Shayrow had been right—the two months before the choosing of groups went by in a flash.

The last thing the swordbearer class did before the choosing of groups was hold a tournament of sorts, just to prove who belonged in the top position.

Shayrow had nearly forgotten about it. He wasn’t too concerned with how the tournament would play out. His position as top in his class was far from secure, but he intended to fight with all he had to maintain the title. 

The beginning battles felt like mere warm-up sessions. Some of the students put down their sword before the duel even began, having predicted a loss and not wanting to prove themselves right.

Adif had come to watch the fighting, and she enthusiastically cheered for Shayrow from the sidelines.

“You look distracted, Shay,” his next opponent remarked, flashing a dimpled grin. He was a goblin and a good friend of Shayrow’s, named Ezfix. 

Being the son of a member of the royal guard meant that Ezfix didn’t see his father all too frequently. The royal guard was stationed in the Yaruid Kingdom’s castle, which was in a county to the west of Woei—called Hasdak.

“Don’t worry—I’ll give you a second to collect your thoughts,” Ezfix teased. 

“Thank you, Ez, but that won’t be necessary.” Shayrow returned the grin and stood at the ready.

Ezfix put up a decent fight, but he was no match for Shayrow. The goblin congratulated the dhampyr and wished him luck.

Before long, Shayrow found himself up against one last student—a sprite named Piklof.

Shayrow respected Piklof’s skill, as it was in league with his own for sure. He’d had some close fights with him before, and he knew that the sprite was no pushover. Piklof was opportunistic and a bit egotistical, which meant that fights with him weren’t over until he said they were over.

“That top position is mine,” he declared as he held his blunted blade at the ready.

“Then come and get it,” Shayrow responded, taking on a fighting stance.

The signal was given, and Piklof wasted no time making the first move. He came low, which wasn’t hard to do with someone as tall as Shayrow. 

Shayrow had seen that coming and easily countered, moving as quickly as possible to make it difficult for Piklof to read his movements. 

Because of the wide variety of species in each class, students were always advised to play to their strengths. Shayrow knew his advantages—that he was quick, flexible, and his lack of shadow tended to be disconcerting for his foes.

He knew Piklof’s strengths, too. The sprite had the advantage of wings, and his movements were always done gracefully and without faltering. 

In a real fight, his wings would be a weakness, since injuries dealt to sprite wings were the one thing they couldn’t heal. Sprites unconsciously healed almost all injuries with their magic, except their wings.

But in a fight with blunted blades that wasn’t a matter of life or death, Piklof didn’t have to worry about his wings.

He started toying with Shayrow, darting out of his reach by flying above his kinesphere. Shayrow impatiently regripped his sword every time Piklof left his range, being forced to wait for the sprite to get closer.

Finally Shayrow had had enough. He caught Piklof over the shoulder with his blunted blade, acting as though he were slicing clean through the invisible wing.

Piklof retreated back and took flight, immediately earning a complaint from Captain Yuuf. 

“Your wing would be wounded, Piklof. Keep your feet on the ground please.”

Piklof scowled and dropped back to the ground.

Shayrow grinned. Now he could do things his way.

With Piklof grounded, Shayrow now had the advantage of height, which he used mercilessly. Piklof barely had enough leverage to counter Shayrow’s swinging blade, which had the added force of gravity every time it came down at him. 

Shayrow advanced, forcing Piklof to take a step back, then another. The other students were screaming incoherently with cheers and whatnot, but it was all just background noise to Shayrow.

Piklof’s deflects grew weaker, but Shayrow didn’t let his guard down. He knew the sprite and his tricks, and he refused to fall for them.

Which was why he didn’t so much as flinch when Piklof recklessly threw himself forward with intent to catch Shayrow mid-step so that he would either stumble back or lose his balance entirely.

Shayrow tilted his blade to parry the blow, which unfortunately put his sword at a poor angle if Piklof chose to follow-up with a low counter, but the sprite hesitated after failing to surprise Shayrow with his attack.

Shayrow saw his opening. He lunged forward—

And suddenly he couldn’t see anything except blinding white light.

He could feel just fine, however, which was how he knew that he had been taken to the ground.

Piklof smirked down at Shayrow as his vision came back. The sprite had the dhampyr pinned down with his foot, his blade resting on Shayrow’s chest.

He had won.

Shayrow had been defeated.

“Clever,” he admitted as he was allowed to his feet. “Reflecting the sunlight from your sword, I mean.”

“A dhampyr’s weakness,” Piklof smugly quipped.

“A weakness that you exploited magnificently.”

“Eh, I knew you wouldn’t be much of a challenge,” Piklof said, ignoring Shayrow’s offered handshake. “I’ve heard about your father’s and grandfather’s unmatched skill with a sword. I can’t imagine how disappointed they must be in you.”

Shayrow felt as though he had been slapped.

Piklof chuckled and strolled away, each step lengthened from the lazy flapping of his invisible wings.

Shayrow staggered back to where Adif was waiting, nearly collapsing a few times as he legs went weak.

I failed them. I got cocky and paid the price.

“You were amazing, Shay,” Adif said, smiling as she offered him a tiny cake the size of his palm with glaze drizzled over it. “Here—I got this to say ‘good job’.”

Shayrow smiled back at Adif, accepting the treat. They sat down on the bench Adif had been watching from, neither of them speaking while Shayrow enjoyed the cake.

“You should have won,” Adif said after a moment.

“Perhaps. But I didn’t. He won by using my weakness to his advantage.”

“You mean he cheated, by blinding you,” Adif muttered. 

“No,” Shayrow said, shaking his head. “There’s no cheating in sword fighting. You either win or lose—survive or die. There are no rules if you come out victorious.”

“But--”

“Adi,” Shayrow firmly said, getting to his feet, “it’s over. There’s no point in trying to justify it. I lost. That’s all there is to it.”

Adif glanced over to where Piklof was gloating, surrounded by friends and fans—and family.

“Okay.” Adif took a deep breath as she stood up. “So you lost. But you know what—I’m still proud of you.”

Shayrow blinked.

“Even though I lost, eh?”

“Yeah. He used a cheap tactic to get an advantage, but that’s just because he knew he couldn’t win with just his sword. You’re the real winner in my eyes.”

Shayrow smiled.

“Thanks, Adi. You have no idea how much that means to me.”

Adif beamed.

“But the truly unfortunate thing about this,” Shayrow said, “is that I won’t be the one choosing when we get put in groups.”

Adif’s face fell.

“I’m sorry,” Shayrow quietly said.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Adif told him. “You did an amazing job. That’s nothing to be sorry about.”

There was a moment of silence.

Under his breath, Shayrow pleaded with any and all gods, asking that he and Adif wouldn’t be separated during the choosing of groups.

~ ~ ~