A Throne Forged by Shadows - Aaric Graycastle

It's Monday. Our third Challenge day.

The scent of sweat is thick in the air as cadets gather along the edge of the mats, waiting for their turn to be thrown into a fight they might not walk away from.

And it's not long before Emetterio calls my name.

"Cadets Melgren and Roark."

Roark and his friends look elated.

It shouldn't surprise me. Every shove, every passing elbow to the ribs, every comment under his breath that I pretend not to hear. And after what Aaric did in battle brief on Friday, it's like he's been itching to get to me.

Let's see how long you last, Melgren.

The moment our names are called, a ripple moves through the crowd. Whispers. Bets exchanged in low murmurs.

I roll my shoulders back, forcing down the ache from last week's bruises.

Sorry Aaric.

This one isn't about winning. It's about surviving.

Roark steps onto the mat opposite me, slow and confident, rolling his wrists as he smirks. He's already won in his mind. And maybe he's right. But that doesn't mean I'm going to just hand it to him.

"Think you can last longer than the last one, princess?" he sneers, mockingly.

I don't answer. I refuse to give him that satisfaction.

Overseeing the match, Emetterio glances between us before nodding sharply. "Begin."

Roark strikes first—a brutal, lunging jab that I barely twist away from. He's fast. Too fast. My heart pounds as I scramble backward, eyes locked on his stance, reading his movements before they come.

I dodge, duck, deflect.

But I can't counter. Not without opening myself up to something worse.

A sharp kick to my thigh sends me staggering, nearly dropping me to a knee. Roark doesn't give me a second to recover. He's on me immediately, pressing the attack, grinning like this is the most fun he's had all day.

He's not just fighting to win.

He's playing with me.

The realization sends pure, burning rage through my veins. I grit my teeth, lurching forward, feinting left before twisting—finally landing a solid hit to his ribs. The impact jolts through my knuckles.

Roark laughs.

The sound is low, cruel, taunting. "That all you got?"

He's toying with me. Wearing me down.

And it's working.

The next blow is a punch to my stomach, knocking the air from my lungs. I double over, gasping, but I can't stop, I can't stop, I can't—

A vicious elbow to my back slams me to the ground.

The world tilts.

Breathe. Get up. I push off the mat, spitting blood from my mouth, forcing myself onto my feet again. Every movement screams in protest.

Roark shakes his head in mock pity. "Stubborn little thing." He lifts his fists again, rolling his shoulders. "Should've stayed down."

Then he comes for me.

A blow to my jaw. A kick to my side. I barely deflect the next hit before his fist slams into my ribs.

Crack.