the next page.

I withdrew my hand deep into my robes. The wounds from pushing my mana to the breaking point last night were oozing blood, and the trembling in my fingers was completely hidden beneath the heavy cuffs. I turned and walked toward the resting area.

Cedric shoved his way through the crowd to block my path, wearing a smug, my-turn-at-last kind of certainty on his lips. "Elise, how did your magic regress this much? Without me protecting you, you've become an absolute joke. Don't embarrass the Duke."

He reached out. His fingers were half an inch from my cuff.

I brought my leg up and drove a vicious kick dead center into his chest.

He let out a pathetic shriek as his back violently slammed into the packed dirt, kicking up a harsh cloud of dust. The crowd went dead silent for three seconds before completely erupting into gasps.

Cedric curled up on the ground, clutching his chest. His face flushed a furious, dark purple. "Are you out of your mind?!"

I walked over, the toe of my boot stopping inches from his hand. "Touch me again with those filthy hands that used to collect poverty relief, and I’ll snap your ten fingers off, one by one."

I didn't wait for his answer and kept walking toward the exit. As I passed through the back of the crowd, I caught sight of Kane in the corner of my eye. He stood in the shadows, his hand clamped down on the hilt of his sword, knuckles white. His gaze was nailed to Cedric—had that piece of trash dared to strike back, that blade would have severed both his arms in half a second.

I passed by him. He released the hilt, falling into step right behind me, never lagging a single pace.

Afternoon. The instructor announced the brackets for the live-combat deathmatch assessment taking place three weeks from now. It was a strict academy rule: life or death mattered little, and instructors could call a halt but never intervene. The entire Northern nobility treated this test as the absolute yardstick for a family's underlying power.

Liliana stood by the podium. She hugged a gray-bound book tightly to her chest. Its spine bore the distinct creases of being repeatedly smoothed over—it was the Blood-Stealing and Face-Swapping Curse I had "forgotten" on the third shelf of the library's restricted section two days ago. She had flipped through it. She had already started memorizing.

"Is there anyone who still hasn't found a partner?" the instructor asked, scanning the room.

"Instructor, I want to pair up with my sister, Elise."

Liliana's voice rang out so crisp and clear it sounded rehearsed. The gaze of the entire room snapped over to us.

"Sister's magic is extremely unstable right now. She can't even cast a basic fireball without losing control. I'm a healer. If we partner up, I can cast protective wards the entire time, and if she gets hurt, I can catch her." Her eyes reddened slightly. "I promise to hold back."

She turned to look at me, her eyelashes fluttering. "Sister, trust me. I won't let you get hurt."

A few noble freshmen exchanged glances, suppressing mocking smirks. Cedric leaned against the back wall, grinning quietly to himself. Everyone firmly believed they were watching the academy's washed-up tragedy being publicly pitied by her saintly adopted sister.

I looked at her for a moment, my gaze dropping to the worn creases along the spine of that book.

"Sure. We'll partner up."

A faint gleam flashed through her teary eyes.

"However—" I said, my tone perfectly flat. "We fight under a death pact. Three weeks from now on the arena, life or death, and no one interferes. I don't want to disgrace my father's name."

The air in the room froze for a split second. A death pact was never a joke here. The instructor's quill paused in midair, and the snickering nobles immediately snapped their mouths shut.

Liliana's smile stiffened for half a second. "Sister, please don't be rash—"

"I'm not being rash."

The tightly clenched fist inside my sleeve oozed more blood, seeping past the edge of the bandages and into the crevices of my fingers. Three weeks. It was enough time to train these hands until they were capable of crushing a throat.

I stared at the book in her arms. By the time she turned to the last page, she would find out that it held absolutely nothing she wanted. It only held a one-way ticket, and the recipient's name was already written.

"Then it's settled," the instructor said, securely closing his roster. "Three weeks. The Death Arena. Elise versus Liliana. Life or death."

The classroom remained utterly silent for a heartbeat. Then, frantic whispers erupted from every direction. Some laughed, some shook their heads, and others stared at my back with pitying eyes.

I turned and walked out the door.

Kane trailed after me. He tilted his head, his gaze briefly catching the dark stain blooming at the edge of my cuff. He said nothing, but his footsteps drew half a step closer.

Three weeks. It was more than enough time to take the dying breath I had dragged back from hell and burn it entirely into silver flames.