SHATTERED REALM: FORGOTTEN ECHOES

Father Prince's voice carried over the murmurs, calm and commanding."Aramith. Aris. Do you know why you are here?"

The boys exchanged glances and shook their heads.

Father Prince's white robes shifted as he paced slowly. "Then I will tell you plainly. Sylas Thorne has broken academy law. He used others to sneak into places forbidden, stained this academy's discipline with arrogance, and for that, he will be stripped of his privileges: his dormitory, his meals, and his right to enter any class. These will belong…" His staff tapped the ground, the sound echoing. "…to you."

A ripple of shock ran through the watching students. Aris's hands curled into fists. Aramith's brows furrowed. They had been treated as outsiders since arriving—and now, suddenly, everything Sylas had would be theirs? He glanced at Sylas, and the smirk on the boy's face told him there was more to it than just having Sylas's privileges.

Sylas smirked, stepping forward. "So that's the game. You think giving them my place makes sense? They did wrong on day one, and everyone saw it. But based on your suspicion, you declare me the wrong one." His tone dripped mockery, though he masked it with false kindness. "Don't worry, I'll be merciful. I won't embarrass you too much. In fact, if you'd rather concede now, you can. Save yourself the pain. I know you're weak, so if you still decide to fight, I'll do what I can to hold back."

Aris's blood boiled at the words. His fists tightened, then he remembered Father Ilthane's words: Pass with dignity, fail with honor.

He was weaker than Sylas, and he knew it—but backing down here would be worse than losing.

"I'll fight," Aris said hoarsely, raising his chin.

Sylas chuckled, eyes narrowing. "Brave. Stupid, but brave."

Father Prince inclined his head. "As custom dictates, Sylas may choose his opponent first. If he still stands after the first battle, then he may continue with the next battle."

Sylas's eyes darted between the boys before settling with cruel satisfaction. He lifted a hand and pointed at Aris. "You."

Aris's breath caught, but he forced his shoulders square. "Are weapons allowed?"

"They are," Father Prince confirmed.

With slow determination, Aris drew a sword, its edge dull but its weight heavy in his hand. He stepped into the ring, breath uneven, yet steady.

Across from him, Sylas strolled forward, the gravel crunching beneath his boots, calm as though walking into routine rather than a duel.

The crowd hushed.

The fight was about to begin.

Aris looked back at Aramith and smiled. "I'll teach him a lesson, just watch," he said. But Aramith could clearly see his trembling hands.

The training ground had fallen silent, save for the crunch of gravel beneath Sylas's boots. His expression was calm and unbothered. Across from him stood Aris, breathing unevenly, his knuckles pale around the hilt of his sword.

Father Garrun gave a nod.

Sylas didn't wait.

The earth trembled beneath his feet. Stone shot upward in jagged spikes, forcing Aris to leap back. Before he even landed, Sylas flicked his wrist, and the spikes collapsed into a wall that surged forward like a rolling wave. It slammed into Aris's chest, knocking the wind from him and throwing him across the dirt.

Laughter broke out among the students.

"Pathetic," someone muttered.

"He didn't even last a blink."

Aris groaned, trying to push himself up, but Sylas was already walking toward him. With a casual gesture, the earth twisted again—this time forming shackles around Aris's wrists and ankles. He was dragged down, slammed into the dirt until his cheek scraped against the rough ground.

"Don't waste our time if you can't stand," Sylas said, voice low and sharp, carrying over the hush of the field.

Aris thrashed, but the stone held him in place. His sword clattered uselessly out of reach.

From the watching crowd, Elira's hands trembled against her skirt. She bit her lip so hard it almost bled.

Stop… someone stop him… But her body stayed frozen. A strange, suffocating fear pressed down on her chest, warning her not to interfere. She lowered her gaze, unable to watch further, guilt burning her throat.

A scream from Aris shook her, and she turned to Mozrael, wanting to tell her to do something, but one look at her face made her stop.

Mozrael just stared unflinching. Her eyes, which were normally quiet and thoughtful, were sharp with cold fire. Hatred coiled in her stomach like a living thing.

It wasn't the pity she felt for Aris, but disgust for Sylas, for the arrogance dripping from every movement. Her hands twitched with the urge to ignite flame, but she clenched them into fists instead. She could not move—not yet.

Beside them, Aramith's entire body tensed. His jaw clenched so tight it ached, and his fingers curled into the shadow at his side. His purple eyes glowed faintly, betraying the storm within him.

The laughter of the other students grated against his ears, like nails dragged across his skull. Revenge. The thought slid into him naturally, like it belonged. He wanted to see Sylas's head smashed into the ground the same way Aris's had been.

The students whispered louder.

"Is that all the boy had?"

"Sylas barely used any strength."

"What a waste. How embarrassing."

Aris coughed, choking on dust. His face was buried in the dirt, stone pinning his limbs. He looked like nothing more than a trapped animal. The humiliation was complete.

Sylas finally released him with a flick of his wrist, the stone crumbling away.

With all his strength, Aris stood up, but instantly, a wall of earth crushed him to the ground. Air shot out of him, blood escaped his mouth and nose, and bones crunched.

Aris fought back the urge to scream. He wouldn't let Sylas have that honor. He knew he'd lost, but at least he failed with honor.

"Sylas has defeated Aris. The match is over," Father Garrun said.

Aris lay still, gasping, but not daring to rise again. Sylas turned his back on him, eyes sweeping briefly over the crowd.

He looked cold and detached. As if none of this had mattered in the slightest.

The silence stretched, heavy, before Father Garrun called for some students to come pick him off the grounds.

But the damage was done.

Elira hugged herself, guilt gnawing.

Mozrael's hatred burned hotter, and Aramith's thirst for revenge crystallized into something deadly.

And though Sylas walked away, the fight was far from over.

Students pressed close to the boundaries, some standing on their toes to see better, others muttering eagerly about the fight. A dozen pairs of eyes shifted toward Aramith as he stepped down from the stands. The outcast, the quiet one, suddenly walking into the ring against Sylas Thorne. This would be another beating.

Elira's heart pounded so loudly she thought others could hear it. She grabbed Mozrael's sleeve desperately."He can't fight him, you've seen what Sylas can do! Mozrael say something, make him stop before—"

Mozrael's hand caught Aramith's wrist. He paused, looking at her. Her blue eyes held no panic, only a calm intensity.

"Aramith," she said softly, "don't lose yourself. You don't need to."