"Cruthru," Jackson muttered as he sat staring at the ceiling.

  He'd jolted awake in a cold sweat, his heart still thumping in his ears even a short while after the dream had ended. That thing he saw in the woods—was that a Cruthru? But then again, it could be his mind’s way of dealing with that encounter. He'd dreamt of the term before, then assigned it to the monster he'd seen. A simple explanation—but one that just didn't sit right with him. He'd been on edge ever since that day, and although some of that anxiety was lessened when he passed his assessment a little over a week ago, it still haunted him. Every time he stared out into those woods, it felt like he was being watched. It made him paranoid, and he started questioning things.

  Most of all—his dreams. The dreams with Dara and Jiro started after he'd awakened. At the time, Jackson just assumed the dreams happened since magic was on his mind more often, but that left some things unexplained. In one of the dreams, Dara had used Shaper magic to control air, and because of their inexplicable shared senses, Jackson felt what that was like. He hadn't even started mage classes at that point, but once he figured out how to manipulate air, the feeling was the same. The exact same. That alone was pretty strong evidence these dreams weren't ordinary. Sure, the dreams were also incredibly vivid, and he remembered them in perfect detail—but after the latest, he had a chance for actual proof. The book that Dara was flicking through.

  If he could find it—and it contained the picture of that king—then his suspicion that the dreams were something else entirely would be confirmed.

  Jackson didn't mind Mr. Landy's class, but swordsmanship was becoming more and more boring in comparison to magic. He couldn't fly with a sword or rip chunks of earth from the floor. He could only get himself stabbed in the stomach with a blunt shortsword as Elquire rushed him once again, letting loose a thrust that hit him dead on. Jackson grunted and took a step back, his weight shifting onto his back foot. Elquire, noticing that Jackson was in no place to return a thrust of his own, continued his attack—this time taking a swing at Jackson’s head. He managed to pull off a half-decent block, bringing his sword up with the blade pointed toward the sky and halting Elquire's swing. The boy took a step backward as the swords rapped against one another, raising his sword diagonally in front of him, readying himself to parry should Jackson push an attack.

  Elquire stood still for a moment, analysing his best course of action before deciding to charge his opponent—seemingly going for another thrust to the body. Jackson reacted this time, raising his hilt above his head and pointing the tip of his sword toward the floor so that he could bat away Elquire’s strike and set himself up for a counterstrike. Elquire got close, thrusting his sword as Jackson had anticipated. He moved to parry the attack, but Elquire dropped his shoulder slightly—giving him the leverage to turn his jab into an upward slice aimed directly at Jackson’s chin. The tip of his sword managed to clip the skin on his chin, but Jackson’s reflexes had improved after weeks of training with someone as skilled as Elquire, and he managed to tip his head backward in time to avoid the main brunt of the attack. Jackson jumped back a few feet, creating space between the two of them.

  "You have improved, Jackson," Elquire said with a smile, "considering last time I sent you to the infirmary."

  Jackson rubbed his chin slightly with the back of his hand. This wasn't magic—but it was fun. That was helped by Elquire. It had taken a few days for Elquire to get into the habit of calling him Jackson instead of Mr. Jackson after he had to reassure the boy they would remain friends, even with Jackson studying to be a mage half the time. It was only since Jackson passed the assessment that Elquire had worked up the courage to drop some of his formalities and provide a playful jab at him. Jackson didn't mind—it just gave him the extra motivation he needed to finally land a hit on the boy, given he was nearing the end of his first month at the Academy and still hadn't managed to accomplish such a feat.

  "Today's the day," Jackson replied, "that I finally wipe that damn smug smile off your face."

  Jackson raised his sword to eye level, blade parallel to the floor, and began to charge. He closed the distance faster than he was expecting—but took that in stride—sending a powerful slash aimed at Elquire’s ribs. The boy whacked his sword away again, but Jackson had anticipated that. He used the added momentum from the parry alongside quick footwork to spin himself in a circle—launching a strike on the other side of Elquire, this time aiming for his calf. Jackson had him dead to rights. His blade connected with air as Elquire jumped over the sword, spinning like a hurricane parallel to the floor and a few feet in the air before extending his leg and delivering a powerful shin kick into Jackson’s face as the two of them fell to the floor. Elquire caught himself on one foot—but Jackson slumped in a pile.

  "Ow," he said as he lay on the floor, ego thoroughly checked.

  The kick was flashy—far flashier than what Elquire had sent his way before. He had seen him practice insanely athletic and acrobatic moves—he just never thought he'd be on the receiving end of them. It seemed to be a taunt of some kind, friendly despite the force of the kick itself.

  Not today, was the message it sent.

  "I apologize. That may have been a slight part too powerful. Are you alright?"

  Oh, Jackson thought as he gave the boy a thumbs-up, he wasn't even trying his best. It wasn't surprising—Elquire was probably the best swordsman in their class, and Jackson was middling. He wouldn't need to try his hardest to win a spar. It made Jackson glad to be friends with him. Not just because he was strong—though Jackson did feel a tiny bit safer from the monster of the woods when Elquire was about—but because he was humble. Although, Jackson felt El was having a bad influence on that. After all, the redheaded fiend had practically tutored Elquire on how to be less formal. Not much of that seemed to go through, however—but at least Elquire could, on rare occasion, joke about. The elf had a wide smile, his eyes alight with excitement. Jackson doubted he was much of a challenge, but he recognized the look. It was the one he had when he used magic. He felt like he understood Elquire a little better each time they sparred. It seemed that swordsmanship was to Elquire what magic was to Jackson. The two were alike—more so than he had ever expected—apart from one key thing.

  He’s a noble.

  The thought crossed Jackson’s mind, as it did more and more these days. Before he came to the academy, he had never actually met a noble, and his parents didn’t like talking about the ones that they had known. But that hardly mattered. The thought had been ever-present back then. Nobles were essentially all the same. They were parasites. Deadly and uncaring ones at that. They bled those they ruled dry of their resources, paying them with the scraps made off their broken backs. It wasn’t uncommon for nobles to take a tax on said scraps as well. The working conditions they enforced may have been bad, but that was nothing compared to what the nobles did—either to fit into their high society, win favour with other houses, or—most sickeningly—for fun. It was vicious, and his parents had suffered because of it.

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  His mother most of all.

  Elquire was part of House Baron, whose current patriarch was Raccolta Baron. Jackson hadn’t actively looked for information on the man, but he didn’t have to. He was one of the major houses in Thronerill—the capital of the Sovereign’s Dominance right at the centre of the continent. The city had been established by the Old King after he conquered the territories that now made up the Sovereign’s Dominance—the largest of the continent’s provinces. The Old King had instated overseers in different parts of the continent to ensure his rule and order were being obeyed. The families of those overseers were called the Favoured Houses, and not a single one had fallen since the Old King died. Many other noble houses existed, but they were either splinters of the Favoured Houses or very rich individuals—such as plantation owners or wealthy merchants—that were granted a title by a Favoured House.

  The Favoured Houses were the worst of all. Anything the nobles did—they did worse, and on a much larger scale. Everyone at the academy would be noble or very closely related to nobility—no more than two degrees of separation. It wasn’t that only those connected to nobles could be mages, but it was more common for nobility to be born with magic. Stories said the Old King had imparted his overseers with a part of his power and had killed others who he believed shouldn’t hold the ability to wield magic. Elquire was of a Favoured House, and despite Jackson being his friend, a part of him held some inherent disdain for the boy. It wasn’t fair—he knew that. To his knowledge, Elquire was as good a person as any he’d ever met.

  Then again, Jackson hadn’t tried to find out much about the heir to House Baron’s noble escapades. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. For now, Jackson hushed the thought and got to his feet. He would likely have to confront that part of Elquire—that part of himself—at some point. But not now.

  "I did better than last time, at least," Jackson began, "given that I’m not passed out and bleeding. Honestly, how in the Hells can you draw blood given how dull these things are?"

  Jackson stuck the tip of his sword into the dirt of the arena, resting his palm on it as he steadied himself.

  "I believe the bleeding you had was internal, Jackson."

  "That's good, right?"

  "No, Jackson. That is why you needed medical attention."

  "Bummer. Can’t even bleed inside my own damn body."

  "I am sorry about that, by the way."

  "Water under the bridge. I deserved it for throwing sand in your eyes."

  "Attempting to throw sand in my eyes. I feel your recompense was a tad too harsh, given you didn’t actually harm me."

  I know he's trying to be sympathetic and all, Jackson thought, but that just makes it more embarrassing.

  "Mr. Trinity," a voice—Landy—came from behind the two. "You are improving. Have you landed a hit yet?"

  Jackson glanced at Elquire, who had an innocent smile on his face. Landy understood—Elquire was a monster when it came to a sword fight. Landy gave the boy a curt nod that told him he was doing as good as usual.

  "No matter. I actually have a request of you."

  Jackson perked up a little bit. "Oh?"

  "Would you be confident sparring against Elquire with the use of your magic alone? I realize this is a swordsmanship class, and I instructed you specifically not to use magic whilst practicing, but it would greatly benefit everyone here if they were to better learn how to defend against a mage."

  "Uh, yes. Yes, Mr. Landy, I can go any minute."

  Jackson was visibly excited. Maybe with his magic, he could land a hit on Elquire.

  Landy had told him not to use magic whilst practicing swordsmanship, since until he learned how to properly wield a sword, using magic to enhance his form would just consolidate bad habits. Landy said if he could land a hit on Elquire, then he would allow Jackson to use magic to enhance his training once a week. Jackson looked to Elquire, who was already getting in position for a spar. Landy brought the students around the pair in a wide berth, explaining to them what was going on.

  "I know this doesn't technically count," Jackson said as he stepped up to the arena, ready to fight, "but I really am going to get you this time."

  Elquire nodded in response, placing his hand on the pommel of his sword, preparing to draw it at a moment’s notice.

  With that, Landy signalled the start of the fight.

  Jackson wrapped his Tincture around the ground, grabbing far more than what he weighed, causing him to shoot a good ten feet into the air. Students let out gasps as he lingered in the air, activating his flight, pushing against the space just beneath his feet to keep himself afloat.

  "I do not believe you can fight me from there, Jackson," Elquire said with a smirk.

  He was right too. Jackson had hoped Elquire would try to jump near him, or potentially throw his sword. A normal person would do the latter, but Elquire could leap over full-grown men without so much as breaking a sweat—so he had banked on the former. Unfortunately, neither would come to pass, so he reduced his push—falling to the ground just slow enough to avoid injury upon landing. Jackson couldn't use all of his Shaper magic since there was no fire or water close enough to him in the arena. That was one of a Shaper’s biggest weaknesses—and Elquire had it handed to him on a silver platter.

  Elquire rushed in the second Jackson touched the floor, trying to end the fight with a swift sword arc targeted at his neck. Elquire was going a lot faster than normal. He wasn’t going easy—it seemed. Jackson had to push off the earth again, sending him flying backward, but Elquire continued his push. He grabbed hold of the earth and pulled a small pillar out of the floor, which sent the loose sand resting on top flying everywhere, setting up a temporary sand-screen. It wasn’t a lot, but it forced Elquire to briefly pause his assault, allowing Jackson to go on the offensive. He kept as much distance as he could, but he needed to keep Elquire close enough for his Tincture to reach when he extended it out. If he wasn’t, then Jackson wouldn’t be able to manipulate the world around him—and his magic would be useless.

  Rialu said it was possible to split off part of your Tincture, though she didn’t call it that, and hurl it rather than just extending it. That would have been useful right about now—but it wasn’t something he had practiced.

  Jackson reached out to the air and started weaving it through the sand, grabbing all of it that he could inside his Tincture and twisting it around himself—creating a human-sized sandnado before launching streams of wind and pebble at Elquire. Taken slightly by surprise because of the novelty of the attack, Elquire was slightly too late to fully avoid the first blow, with it clipping him on the shoulder and causing a minor friction burn on his outfit thanks to the sand. The impact of the attack knocked him off his feet, but he twisted in the air and landed gracefully—like a cat—dancing around the gusts. He said something, but Jackson couldn’t hear him over the wind gushing around his ears. He launched a few more sand streams, but Elquire had adapted.

  Time to try something new.

  Jackson let the tornado stop swirling and drop to the floor, sending another blast of wind at Elquire. The boy flipped over it, then charged Jackson with immense speed. Jackson let him get in just close enough and then grabbed the earth where Elquire was about to step—pulling it apart, causing a hole to appear where it hadn't an instant earlier. As Elquire went to strike him, his foot filled the hole, which Jackson quickly resealed. Elquire looked shocked as Jackson prevented him from moving about any longer, and—at long last—struck Elquire across the face with a punch. The boy recoiled slightly, but was prevented from tumbling since he was firmly ingrained in the earth.

  Jackson went for another hook, but Elquire bent himself over backward and sent a kick from an impossibly low angle that connected with Jackson right in the ribs. That hurt—but not as bad as earlier, since Jackson was collected enough to grab hold of the leg and pin it to the side of his body. Elquire, now with no free feet left, had lost. That was what Jackson thought—until Elquire pushed off the floor with his hands, sending his incredibly flexible body in a pendulum swing upwards. Elquire used the momentum to headbutt Jackson, the two of them falling down to the floor—both groaning and rolling around.

  It seemed that this time—it was a tie.