A voice pulled me back—casual, steady, unmistakably Trevon.

  “Do you think the announcer’s doing me dirty, announcing me like that?”

  I blinked, still caught halfway between the past and the present.

  He rolled his shoulders, unbothered. “Well, I’ve got bad blood with that Jam—whatever-his-name-is. He was one of the guys gring at us earlier, like he’d already won.”

  I huffed. “Do you need me to psyche you up?” I offered, half-joking.

  Trevon gave me a cocky grin. “Nah. Just keep an eye on my form and tell me if I mess anything up.”

  “You’ve held a sword longer than I have,” I muttered. “I’m just here to nitpick from the sidelines.”

  “Exactly,” he said, stepping forward. “So nitpick well.”

  With that, he ducked under the rope and entered the ring.

  The cheers rose again as both fighters took their pces. Trevon raised a hand in casual greeting to the crowd—every inch the second son of a Marquis, rexed and confident.

  Across from him, Jamel Zonneveld had already taken his stance—silent, focused, bde glinting in the afternoon light. His posture was clean, almost too clean. There was nothing fmboyant about him. No smile. No taunt. Just readiness.

  The announcer's voice echoed above the noise:

  “Combatants—ready your weapons!”

  Trevon drew his sword in a smooth, practiced motion.

  “Begin!”

  Steel cshed mid-air with a sharp, satisfying ring.

  Jamel opened fast—no warm-up. A forward-heavy stance, rapid footwork. He went in hard, aiming to assert control.

  Trevon absorbed the strike with a parry so fluid, it looked practiced a thousand times. His feet shifted just enough—banced, sure. Not a step wasted. Not a loud motion.

  He wasn’t flinching. He was reading.

  I wasn’t the better swordsman between us. Trevon had trained with a bde for far longer. But I’d spent enough nights repying Master’s lessons to know when someone lost bance, when their rhythm broke, when their instincts faltered.

  Jamel circled, sharp and precise. A predator. He was fast, yes, but more than that—he was watching, waiting for a weakness. The kind who struck once and made it count.

  Trevon didn’t give him one.

  He stepped back—not in retreat, but in rhythm.

  Then pivoted low, his bde gliding upward in a curve as smooth as drawn ink. A feint, sharp and deliberate, that tilted Jamel off-bance before he realized he’d committed too far.

  That curve of the bde—it wasn’t something you learned in noble academies.It was Skyridge. Wind-carved, mountain-born. We drilled it at dawn, over stone ledges slick with frost.

  The crowd gasped.

  That’s right. Make him react.

  Jamel responded with a series of sharp attacks, pressing hard. Trevon blocked two, slipped the third—and—

  There. His back foot slid.

  Barely noticeable. But I saw it.

  He’s favoring his left again. Bad angle.

  My jaw tensed.

  “Trevon, adjust your back step,” I muttered under my breath, knowing full well he couldn’t hear me.

  Still, a beat ter, he corrected himself—shifted his weight, readjusted his stance. Good.

  That mistake wouldn’t have gone unnoticed back at Skyridge.

  Master Ba would’ve clipped his ear for it.

  I can still hear it—his voice, sharp as ever: “Your feet listen before your bde does.”

  Trevon must’ve remembered it too.

  He wasn’t just holding on. He was adapting.

  Another exchange—quicker, sharper.

  Bdes sang in a rhythm Trevon didn’t break. His breathing stayed even, his steps sure. Every movement echoed Master Ba’s lesson: “You don’t rush. You invite.”

  And then—Trevon smirked.

  He baited a swing, then cut underneath it, bde gliding up to graze Jamel’s shoulder. A clean hit.

  That strike—clean, sudden, deliberate.The first stance of the Sky-Piercing Technique.Not fshy. Not overwhelming. Just enough to break rhythm and nd true—like a bde piercing through clouded skies.

  The crowd erupted.

  Jamel faltered—not physically, but I saw the crack in his composure. His grip tightened. His guard lifted just a hair too high.

  He hadn’t expected to be tagged. Not this early. Not by Trevon Voschell.

  But Trevon just rolled his shoulders and reset—loose, calm, grounded.

  Skyridge didn’t sharpen fir. It honed instinct.

  Not for show. For survival.

  Jamel came at him harder next—off bance, frustrated.

  Trevon didn’t flinch.

  He pivoted in close, parried the strike at tight range. The ring filled with the hiss of sliding bdes.

  And then he twisted.

  A swift sweep. Tight, precise. He moved like the mountain was still beneath his feet.

  Jamel stumbled.

  Trevon didn’t hesitate.

  His sword came up—halted just before touching Jamel’s throat.

  The announcer’s voice boomed above the roar:

  “Point! Victory—Trevon Voschell!”

  The crowd exploded into cheers—a thunderous roar that rolled across the arena, not for the victor himself, but for the fight they had been given. Clean. Fierce. Worth watching.

  Some had expected him to lose. Others hadn’t known his name at all.

  They did now.

  Trevon lowered his sword and offered his hand. Jamel paused—then took it, stiffly.

  The sportsmanship was strained, but it was there.

  Trevon turned to the stands. He didn’t grin. He didn’t bow.

  He just looked at me—and nodded.

  Calm. Steady. Solid.

  I folded my arms and let out a breath.

  Well done, Trevon. You didn’t just win. You made them remember.

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