I changed clothes in a flash, every movement almost choreographed—flexible fabric shorts, a snug shirt, belt tightened with purpose. Luckily, I had bathed the night before, so my skin still carried the fresh, clean feel of sleep. The final touch was my sword. I kept it secured by a leather loop I'd tied around the hilt—my own invention to make it easier to carry.
Axel was still half-asleep but just curious enough to trail behind me.
We slipped through the corridors like animated shadows, turning corners and descending steps with our footsteps echoing off the old brick walls. Outside, the sky was already bright, and the air had that dry, buzzing scent typical of busy mornings at the Waiting Grounds.
The southern training ground was the second-largest of all, just behind the knights' main arena. It was mostly used by squires and apprentices in training. Often, more than a hundred people would be out there at once, so it had been expanded several times over the years. Even so, that day, it felt too small.
Getting there from the central wing—where my quarters were—took only a few minutes. But when I turned the final corner, I hit a wall of bodies.
A sea of children, some teens, and even a few adults crowded in front of the training gate. There were shoves, squeals, people jumping to get a glimpse of what lay beyond. They looked like a horde of crazed fans ready for a gladiator fight or a forbidden concert.
"Excuse me, could I get through?" I asked a boy bigger than me, giving him a slight push. He didn't hear me—didn't move an inch.
I looked around. Others were in the same situation, trying to wedge themselves through gaps between elbows and backpacks. I tried using my small size to my advantage, ducking down and pushing forward like a rat scurrying through rubble. Useless. It was like trying to get through a living wall.
"What, are they handing out gold in there or something?" I grumbled, frowning as I made a third attempt to squeeze between two older boys.
The gate to the southern training field was jammed. Watching the crowd was like seeing blood trying to surge through a clogged vein—apprentices, squires, and onlookers packed tight, moving in and out in a loud, sluggish tide.
Thankfully, the presence of guards and a few veteran knights helped maintain some order. It wasn't silent—far from it—but there was no chaos. The crowd moved like a massive beast with hundreds of eyes watching and mouths whispering wild guesses and gossip.
Rumors flew like sparks in the air:
"Did you see Oswin training yesterday? He split a dummy in half with a single blow!"
"And Beatriz? They say she beat two squires at once last week!"
"She summoned fire with just a look!"
"That's a myth, you idiot!"
"It's not! My cousin saw it—he swears on everything!"
Voices overlapped, some loud, others cut by nervous laughter or excitement. You could practically taste the atmosphere—no exaggeration—it had the metallic tang of tension mixed with youthful thrill.
Some guards just sighed, clearly used to this kind of wild energy. The older knights watched from a distance with crossed arms, as if trying to recall the last time they were young enough to get caught up in this kind of frenzy.
Closer to the field's center, a few squires still trying to train let out exasperated snorts. They were surrounded by dozens of curious eyes, random shouts, and laughter—any kind of focus was impossible. One of them even dropped his spear in distraction and cursed under his breath.
Technically, I was already inside the training ground, but I still couldn't find a good spot to see anything. I positioned myself near a pile of practice weapons, hoping it might give me a better view of the duel site. All I got, though, was a faceful of backs, elbows, and bobbing heads. It was like trying to watch a play from the very back of a packed tent.
"There's no way I'm seeing anything from here..." I muttered, stretching my neck as far as I could. The frustration started to weigh on me.
And then, as if the heavens themselves decided to lend a hand, something yanked me up by the collar of my shirt.
"Ugh?!" The world spun for a split second, and before I could react, my feet were no longer on the ground. The crowd dropped away beneath me, as though I'd been lifted by some invisible force. My heart lurched.
"Huh?!" I thought, eyes wide.
Only when I turned and looked to the side did I finally understand what had happened. A massive man—he looked like he'd been carved straight out of stone—was holding me up with one hand, as if I weighed nothing at all. His other arm rested casually on a wooden railing. He wore heavy armor, weathered by time and training. In one hand, he held a wooden cup, from which a thin stream of clear liquid dripped.
Water. Of course it was water.
"Now that's a view," the man said offhandedly, nodding toward the center of the training field below. His voice was deep and gravelly, like dragging wood across stone.
Still dazed, I tried to make sense of it all.
"Crazy old—?"
Before I could finish, he silenced me with a curt wave of his hand, like swatting away an annoying bug. His eyes never left the field.
"Hey, hey… don't get distracted. It's about to start," he said with a half-smile, lifting his cup.
The morning breeze hit my face, bringing with it the fine dust kicked up by the field, swirling in delicate spirals. Up here, the sounds of the crowd felt muffled, as if we were floating above time itself, detached from the chaos below.
I followed his gaze—and only then did I realize where we were. We stood atop the walls surrounding the southern training field. Far below, in a central area marked by broken targets, footprints in the sand, and practice spears planted like crooked fence posts, they stood.
Surrounded by a crowd of excited kids, it felt like the center of the world had shifted to that makeshift ring of combat.
Two small figures.
The first, with short, unruly hair tipped in red, stood like a beast on the verge of pouncing. Shoulders hunched low, arms loose but coiled with tension, ready to snap. Legs bent deep—he was a spring, a shot waiting to be fired.
The second child was a study in contrast—like water facing off against flame. Her hair was pulled into a neat high bun, every strand seemingly in place. Her stance was upright, ceremonial, like she was stepping into a royal hall, not a fight. But her eyes—those were something else. Cold, metallic. The kind of gaze you'd find buried beneath snow.
Strapped to each side of her waist, barely visible beneath her simple training tunic, were two wooden katars—short, broad blades with vertical grips that made them look like natural extensions of the forearm. Uncommon weapons. Especially for children.
"Beatriz," I whispered, more to myself than to the old man beside me. My eyes locked on that second child—or rather, that young warrior.
It wasn't just her posture or her icy gaze that held me.
It was her choice of weapon.
Katars.
Fists that cut.
Those short, wide blades strapped to the forearms were rare in the central continent. They came from the southern cultures. Few had even seen one around here—fewer still knew how to wield them.
My thoughts were cut short by a dull, muted sound, as if the field itself had swallowed the air. The ground seemed to vibrate under the low rumble of anticipation from the watching apprentices. The last whispers of expectation died out slowly.
Down below, the two figures exchanged a formal bow.
The squire in charge raised one hand. His eyes swept over both of them, confirming they were ready. Then he brought his hand down sharply.
"Begin!" His voice cracked through the air like a dry bell.
And at that precise moment, Oswin moved.
He launched forward at max speed—like an arrow loosed before the string had time to recoil. Fists clenched, shoulders driving forward, his steps were wide and fierce.
Beatriz didn't flinch. She crossed her arms in front of her body, forming an X with her katars—a solid defensive stance, her fists angled slightly forward. But her eyes stayed fixed, cold, calculating.
Then something shifted.
Just a step before impact, Oswin slammed his left foot down and stopped dead. His body tilted sideways, and in one fluid motion, he spun—planting his right hand on the ground like a pivot.
Using his arm as an anchor, he twisted his body into a low sweep, his left leg carving a wide arc across the dirt.
A sweeping kick. Precise, smooth, unexpected.
Instead of brute force, Oswin had chosen agility and technique. He made the ground his ally. His hand gave him stability while his leg sliced across in a scythe-like motion, aimed at Beatriz's legs. A move meant to topple, not just strike.
Beatriz, caught off-guard by the sudden shift in his attack, tried to react—but Oswin was fast. Far faster than his compact frame suggested.
The sweep had been dead-on.
She lost her footing, staggered—and before she even hit the ground, Oswin was already on the move again.
Pivoting on the hand he'd planted into the earth, he swung his right leg upward with brutal force, aiming straight for the side of her head. It was a downward kick, the kind that could knock someone out cold. His leg sliced through the air like a hammer falling.
The crowd held its breath. For a moment, the whole world seemed to pause.
But Beatriz… didn't fall.
She crossed her arms in front of her face with precision and grit, the wooden katars creaking slightly as they absorbed the blow. Oswin's kick bounced off her guard like a rock against steel.
She staggered back a step, but then, with a sharp grunt, threw her arms forward, hurling Oswin backward as if she had just repelled his weight right back at him.
Without wasting a beat, she dropped low and rolled back across the sand-streaked field, her feet gliding through the dirt.
By the time she landed, her body was rebalanced—one knee down, breathing steady. Her eyes didn't blink.
Oswin, on the other hand, hit the ground rough, but he tucked into a shoulder roll and sprang back up almost instantly.
Panting.
Restless.
Hungry.
And then he charged again.
Like an untamed beast, he surged forward with savage fury. Every strike seemed aimed to crush, tear, or break through whatever stood in his way. Fists swung, kicks spun, elbows jabbed, knees snapped upward—he even used his nails, sharp like claws, swiping for any exposed flesh.
He blended styles—one moment a low sweep, the next a knee-first leap, then a mid-air spin hoping to trip her with a heel. It was chaos. Instinct mingled with scraps of street-fighting know-how.
Oswin was a storm, wild and relentless.
But this time, Beatriz didn't try to block.
She flowed.
She slipped between strikes like water through cracks in stone.
Ducked low. Twisted sideways. Hopped lightly over his sweeps. Pulled back just far enough—never a step more than needed.
Every movement was lean, elegant, and devastatingly precise.
Eventually, Oswin lunged with a straight punch, his fist shooting out like a harpoon.
Beatriz tilted her head slightly, and the blow whooshed past her cheek by a hair's breadth.
His arm—still extended—left him wide open.
"She's learned her lesson," murmured the old man beside me, sipping from his wooden cup with the serene appreciation of someone admiring a rare painting.
Then, suddenly, he spit it all out in an awkward spray.
"Ugh! Damn that Patriarch… denying an old man his basic rights!"
I pretended not to notice. He was probably the only person in the kingdom who could curse out one of the nation's most powerful men just because he wasn't allowed to drink.
But my eyes quickly returned to the field.
Down below, the duel had shifted.
And for the first time, Oswin looked… pressured.
"He had the upper hand, didn't he?" I said, frowning as I watched him step back, blocking one of Beatriz's strikes with his forearm as it sliced the air.
She had gone on the offensive at last—and this was no clumsy assault. Beatriz was now controlling the tempo. Her movements were sharp, deliberate. Each step calculated to the inch. Each strike, an opening exploited.
Meanwhile, Oswin… wavered.
His punches no longer hit their mark. His breathing had grown heavy. His footing faltered in the sand. That hunter's posture from earlier was falling apart, unraveling piece by piece under the weight of her counterattack.
"Ha!" I smacked my fist into my palm, thrilled by the realization. "It's one of those matches! Just like in the stories…"
It hit me like lightning. Oswin was nothing more than a sacrificial piece—a pawn meant to serve a purpose. Someone written into the tale not to win, but to illuminate someone greater. His role was clear now: To amplify Beatriz's brilliance through the contrast of defeat.
Of course, that would've been the perfect explanation…
If we were inside a fantasy novel or some grand tale, where everything revolves around the rise of a destined hero.
But we weren't.
The only truth in that moment—clear as the morning sun—was this:
Oswin was about to be humiliated.