CHAPTER 63: THE SHADOW AND THE WALL

The silence in the Proving Grounds was heavy, a suffocating blanket that smelled of dust and Marcus’s blood. The medics had carried the broken swordsman away, but the image of his defeat—the sheer, mechanical brutality of it—lingered in the eyes of every Azurefall student like a burn scar.

"Round One to the Iron-Clad," Headmaster Joric announced, his voice booming with satisfied pride. He leaned over the railing, looking down at the silent blue sea of robes. "Do not despair, Azurefall. Perhaps your next champion will have... thicker bones."

A ripple of angry, frightened murmurs went through the Azurefall stands, but it was weak. Fear had taken root.

"Round Two!" Joric bellowed. "Sarahn... The Iron-Wall!"

From the Northern tunnel, a figure emerged that made the ground tremble with each step. Sarahn was not as tall as Erik, but she was wider, encased in a suit of full plate armor so thick it looked like she was wearing a fortress. She carried no shield. In her hands, she dragged a massive, two-handed flail, the spiked iron ball scraping a deep furrow in the dirt behind her.

She stopped in the center of the ring. She didn’t posture. She didn’t shout. She simply stood there, an immovable object of gray steel.

Headmaster Alistair stepped forward, his face grim. He looked at the roster. This was supposed to be Selina Pyre’s match.

But down in the pit, before Alistair could speak, a figure vaulted over the barrier.

It was Ilya Veyne.

"I’m taking this one," Ilya said, her voice cold and sharp as a scalpel. She didn’t look at Alistair. She looked straight at Sarahn.

"Miss Veyne," Alistair warned, "this is not the order—"

"Strategy change," Ilya snapped. She turned to look at Squad 7. "Selina uses fire. Fire against that much metal just cooks the person inside slowly. We need to bypass the armor entirely. We need armor-piercing."

She drew her twin shadow-daggers, the black smoke curling around her wrists. "We need me."

Dain stood up, gripping the railing. "Ilya, wait! She’s a tank. You’re a scout. It’s a bad matchup!"

"It’s the only matchup," Ilya retorted. "Watch me."

Alistair sighed, seeing the look in the girl’s eyes. It was the same look Elara had possessed seventeen years ago—a dangerous mix of brilliance and arrogance.

"Very well," Alistair conceded. "Representing Azurefall: Ilya Veyne."

The bell rang.

Ilya vanished.

She didn’t run; she melded into the shadows cast by the high walls of the pit. One moment she was there, the next she was a blur of darkness, reappearing directly behind Sarahn.

"Too slow," Ilya hissed.

She struck. Her daggers, coated in concentrated shadow-magic meant to phase through physical matter, aimed for the gap in Sarahn’s neck guard. It was a kill-shot in any other arena.

SPARK.

The daggers didn’t phase. They didn’t cut. They skidded off the gray armor with a shower of harmless white sparks and the screech of metal on metal.

Ilya’s eyes widened. She leaped back, flipping away just as Sarahn’s massive flail whistled through the air where her head had been. The wind from the swing threw dust into Ilya’s face like buckshot.

"What?" Ilya breathed, landing in a crouch, looking at her daggers. "That... that spell cuts stone. It phases through steel."

Sarahn turned slowly, her helmet showing no emotion. The metal of her suit groaned.

"Northern steel isn’t just steel, little shadow," Sarahn’s voice boomed, amplified by her helmet into a metallic rasp. "It is Cold-Forged with Null-Ore. It grounds magic."

She tapped her chest plate with a gauntleted fist. CLANG.

"Your tricks don’t work here. You have to hit me with force. And you... you are nothing but air."

Ilya gritted her teeth. Null-Ore. Anti-magic metal. It was rare, expensive, and devastating. Her entire fighting style—assassination, phasing, bypass—was useless. She was trying to stab a mountain with a spoon.

"Fine," Ilya spat. "If I can’t go through it, I’ll go into it."

She charged again. This time, she didn’t aim for the armor plates. She aimed for the vents—the small slits in the visor, the joints at the knees. She moved like liquid, weaving under the lumbering swings of the flail.

Slash. Slash. Stab.

She landed three hits in a second. Her daggers sought the soft spots, the leather under the steel.

But nothing happened. The shadows she injected into the armor joints simply dissipated, eaten by the Null-Ore before they could solidify or cut.

Sarahn didn’t even flinch. She just kept swinging the flail, a rhythmic, deadly pendulum. Whoosh. CRACK. Whoosh. CRACK.

"Is that a massage?" Sarahn taunted, swinging the flail low.

Ilya jumped, the spiked ball missing her boots by inches. She landed, panting. "Shut up!"

"Make me," Sarahn growled.

The tank changed tactics. She stopped swinging wildly. She shortened her grip on the flail and charged.

For a woman in full plate, she was terrifyingly fast. She was a locomotive. Ilya tried to dodge left, but Sarahn anticipated it. She didn’t swing the flail; she used the handle like a staff, checking Ilya in the ribs.

THUD.

Ilya gasped, the air knocked out of her. She stumbled back.

Sarahn pressed the advantage. She swung the flail overhead. Ilya barely got her daggers up in a cross-block.

CRASH!

The spiked ball hit the daggers. The force drove Ilya to her knees. Her arms screamed as the impact shuddered through her bones. The shadow-daggers shattered into black mist.

"Weak," Sarahn said. She kicked out.

Her steel boot connected with Ilya’s stomach.

Ilya flew. She tumbled backward through the dirt, retching, clutching her midsection. She tasted bile and blood.

"Is that all?" the Northern students began to chant, slamming their fists on the benches. "Shadows run! Iron stands! Shadows run! Iron stands!"

Ilya pulled herself up. Her hands were shaking violently. She summoned her daggers again, but they flickered, unstable. Her mana was being drained just by being near the Null-Ore.

She needed a finisher. She needed something that ignored the metal.

She remembered Elara’s lesson. Intent. Definition. The Vacuum.

I have to define the reality, Ilya thought desperately, blood dripping from her nose. I have to remove the concept of her defense.

She stopped running. She stood her ground, right in the path of the charging juggernaut.

"Ilya! MOVE!" Kaelan screamed from the stands, his voice cracking with panic. "SHE’LL CRUSH YOU!"

Ilya raised her hand, palm open, mimicking Elara. She focused all her will, all her desperation, on the armor charging toward her.

You are not heavy, Ilya thought, trying to impose her will on the world. You are weightless. You are paper.

"Become... nothing!" she screamed, unleashing a blast of shadow-magic meant to erase the armor’s density.

The spell hit Sarahn square in the chest.

For a second, the gray armor flickered black. The crowd gasped. Sarahn stumbled.

But then, Sarahn laughed. A deep, cruel sound from inside the helmet.

"I am not a concept," Sarahn roared. "I AM IRON!"

The Null-Ore absorbed the conceptual magic. It wasn’t strong enough. Ilya’s will wasn’t absolute. It was cracked by fear.

Sarahn didn’t stop. She didn’t become paper. She remained a ton of charging, unstoppable iron.

She slammed into Ilya.

It wasn’t a weapon strike. It was a body check. Sarahn’s shoulder, encased in spiked plate, rammed into Ilya’s chest with the force of a battering ram.

CRUNCH.

The sound of ribs snapping was audible even in the back rows.

Ilya was lifted off her feet. She didn’t just fly backward; she was launched. She tumbled through the dirt like a ragdoll, limbs flailing, before slamming spine-first into the stone wall of the arena.

She slid down, leaving a bright smear of red blood on the stones.

Her daggers fell from her hands. She tried to stand, but her legs wouldn’t work. She fell forward onto her hands and knees, coughing, and a puddle of red blood splattered onto the dust.

Sarahn walked over, looming over the broken girl. The spikes on her armor dripped with condensation. She raised a massive, armored boot and placed it on Ilya’s back, pressing her face into the dirt.

"You can’t think your way out of a hammer," Sarahn said coldly. "Yield. Or I break your spine."

Ilya clawed at the dirt. She wanted to fight. She wanted to scream. But her lungs were full of fluid.

She looked up, her vision blurring. She saw the boot. She saw the disappointment on Alistair’s face. She saw the horror on Dain’s.

"I..." Ilya whispered, tears of frustration mixing with the blood. "I... yield."

Sarahn stepped back, satisfied. "Round Two," she announced, turning to the crowd. "Iron."

The Northern side erupted again. The chant was louder now, deafening. IRON. IRON. IRON.

"Pathetic!" Torian Ironheart shouted from the stands, pointing at the battered Azurefall students. "Is this your ’Azure Devil’s’ training? Tricks and smoke? Send us a warrior, or surrender the city now!"

"Your magic is weak!" another Northern student jeered. "Go back to your libraries!"

Dain Ragnor jumped the wall. He didn’t care about the rules. He ran to Ilya, scooping her up in his arms. She was limp, sobbing quietly into his chest, her breathing shallow and ragged.

"I couldn’t do it," she choked out, clutching his tunic. "The Intent... I wasn’t strong enough. I’m still weak, Dain. I’m still just a girl playing with shadows."

Dain looked at Sarahn, who was walking away without a scratch on her. He looked at the jeering Northern students. His golden eyes burned with a low, dangerous heat that dried his tears.

"You’re not weak," Dain growled, carrying her toward the medics. "The game is rigged."

He deposited her gently with the healers, then turned back to the remaining members of his squad. He looked at Kaelan, who was standing frozen in the front row, staring at Ilya’s blood, his face pale as a sheet.

Dain walked over and grabbed Kaelan by the front of his tunic, pulling him close.

"Kaelan," Dain said, his voice hard as granite. "You’re up next. Don’t try to be clever. Don’t try to be Elara."

He looked at the Northern mage, Vance, stepping into the ring with a cruel smile and a crackling lightning rod.

"Just survive."