My Classmate Is A Monster

Chapter 3: The Trial of Thorns

The air in the hallway felt thin, charged with the ozone residue of Shaila’s proximity. Devan walked with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his fingers tracing the faint, rhythmic heat pulsing against his sternum. Every step felt heavier, as if gravity had become a personal vendetta.

"Try not to die, Fairfield," Shaila’s voice echoed in his memory, cold and possessive.

He rounded the corner toward the Great Arena, his mind reeling. He was bound to her. The realization was a jagged stone in his gut. He had come to Aethelgard to become something, not to become a tethered puppet to a prodigy who looked at him like a science experiment gone wrong.

The arena doors groaned open, spilling noise into the corridor the roar of a hundred students, the crackle of localized weather spells, and the sharp scent of singed wool.

"Hey, look who finally decided to grace us with his presence," a voice drawled.

Devan stopped. Nanda Westbrook stood at the entrance of the pits, her arms crossed. Her uniform was pristine, her posture radiating the casual, effortless superiority of a girl who had never had to worry about tuition.

"I didn't think you’d show up, Fairfield," Nanda said, tilting her head. "Word is you broke some stuff in the library on day one. Are you here to audition for the janitorial staff?"

"Just here for the trials, Westbrook," Devan muttered, stepping past her.

"The trials require actual talent, not just the ability to knock over fragile antiques," she laughed, falling into step beside him. "You know, you’re in over your head. Maybe you should take the shuttle back before you humiliate your bloodline if you even have one."

"I’m fine," Devan said, his jaw tightening.

"Are you? You look a bit pale. Is the stress getting to you already?"

"I said I’m fine."

They reached the floor of the arena. It was a sprawling, circular stage of reinforced black basalt, etched with glowing ley-line conduits. Above them, the faculty balcony was occupied by professors in high, starched collars, watching the sparring matches with bored, hawk-like intensity.

"First match," the proctor’s voice boomed from the rafters. "Nanda Westbrook versus Devan Fairfield. Engage."

Nanda didn't waste a second. She flicked her wrist, and the air around her warped. A torrent of pressurized air, thick and unrelenting, slammed into Devan before he could even square his shoulders.

"Whoa, hold on!" Devan stumbled back, his boots skidding against the stone.

"You’re too slow," Nanda called out, her voice calm and mocking. She raised her hands, and the gravity on the platform seemed to double. Devan felt his knees buckle.

"Can't breathe, huh?" Nanda circled him, her movements fluid. "It’s a simple pressure hex. It’s what we learn in our first week. Did you skip the orientation, or did you just never have the capacity to learn?"

Devan gritted his teeth, the pain in his chest surging. The mark, Shaila’s mark began to burn, a hot, liquid fire spreading through his veins.

"Get up, Fairfield," Nanda sneered, closing the distance. "I don't have all day. I have an actual schedule to keep."

"I’m... not... done," Devan gasped, his hands trembling as he pushed against the invisible weight.

"You look done. You look pathetic." Nanda gathered a sphere of compressed air between her palms, the sound of it whining like a turbine. "Let me help you end this."

She shoved the sphere forward. Devan braced himself, expecting the impact to throw him off the platform, but his body moved on its own. The mark on his chest pulsed, and a shockwave of cold, violet-streaked energy erupted from his skin.

Nanda’s attack shattered against a barrier that wasn't there a second ago. The force of the rebound sent Nanda sliding backward, her eyes wide with shock.

"What was that?" she demanded, steadying herself. "That’s not basic shielding. That was... that was dark."

Devan blinked, his breath hitching. He could feel it now the cold, icy connection to Shaila. She wasn't just a girl in his head; she was a reservoir he could tap into.

"I don't know," Devan whispered, his voice sounding deeper, distorted by the power surging through him.

"You’re cheating," Nanda hissed, her face flushed with anger. "You don't have the capacity for that kind of weave. Who’s backing you? Is this some sort of illicit booster?"

"I’m not cheating," Devan said, standing to his full height. He felt the cold radiating from the mark, numbing the pain in his muscles. "I’m just adapting."

"Adapting? You’re a bottom-feeder!" Nanda lunged, her hands glowing with white-hot elemental pressure. She wasn't holding back anymore.

From high above, in the shadows of the west balcony, Shaila stood perfectly still. Her eyes were locked onto the fray, her fingers pressed against her own throat, where an identical pulse of light flickered beneath her skin. She didn't look worried; she looked like a gambler watching the winning hand play out.

As Nanda’s blades of wind descended toward Devan’s throat, Shaila flicked her wrist. A needle-thin ray of frost-touched energy sliced through the air, hitting the arena’s defensive grid.

The floor exploded in a cascade of shattered basalt and violet light.

"Stop!" the proctor roared, but it was too late. The blast had shielded Devan, throwing Nanda across the arena where she crashed into the safety barrier.

Silence fell over the crowd. Devan stood in the center of the crater, his chest heaving, the sigil glowing with a fierce, blinding intensity.

Shaila stepped back into the shadows of the balcony, her expression unreadable, though a faint, satisfied smirk touched her lips.

"Devan Fairfield," a cold, clipped voice cut through the silence.

An enforcer in charcoal-grey armor marched onto the platform, his hand resting on the hilt of a dampening blade. He was flanked by two instructors, their faces masks of icy disapproval.

"Stand down," the enforcer commanded, his eyes scanning the glowing mark on Devan’s chest. "Explain the signature of that energy. That is not standard academy output."

Devan wiped blood from his lip, his head spinning. The connection to Shaila was a burning line in his mind, calling him to keep silent.

"It’s just my own," Devan said, though the words felt foreign in his mouth.

"Do not lie to a Proctor of the Bloodline," the enforcer snapped, stepping into Devan’s personal space. The air smelled of burnt metal and stale parchment. "We felt the ripple. You utilized forbidden resonance. That kind of power doesn't manifest in a student of your standing without an anchor."

Nanda scrambled to her feet, clutching her bruised arm. "He’s a hack! He’s using contraband magic. Search him! He probably has a focus crystal tucked away somewhere."

The enforcer’s gaze drifted back to Devan. "Search him."

Devan felt his blood run cold. If they found the mark, if they figured out he was linked to Shaila Merrick the most powerful family in the academy it wouldn't just be an investigation. It would be a cull.

"I don't have anything," Devan said, trying to steady his shaking hands.

"Empty your pockets, Fairfield," the enforcer ordered, drawing his blade. The metal hummed, a sound designed to strip magic from anyone in its vicinity.

Devan stood firm, the heat in his chest flaring up again, acting as a silent, frantic warning from the girl watching from the balcony.

"If you move," the enforcer whispered, "I will ensure you never walk through these gates again. Now, surrender the source."

Devan looked up at the balcony, searching for the flash of white hair, but she was gone. He was alone, and the enforcer’s blade was inching closer, the humming sound of the weapon vibrating in his teeth.

"I told you," Devan said, his voice dropping, "it’s mine. You want to see how it works? Come and take it."

The enforcer’s eyes narrowed. "Arrogance. A death sentence for a kid like you."

"We’ll see," Devan countered, his eyes flickering with a faint, dangerous violet light.

The arena seemed to freeze. The crowd leaned in, a sea of hushed whispers and sharp intakes of breath. Devan didn't know if he could win, but as the enforcer surged forward, he knew one thing for certain: he wouldn't go down without burning the place to the ground.