F-Class Swordsman, S-Class Commander

The dueling field was silent.

Rodric Faelin lay still on the stone floor, blood drying in a rust-colored smear. His chest had stopped moving. For a breathless moment, the tournament—the crowd, the rules, the pageantry—all ceased to matter.

Then came her voice.

"Move."

She walked without urgency. Each step carried the weight of someone who had been here before—not on this field, but at the edge of someone else's life.

She knelt beside Rodric, one hand on his chest, the other lifting slightly, two fingers raised in an arcane circle.

Light.

Not blinding. Not dramatic.

Just… gold. Pure and soft, humming like a lullaby.

The gash under his ribs sealed itself. His breath shuddered once, then resumed.

Someone in the crowd dropped their cup.

"That's healing magic," someone whispered.

"Real healing—he should be dead."

The instructors froze.

One of the judges stood.

"Who authorized—"

"You'll thank me later," the girl replied without looking up.

Then she stood. Calmly. Brushed her knees. Met no one's eyes. Not until she turned to face Renard.

Their eyes locked.

The space between them felt oddly still—like she could see not just the blade in his hand, but the intent that had moved it.

She didn't smile.

She simply said:

"You're not what they think you are."

And then she walked off the field.

Rodric was taken away on a stretcher, still breathing, still unconscious.

The announcer never called for the next match.

The crowd didn't cheer. They whispered.

The rest of the day passed in a fog.

Renard was summoned by nightfall.

He walked alone to the eastern annex—a narrow chamber off the Hall of Discipline, lined with tapestries and windows that never opened.

Waiting inside: three instructors, one royal scribe, and the acting head of the tournament council.

They did not offer him a seat.

One of the instructors—tall, gray-bearded, with a blade pinned to his shoulder sash—spoke first.

"You are not being punished," he said. "Your strike, by all observation, was within rules."

"But—" another began.

"It is not illegal," the first said firmly, "to be underestimated."

Renard said nothing.

The royal scribe cleared her throat.

"There are questions, however. About your technique. Your background. Your… class."

Her tone did not accuse. It recorded.

Renard met her gaze.

"I am registered as F-Class Swordsman," he said flatly.

Silence.

They didn't believe him.

He didn't care.

"Then you'll have no issue continuing," the older instructor said.

"We'll be watching closely."

Outside, moonlight filtered through the upper cloister.

Renard stepped into the courtyard and exhaled for the first time in hours.

The night air was cold. It felt cleaner than it had all day.

"You walk like someone who just got cross-examined by five nobles and a ledger."

He turned.

She stood near the edge of the cloister, silver hair unbound now, cloak fluttering gently behind her. In the moonlight, she looked both older and younger than before. Her face didn't wear expression so much as absorb light.

"You saved him," Renard said simply.

"I did."

"Why?"

She tilted her head slightly.

"Because you didn't mean to kill him."

That gave him pause.

"You saw that?"

"I saw everything."

She walked toward him. Not slow. Not fast. Just enough to close the space.

"I've seen real kills. You adjusted the angle at the last second. You struck to stop his heart—but not rupture it."

Renard looked at her properly now.

"You're not from Veilspire."

"No."

"Another academy?"

"Another place," she said. "You don't know its name."

Silence.

Then: "What's yours?"

She smiled—not wide. Not coy. Just a brief, flickering thing.

"Lysette."

He nodded once. "Renard."

"I know."

They stood there a while.

He studied her. Not like a commander studying a threat. Just… curious.

"You're not registered in the bracket," he said eventually.

"Wildcard," she replied. "The Council added me under royal license. They didn't want me to win. They wanted me to observe."

"Why you?"

Lysette looked out at the moon for a moment.

"Because I know what real strength looks like. And I know when it hides."

She turned to him again.

"You've been hiding a long time."

He said nothing.

She didn't push.

Instead, she stepped past him.

But as she passed, she said one last thing:

"Next time you kill someone, don't flinch."

Then she disappeared into the dark.

Later that night, Elric found him sitting by the broken arch in the east yard.

"You're a lunatic," he said by way of greeting. "Do you know that?"

Renard didn't respond.

Elric dropped beside him.

"They're all scared now," he added. "And impressed. But mostly scared."

"I didn't mean to kill him."

"You didn't. You just fought like someone who could've."

They sat in silence for a few moments.

Then Elric asked, "Who was the girl?"

Renard glanced sideways. "Wildcard."

Elric raised his brows. "No House?"

"Royal license."

"Of course she is."

He sighed.

"Bet she gets her own fan club by morning."

Renard didn't answer.

He was still thinking about her words.

You've been hiding a long time.