What is this guy’s problem? Arbor thought, shifting their weight from one foot to the other. They stood at one end of the arena, gripping their staff with both hands. Their tail twitched, ears flicking with nerves.

Alek stood across from them, closer to the center. His posture was calm, but his eyes were razor-sharp—focused with a predatory stillness that didn’t match the smug bravado he’d worn earlier. It unsettled Arbor more than they cared to admit. The falcon crest on his chest gleamed under the arena’s light like it was watching, too.

The illusion of Freya raised her hand, and a bolt of light cracked down between them, sparking off the stone. A signal.

Go.

Alek moved first. Fast. In an instant, both daggers were drawn. He rushed forward with purpose, feet barely making a sound against the ground.

Arbor panicked. They stumbled back, rummaging through their satchel with clumsy hands until they found a familiar stone. No time to think. No plan. Just do something.

Mana surged. The staff pulsed in their grip. As Alek closed the distance, Arbor shoved all the energy they could muster into the stone—raw and unshaped.

The rock exploded outward with a burst of force—but Alek was already in motion. He dipped low, sliding under the blast and swept Arbor’s legs with a precise kick.

Arbor hit the ground with a thud, tail fluffing as they landed on their rear. Their spell sailed uselessly to the far end of the arena and embedded itself in a wall, leaving behind a smoldering crater.

Eva giggled from the bleachers, a stifled snort betraying her amusement.

Alek straightened and gave Arbor a sideways glance. The edge in his expression dulled, replaced with something that felt worse than mockery—disappointment.

“What was that?” he asked, voice flat. “Were you even trying? After all my stress… that’s kind of sad.” He sighed, spinning one of his daggers idly. “I expected more.”

Arbor looked down, ears drooping. Just when things had been going well—just when they had felt confident—it all slipped through their fingers like loose soil.

But then… Arbor’s eyes narrowed. They took a breath. Straightened their back.

“No,” they said, meeting Alek’s gaze. “Of course not. I just wasn’t prepared for you to charge in like that.”

From above, the illusion of Freya crossed her arms with a judgmental huff. “On the field, you’ll rarely be ‘prepared.’ It’s up to you to adapt. Your magic, your strategy—it must change with the moment.” She tilted her head. “The match is complete. A bit disappointing, but—”

“Wait,” Arbor said quickly, stepping forward. “One more try. That wasn’t a real spar—that was just a cheap shot.”

Their voice held a sharper edge now, the same tone they’d used when Freya first started pushing them hard. They had to prove something—not to Alek, but to themselves. To the parts of them that still doubted they belonged here.

Across the arena, Alek quirked a brow. Then shrugged.

“Yeah, illusion,” he said, already spinning one dagger lazily. “I could go for another round of humbling the fox.”

The illusion smiled thinly. “If both parties agree—very well.”

Arbor stood. Staff in one hand, three stones clutched in the other. This time, they had a plan. No more stumbling.

From the bleachers, Eva leaned forward slightly, eyes shifting pink as they locked onto Arbor.

“Well, that’s interesting,” she murmured to herself.

Alek hopped back a few paces, stretching like this was a game. “So… is this enough prep time for you, fox?” he taunted. “Wouldn’t want you blaming the next loss on another lame excuse.”

Arbor didn’t respond. They were too busy studying the arena, their opponents’ stance, the weight of the stones in their hands. The magic in their veins began to stir—not wild and erratic like before, but slower, deliberate.

The staff hummed in their grip.

The illusion raised her hand again, and a pulse of light flashed between them.

“Begin.”

Arbor’s heart thundered in their chest.

Alek didn’t move—not right away. He stood poised, eyes narrowed, studying them. Testing.

Patient, Arbor reminded themselves. Breathe.

But Alek’s patience didn’t last long. With a flick of his wrists, the elf lunged forward, daggers flashing with silver gleam. He moved fast—again.

Arbor didn’t panic this time.

They focused.

As Alek closed the distance, Arbor dropped one of the three stones to the ground. It clicked against the arena floor.

Alek glanced down for only a second, unconcerned.

He swiped at Arbor’s head.

“Now!” Arbor shouted, activating the carved spell with a word of power.

The runes ignited.

With a surge of earthen energy, the dropped rock exploded upward—not in shrapnel, but as a single, jagged spike, like a narrow pillar shooting toward Alek’s face.

Alek barely managed to twist away, forced into an awkward backpedal. His boots scraped the stone floor, arms flailing slightly as he tried to regain balance.

Arbor exhaled hard, relief washing over them.

It worked.

They stared at the now-crumbling spike with a kind of awe. Their hands trembled—not from fear, but from exhilaration. They’d done it. Really done it.

I combined delayed-cast rune structure… with my own shaping magic, they realized.

That spike had been both spell and sculpture—an art piece made in an instant of pressure.

And it hadn’t just worked—it had forced Alek back.

Arbor grinned.

Their first real rune activation in the field. Not some lesson. Not a theory. A real maneuver. It seems that runes actually were useful.

Alek stepped back, spinning his daggers once in each hand. “Nice try, fox,” he said, eyes narrowing with renewed focus. “I’ll give you that one. But now that we’re both trying—I guess it’s my turn.”

A pulse of green energy shimmered around him. The air stirred, wind picking up around his feet in a swirling dance.

Arbor quirked a brow. “Ooo, scary,” they teased, “you sure you’re ready this time?”

Alek didn’t answer.

Instead, he lifted his chin slightly—and then, the wind sharpened. It twisted toward his daggers, thin ribbons of green light wrapping around the blades. They gleamed, deadly and fast.

Arbor’s teasing grin vanished.

Alek blurred forward, his movements smooth, almost too smooth—like the wind itself was pushing him. Guiding him.

Arbor’s instincts screamed. They dropped low, twisting just in time as one of Alek’s blades slashed where their head had been a heartbeat before.

Another swipe—Arbor ducked, stepping back on instinct.

Again and again, Alek closed in, a flurry of slashes wrapped in slicing wind. The enchanted edges didn’t land clean hits, but the air around them was like knives—cutting shallow tears into Arbor’s clothes, nipping at fur and skin.

Too close, Arbor thought. Way too close.

Then, abruptly, Alek halted his assault, breathing a little heavier.

“How are you doing that?” he asked, frustration in his voice.

Arbor didn’t answer right away. They were catching their breath too, heart thundering in their chest. But… they hadn’t been scared. Not completely.

They thought back—Freya’s lessons. Her frown when magic flew at them, only for Arbor to slip away just in time, again and again.

“It doesn’t work on everything,” she’d said. “But for magic? It’s like your body knows where to go.”

Arbor’s tail flicked as they met Alek’s glare.

“Maybe,” they said, smirking, “you’re just too predictable.”

Alek’s eye twitched.

Alek had looked winded just moments ago—his shoulders slack, his breath uneven. Whatever wind enchantment he’d been using, it had clearly burned through a chunk of his mana. The faint green shimmer was gone now, leaving only steel and grit in its place.

Arbor could relate. When they cast spells, they felt the drain like water leaking from a cracked jug. The reshaping magic—that was subtle, almost natural. Gentle enough that their mana would begin to refill if they paused. But rune activations? That hit like a hammer. One wrong surge and their pool plummeted. They figured three or four more would wipe them out completely.

Another one of those lessons Freya never quite explained... or maybe Arbor just hadn’t been paying enough attention.

But while Arbor was mid-thought—Alek moved.

No spell, no wind—just speed, and steel.

Alek charged across the arena, this time without warning. Arbor barely raised their staff in time to deflect the blow, the wooden shaft slamming against the dagger with a sharp clack. The force jolted up their arms—but it worked. Alek was thrown off for just a second.

And that was enough.

Arbor dropped a stone and channeled hard—this time focused, fast. A pillar of jagged rock erupted from the arena floor. But it didn’t stop there—Arbor poured more into it. With a shout, the pillar exploded, fragments shooting outward in a deadly spray of spiked stone.

The arena shuddered.

Eva gasped from the bleachers, her eyes glowing faint pink. “Whoa…”

Then—PULSE.

The moon above flared white.

Just before the shards could reach Alek, they slowed mid-air—then dissolved completely, energy absorbed into thin air like mist under sunlight.

Silence followed.

Everyone, including Alek, froze.

Only the illusion of Freya moved, her eyes gleaming faintly.

“…That attack was lethal,” the illusion said calmly. “The training grounds’ warding has absorbed the spell. No damage. But your intent—was very real.”

Arbor’s hands trembled around their staff. Not from fear—but from the sheer weight of it.

They’d just unleashed something dangerous.

Alek, eyes wide, slowly lowered his blades.

“…Okay,” he muttered. “Maybe I misjudged you.”

The last blast had drained Arbor completely. Their chest rose and fell with shallow, ragged breaths as they clutched their staff for balance.

So much for saving my energy, they thought, wobbling slightly on their feet.

Across the arena, Alek sucked in his lower lip, eyes narrowing as he stared down at his twin daggers. His stance shifted—tense, calculating.

“So,” he muttered, voice steady. “We’re done playing, huh, fox? I knew you were holding back.”

Then his arm snapped outward—and the wind responded.

Green energy pulsed from his palm. The air shimmered, distorting like a mirage. Cracks began to spider across the space near his hand—reality tearing, unraveling. A portal spiraled open, humming with latent power.

Arbor’s heart jumped.

Wait… Freya explained this once.

“It’s called a weapons gate. Most magical beings—if trained enough—can eventually open one. A space to store spells, weapons… power.”

But Alek—how could he…?

Eva was already on her feet.

“Alek—stop. You idiot!”

Alek didn’t turn, his voice low and dismissive. “Relax. We’re just sparring.”

But Eva’s eyes burned bright pink now—her mana flaring subtly.

“I said stop.” Her tone cut like a blade.

The energy changed. A pulse—soft, but overwhelming—washed over the arena. It wasn’t forceful, but calming. Arbor felt it hit them like a warm breeze. The tension melted from their limbs. Their mind, moments ago a flurry of anxiety, dulled into clarity.

They blinked—and then sat down.

What was I even doing?

Across the arena, Alek’s portal flickered—then snapped shut. His shoulders slumped with a quiet grunt of annoyance. “Tch. Whatever.”

The illusion of Freya stepped forward.

“Combat test complete. Data collected,” it announced.

Arbor rose slowly back to their feet, still shaken by how quickly things escalated. They looked between their teammates—Eva, whose pink-ringed eyes were back to green now; Alek, who looked frustrated but calmer.

What the heck was that? Arbor thought.

Alek could open a weapons gate. Eva… had done something to affect both Alek and Arbor.

And now Arbor felt the anxiety creeping back in.

I’m on a team with two people who’ve clearly got more going on than I realized.