The King's Guard

Chapter 16

(Two weeks later)

The Academy’s sparring grounds were restructured overnight. Bleachers circled the central arena, hexagonal panels shifted beneath the sand to reset the stage between matches. Banners hung high, bearing the symbol of the Academy: a white fracture across a black sun. The Gauntlet was underway.

Kael sat on the outer bench, eyes lowered as the sun filtered through the pale dome overhead. The matches had begun an hour ago. Faint cheers and the thump of boots echoed with each bout. A large board displayed brackets, glowing softly with every update.

“Kael?”

He looked up, slightly startled. Reyna approached, a layer of sweat still clinging to her brow from her own round. She held two canteens under one arm and tossed him one with a practised flick.

“You’re up soon,” she said, seating herself with a sigh beside him.

“Thanks,” he murmured, unscrewing the cap. The metal was cool in his hand, condensation trailing down his fingers as he took a long drink.

Reyna studied him. “You look tense.”

“Bit hard not to be,” Kael replied, replacing the cap. “Jared's my first match.”

Reyna gave a half-smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s not ideal because of how skillful he is for sure, and also the rift between you two, but you’ve faced worse things than him.”

He let out a quiet exhale, shoulders rising and falling. “Maybe. Still doesn’t feel like I’m ready.”

She nudged his knee lightly with hers. “You're more ready than he thinks,” she said. “And that’s something.”

Across the arena, Jared was stretching with a deliberate rhythm. His every motion was calculated, efficient: elbows tight, shoulders squared, back straight. The group of cadets orbiting him looked on with a mix of reverence and quiet calculation.

Kael’s gaze lingered. “He’s really good.”

Reyna didn’t hesitate. “He’s predictable.”

Kael glanced at her.

“He moves like someone who’s only ever practised against mirrors,” she said. “Exploit that.”

More cadets filtered in, passing with nods, a few offering brief murmurs of encouragement. Others simply gave him a wide berth. Those who advanced carried weight. Those who faltered didn’t linger.

From the opposite side of the bleachers, Kyna waved, fingers wiggling enthusiastically. Her mouth shaped the words, Good luck!

Kael lifted a hand in return, the gesture subdued. His grip on the canteen tightened slightly.

A loud chime rang through the arena, reverberating off the high glass canopy.

“Next match,” the announcer’s voice echoed overhead. “Kael Estaran versus Jared Varion. Prepare.”

Reyna reached out and gave his arm a single squeeze. “You’ve got this. And don’t let him bait you.”

Kael rose, slowly rolling out his shoulders, trying to shake the tightness from his muscles. His boots crunched softly against the sand as he made his way to the arena’s centre. Jared was already there, mask lowered, arms relaxed at his sides, but Kael could see the tension behind it. A stillness that buzzed, waiting to spring.

His opponent’s expression was set.

Kael stepped into the circle.

“Competitors, ready?” the official called.

Jared gave a slight nod.

Kael adjusted his footing, and brought his weapon to guard. “Ready.”

“Begin.”

Jared moved first with a quick lunge with immediate pressure.

Kael barely managed to duck. The edge of Jared’s practice blade hissed past his shoulder. Gasps murmured through the crowd.

The two parted for half a beat. Kael gripped the short sword tighter, familiarising himself again with its balance. Standard issue: tempered alloy, blunted edge. Pain without permanence.

Jared closed the distance once more, pushing Kael onto the defensive with fast, tight arcs. Kael blocked high, then low, then twisted free, letting Jared’s blade skim harmlessly past his side.

The next sequence came harder and faster. Jared’s footwork was brutal and efficient. No wasted motion. The kind of attack meant to dominate tempo.

Kael didn’t counter.

Another swipe, aimed at the ribs. Kael dropped low, rolled through the dust and sand, and rose behind Jared with fluid grace. His blade tapped across Jared’s upper back: clean and exact.

A point.

A ripple passed through the stands.

Jared turned his head slightly, his voice low. “You think that’ll work again?”

Kael offered no answer. His stance reset, his balance centred.

Jared attacked again—this time much more sharper, his blade angling towards Kael’s side. A narrow pass. Kael stepped away but felt the sting as metal scraped across his forearm.

Gasps again. The wound wouldn’t count. No point. But it spoke volumes.

Kael inhaled slowly, ignoring the throb. He watched Jared’s shoulders. The slight twitch in his posture. He was pushing harder than usual. Irritated.

Kael gave ground deliberately, letting Jared control the stage. Just enough to keep him comfortable and confident, letting him swing wide, and step too far.

Another pass: Kael feinted left, dropped under a diagonal cut, and flicked his blade across Jared’s flank.

Second point.

A sharp curse from Jared. The crowd rumbled again, more voices this time.

Kael kept his breathing steady. His arms ached already. And Jared—

He caught sight of them in the stands. Archon with a face that looked annoyed? Ember was beside him keeping a neutral face, while Drax kept mute with his arms crossed, and an unreadable face. They simply just watched.

Jared adjusted his stance. Gone was the barrage. Now his steps were slower and purposeful.

This version of him was worse.

Kael blocked a high strike, then a tight thrust, but the angles had changed. There was less aggression, more precision. Jared circled, and Kael tried to pivot—

…but he was too late.

A low sweep caught his ankle, dragging his feet out from under him. Kael hit the sand hard, a grunt escaping before he could stop it. He barely had time to lift his blade—

Too slow.

Jared’s weapon halted an inch from Kael’s throat.

“Point: Varion.”

2-1.

Kael gritted his teeth. Reyna’s voice cut through the murmur like a sharp whistle: “Shake it off, Kael!”

He forced himself to rise. Sand clung to his sleeves and trailed down his legs. His calves throbbed. His forearms felt like they'd been packed with stone. Across from him, Jared stood poised, shoulders square, barely a bead of sweat on his temple. It was as if the bout had only just begun for him.

He didn’t speak. He tilted his chin just slightly and waited.

Kael steadied his breath. Charging would be pointless. He was too drained to keep trading blows or dance around Jared’s offence like before. He couldn’t outpace him now, and he didn’t need to.

He let his weight shift, feet planting firmly in the grit.

He stopped.

No more dodging. No more running. Let Jared come.

Let him overreach.

Kael met his gaze across the sand.

The hesitation was brief, but Kael caught it—Jared’s eyes narrowed. He stepped forward, blade angled low. Not reckless, but measured. He’d sensed the change.

One step.

Two.

Then steel kissed steel.

A downward slash blocked cleanly.

A feint and sweep parried with a sharp snap of Kael’s wrist.

The third strike came, fast and fluid, arcing for Kael’s ribs.

But Kael moved first, twisting at the waist, turning the blade aside. The moment Jared’s balance shifted, Kael dropped low, drove forward, shoulder-first. Contact.

Jared staggered.

Kael’s blade shot up in a blur, cutting clean through the space between them and caught Jared square across the midsection.

A blunt thump of wood meeting the padded vest.

3-1.

“Point. Estaran. Match over.”

Silence fell like a sheet. Then, somewhere on the far side, someone clapped. Another followed, and then more.

The applause rippled through the stands. Cadets rose. A few instructors exchanged glances. Some didn’t react at all.

Kael stayed where he was, his blade lowered, his chest heaving. Jared’s expression barely shifted, but his sharp and hooded eyes burned with disbelief.

Kael gave a slight nod, then turned his back.

Ember leaned toward Archon in the crowd, murmuring something behind her hand with a soft smile on her face, but Archon looked annoyed. Drax looked a little surprised, but impressed nevertheless.

Reyna reached Kael just as he stepped off the arena. She flung her arms around his shoulders, gripping him so tightly it almost knocked the breath from his lungs.

“You did it.” she whispered fiercely.

Kael let out a long breath, wiping his brow with the back of his wrist. “Somehow.”

“You fought smart,” she said, pulling back. “That’s what matters.”

Jared brushed past without a word, his jaw clenched so tightly you could almost hear the tension in his bones. Kael didn’t even bother to stop him.

A few cadets offered nods and light congratulations. Kyna leaned over the railing to clasp his shoulder.

“Congratulations, Kael. You truly deserved the win,” she said. Her eyes searched his face for something…pride maybe, but Kael simply responded with a soft smile.

The scoreboard flickered, then updated in sharp red text.

Kael Estaran – Advances.

He sat down heavily on the nearest bench and drained the last of his water. The bottle was warm. The sun had dipped, casting a longer shadow across the arena, bleeding gold onto the sand.

He didn’t feel triumphant.

He felt relieved.

Later that evening, Kael sat on the edge of the training field. The towel around his neck was damp with sweat and dust. His limbs ached in a steady, humming sort of way, the kind that lingered after deliberate movement.

The tournament had rolled on. Another match was underway. Steel clashed in the distance, punctuated by sharp calls from instructors and the occasional cheer from spectators.

Kael leaned back on his hands and let his eyes drift to the sky.

He hadn’t used the Rift. Not once.

He’d thought about it briefly, when Jared had almost boxed him in. Just a flicker of the old instinct: a second’s delay, a step rewound, a shift in advantage. It would’ve been enough.

But he hadn’t reached for it.

And that, more than anything, made the victory feel like it was actually his.

Across the field, Jared stood beneath the canvas awning by the med tent. A clean white bandage was wrapped around his right wrist. He wasn’t looking at Kael.

He hadn’t looked once since the final point.

Darius’s boots crunched across the gravel as he approached.

“You kept your head,” he said, arms behind his back. “Didn’t bite the bait.”

Kael straightened up a little. “I did what I could.”

Darius nodded slightly. “Varion’s dangerous,” he said. “Not just because he’s fast, or precise—but because he knows how to pull people off their game. Get in your head. He plays the long match. Makes you impatient. And when you lose your footing, he finishes it. You’ve experienced that before, so you know.”

Kael said nothing for a moment, then: “Yes, sir. I do.”

“You kept your discipline. That’s more rare than you think.” The instructor’s gaze drifted to the arena. “Good fighters win fights. But measured ones… they last.”

There was no smile. Just that same composed authority.

Then he turned and walked off.

Kael remained seated, towel still around his neck. His body still buzzed with the echo of the match, but the noise of the tournament had faded.

He looked out at the field and let himself breathe.

He hadn’t needed the Rift, and that meant everything.