Chapter 58: Another Duel
Alaster's sword gleams in the winter light, the blade trembling slightly in his grip. His friends form a loose ring, jeering at me, their voices a cocktail of outrage and expectation. I just keep my hands in my pockets, chin tilted, watching him like he's a stray dog
"Draw!" Alaster roars, taking a lunging step forward, sword aimed straight for my chest.
I sidestep, easy as breathing, boots scraping the stone. He almost stumbles past me, his momentum unchecked. I don't even bother to look at the blade. "Careful," I say, my voice low and unhurried. "You'll hurt yourself."
I can barely hear his response over the ringing in my ears the kind that comes not from fear, but anticipation. This is going exactly as I'd hoped. I wanted a moment like this. A stage. And now I have one.
More black-robed figures are drifting in at the edges other first years just arriving from their trains, confusion written all over their faces as they approach the scene. The civilians have been cleared, the porters and travelers herded away by the guards, leaving this stretch at the end of the train station eerily open. Only the the original ring of elites, a few regular soldiers, and the ever-increasing trickle of new Elites remain, all suddenly aware that something worth watching is about to happen.
Alaster lunges at me, sword flashing, face twisted with righteous fury. I still don't even bother drawing my blade, just pivot out of the way, letting his blade cut nothing but cold air. "You might want to keep your feet planted," I say, tone light, "unless your family crest gives you wings."
His face burns red, and he shouts something again—some threat or curse—but I'm too busy laughing. His form is a mess. Feet too wide, shoulders too stiff, his blade sings only of pride, not discipline. Compared to the drills I've been forced through by the Cain and the teachers at the castle, this is almost insulting. If this is the kind of competition I'm going to face from the other first years, then I've been worried for absolutely nothing.
He snarls, coming at me again, and I slip past the arc of his sword like it's nothing, hands in my pockets, feet dancing over the frost-slick stone. Each time he misses, I toss out another barb "Nice swing bud. Did you know people with big feet like yours are proven to be smaller in other areas?" The new arrivals start to murmur, some grinning, most wide-eyed, all of them seeing exactly what I want them to see.
My smile fades.