The infirmary was nestled deep within the Warbringer Academy, designed less for comfort and more for practicality and efficiency. The scent of medicinal herbs and faint traces of alchemical mixtures hung in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of antiseptic. The walls were lined with shelves of vials, potions, and bandages, each neatly labeled with the precise efficiency of a battlefield medic. A faint, soothing glow emanated from enchanted sconces on the walls, casting a soft, bluish light that calmed the nerves but made the space feel sterile.

  The beds were sturdy and unyielding, with plain white linens that smelled faintly of lavender—a small touch of comfort in an otherwise utilitarian environment. Each bed was separated by heavy gray curtains, which could be drawn for privacy when needed. Above each bed hung a simple hook with a numbered tag, allowing the healers to track which patient was in which bed.

  The room Sorin and his team rested in was one of the larger recovery chambers designated for group treatment. It had enough beds to accommodate the entire team, all arranged in neat rows with a walkway down the center. The walls were bare except for a few tapestries depicting scenes of valor from past tournaments. A single, narrow window near the ceiling allowed a sliver of moonlight to filter in, though it was mostly drowned out by the enchanted sconces.

  Sorin lay in the bed closest to the door, his body aching from the brutal competition. Tytus snored softly in the bed to his left, his red hair mussed and his face still smeared with faint traces of dirt and blood the healers hadn’t bothered to scrub away entirely. Torrid was sprawled out on the largest bed in the room, his arm dangling over the side, still wrapped in bandages. His massive frame made the cot creak with every shift. Diego sat upright on his bed, thumbing through a worn book about battle tactics despite the obvious exhaustion etched into his features.

  Jackson, ever dramatic, lay in his bed with his arm draped over his forehead, loudly complaining about how sore he was. “We’re practically prisoners,” he groaned, glancing toward the door as if someone might hear his plight. “Trapped in here like wounded beasts.”

  Vestian perched on a small stool next to Sorin’s bed, preening his feathers with an air of self-importance. Occasionally, the familiar would squawk indignantly at the occasional clang of metal trays from the healers moving in the adjacent room.

  Though their bodies ached and their spirit reserves were drained, there was a shared sense of pride in the air. They had survived the first leg of the tournament, and despite the bruises and bandages, they had done so as a team. For now, rest was their only focus, the soft hum of magical wards and the steady murmur of healers’ voices a soothing backdrop to their well-earned recovery.

  As the room settled into a comfortable quiet, Jackson broke the silence with a groan. “I’m telling you, I’m going to write a book after this. The Miserable Tale of Jackson Hughes: Surviving the Tournament. Bestseller, guaranteed.”

  Diego didn’t look up from his book. “Might want to reconsider the title. It sounds like you spent the whole time running away.”

  Jackson sat up dramatically, clutching his chest. “How dare you, Diego! I’m a vital member of this team. Of course I ran away. At least my illusions saved us all at least—what, five times? Six?” He looked around for validation.

  “Three,” Sorin deadpanned, glancing at him. “Although it cancels out when you scream in terror.”

  Tytus awoke at the conversdation and let out a booming laugh, wincing and clutching his side halfway through. “He did scream like little girl. Sounded like banshee,” Torrid added from his bed, his voice blunt and matter-of-fact. “Funny banshee.”

  “I was creating an aural distraction,” Jackson shot back, his tone defensive but his cheeks reddening. “It’s a tactical maneuver. Look it up.”

  “Sure, sure,” Tytus wheezed, trying not to laugh again. “Next time, let’s just tie some bells to you and call it a day.”

  Diego finally closed his book, rubbing his temples. “Let’s not forget who had to save your ‘tactical maneuvering’ ass from Scot.”

  “You could have left me,” Jackson muttered, folding his arms and glaring at the ceiling. “I was fine.”

  “Like hell you were.” Sorin smirked, leaning back against his pillow. “You looked like you were crying when Torrid came to your aid.”

  “Was not!” Jackson protested.

  Torrid tilted his head, frowning. “Was crying. Eyes wet.”

  Jackson glared at Torrid, opening his mouth for a retort, but then shook his head with a sigh. “You know what? Fine. I’ll let you all believe what you want. But when we’re being given victory laurens after the Ranking Tourament, just remember who’s the real hero.”

  “Vestian?” Tytus offered with a grin, nodding toward the familiar perched smugly on the stool, who squawked in agreement.

  The room erupted into laughter as Jackson threw a pillow at Tytus, which only made Torrid join in with his own blunt chuckles. Even Diego cracked a rare smile. Despite the soreness in their bodies and the lingering exhaustion, the camaraderie they shared made the moment feel lighter, as though the trials of the tournament were distant memories—even if only for a little while.

  As the laughter faded and the steady rhythm of his friends’ breathing filled the room, Sorin’s body felt like lead, every muscle aching from the battles they had fought. His arms throbbed from the countless swings of his swords, and his legs felt heavy from hours of dodging and running. Even the simple act of lying still sent sharp reminders of bruises and scrapes he hadn’t even noticed in the heat of combat. The beds, though plain and stiff, felt like a luxury compared to the forest floor during his travels to Cestead.

  One by one, his friends drifted off. Jackson, who had been loudest in their joking, was now snoring softly, sprawled across his bed in an ungraceful sprawl. Torrid’s breathing was deep and even, a low rumble like distant thunder. Tytus had murmured something incomprehensible before turning onto his side, and Diego lay motionless, his usual stoic expression even more serene in sleep.

  Sorin lay back against his pillow, the silence almost oppressive without their banter. He stared at the dimly lit ceiling, his thoughts wandering as he fought off the growing emptiness that crept in now that the camaraderie of the day had faded. He thought of Celeste—her sharp wit, her beauty, and the way she seemed to slip into his mind unbidden. She had this way of commanding his attention, of pulling him into her orbit, and he didn’t know if it thrilled or frustrated him more.

  But the soft allure of thoughts about her soon gave way to something heavier: the tournament. The duels that loomed ahead. They would define everything, not just his standing but the reputation of the Warbringer Academy. And in the middle of that path stood Aric Eversteel.

  Sorin’s jaw tightened at the thought of Aric’s mocking laughter, the condescending look in his eyes. He hated that he’d felt overpowered in their fight, and even more, he hated that Aric had walked away thinking he’d won something. It wasn’t just about revenge—it was about proving that Sorin, the Son of Vesperos, was destined for greatness. Losing to someone like Aric wasn’t an option.

  Aric had strength, raw and overwhelming. Sorin wasn’t blind to the gap between them. His own powers weren’t built for direct, head-to-head battles, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to avoid a rematch. He wanted it. Needed it. He would find a way to win, even if it meant using every ounce of cunning and creativity he could muster. A legend wasn’t built by playing it safe.

  With those thoughts swirling in his mind, Sorin’s eyelids grew heavier, his body giving in to the exhaustion that had plagued him. The ache in his muscles dulled to a distant throb as sleep finally overtook him.

  The room fell silent, save for the soft breathing of the sleeping warriors, as Sorin drifted into dreams of shadowed battlefields and the echoes of an inevitable destiny.

  —

  The day dawned crisp and clear, and once again, the entirety of Warbringer Academy marched in disciplined formation to the Overlord’s castle. The streets were alive with fanfare, just as they had been the day before. Crowds gathered to cheer, not only for the Warbringer Academy but for all the academies converging upon the castle lawns.

  Sorin walked with his team, though this time, the pressure wasn’t on them. They could afford to relax, knowing their part in the initial round was done. His body still ached from the grueling battles, but his mind was sharp, eager to observe what he had missed during his own teleportation.

  The academies took their designated positions on the castle grounds, the students lining up in neat, orderly rows as the banners of their respective schools fluttered in the breeze. The Disciples, clad in armor or robes that spoke of their power and prestige, stood at attention in their teams of five. Their gazes were sharp, their postures confident. The air was thick with anticipation, the kind that hinted at battles to come, stronger and more brutal than those fought by the Acolytes.

  The same ceremonial activities as the previous day occurred, including speeches from the City Overlord and the Headmasters returning with their own ceremonial calls in response. With Sorin witnessing these events for the second time, he found his gaze wandering and falling upon Celeste. She stood tall beside her father, wearing the same armor as the previous day. Her hair gently swayed in the wind as she wore no helm. Sorin found himself looking at her exposed neck. He found it attractive and had the honor of kissing it many times when they shared a night together. However, some darker side of him pictured how easy it would be to draw his sword across that exposed neck and witness the fountain of blood that would emerge.

  Sorin shook his head to clear away such morbid thoughts. What was he thinking? He wouldn’t do that to Celeste. He liked the woman who dominated his thoughts, and she wanted him. Sorin smirked. Or at least Sorin thought she did; she seemed passionate about their private activities and time together.

  The pomp and circumstance concluded, and the teleportation mage stepped forward at the center of the grounds. She was resplendent in flowing robes of deep violet and black, the sigils of Mysterium, God of Arcane Mysteries and Forbidden Knowledge, glowing faintly along the fabric. Her silver hair cascaded down her back in waves, and a circlet of black crystal adorned her head, shimmering as though alive. In one hand, she held a staff of polished ebony, the gem at its apex glowing with an ethereal light.

  She raised her staff, and the crowd quieted as the faint hum of magic filled the air. Sorin, standing in the Warbringer ranks, could feel the sheer magnitude of her power. It was oppressive yet mesmerizing.

  The mage began to chant, her words an intricate weave of arcane language that resonated through the air. A ripple of light spread across the ground, coalescing into glowing sigils beneath each team of Disciples. The sigils pulsed rhythmically, brightening with each word of the incantation.

  Then, with a dramatic sweep of her staff, the sigils flared, engulfing each team in a column of light. The Disciples stood still, unfazed by the dazzling display, their forms gradually disappearing into the radiance. The crowd watched in awe as the teams vanished one by one, their teleportation left behind a faint shimmer in the air.

  Sorin couldn’t help but marvel at the precision and beauty of the magic. Unlike his team’s haphazard stumble into the competition the day before, the Disciples handled the teleportation with grace and poise. Each group disappeared seamlessly, their presence replaced by an eerie silence that amplified the anticipation hanging over the crowd.

  As the last team vanished, the teleportation mage lowered her staff, the glow of the sigils fading into nothingness. She turned to the gathered academies and nodded, her part in the ritual complete.

  Sorin exhaled, feeling a pang of envy at the calm confidence the Disciples exuded. Their battles would be far more intense, their stakes higher, yet they carried themselves with an ease he couldn’t yet emulate.

  As the applause for the teleportation magic faded and the gathered crowd settled, two men stepped forward from the dais near the City Overlord. Both were striking in their own way, their presence drawing the attention of students and spectators alike.

  The first was a follower of Caligo, the God of Illusions and Lies. He was tall and lean, with sharp, angular features that gave him a foxlike cunning. His dark, slicked-back hair gleamed under the sunlight, and his piercing green eyes seemed to take in everything with a calculating glint. His clothing was extravagant but practical: a long, flowing black coat embroidered with shifting silver patterns that seemed to move like shadows as he walked. Around his neck hung a pendant bearing the emblem of Caligo—an ominous mist coiling around a dagger. His every movement exuded charm and mystery, a testament to his divine patron’s influence.

  The second man contrasted sharply with the first. A follower of Indest, the Goddess of Awful Truth and Dire Predictions, he was stocky and broad, with a face weathered by age and a perpetually furrowed brow that made him look like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. His dark eyes were deep-set and intense, as though they could peer directly into the soul. He wore heavy robes of dull gray and brown, unadorned save for a single, stark emblem of Indest—a cracked crystal globe filled with fire and death etched into a silver brooch at his chest. His presence was somber, almost oppressive, and his expression carried the resigned air of one who had seen the worst the world had to offer.

  Together, the two men approached the center of the dais, each lifting their hands in a synchronized motion. The air around them shimmered as their combined magic and spirit began to flow.

  The follower of Caligo spoke first, his voice smooth and melodic, weaving an intricate spell of illusion. Shadows rose from the ground like living smoke, coalescing into a dense, swirling cloud above the dais. The crowd watched in awe as the shadows shifted and shimmered, taking on faint, glowing outlines of images yet to form.

  The follower of Indest joined in, his voice rough and commanding, speaking words of grim clarity. As he chanted, lines of glowing silver light etched themselves across the shadowy cloud, stabilizing the chaotic mass. The images sharpened, revealing flickering glimpses of the forest to the north. The crowd gasped as the illusion fully took shape, creating a massive viewing mirror that hung in the air like a window to another world.

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  The illusion was breathtaking in its detail. Each tree, shadow, and blade of grass in the forest was rendered with vivid clarity, the colors shifting and swirling like a dream. The scene shifted fluidly, moving from one team of Disciples to another, showing them preparing for battle or cautiously navigating the dense terrain.

  The follower of Caligo smiled faintly, his hands dancing with shadowy tendrils that adjusted the display, zooming in on one team and then another. Meanwhile, the follower of Indest stood resolute; his hands outstretched as he guided the illusion’s focus with precise gestures, ensuring every detail was captured. Together, their combined powers created a mesmerizing spectacle, a perfect blend of deception and harsh truth.

  From the crowd, Jackson crossed his arms with a smug grin. “See? Told you. Follower of Caligo and follower of Indest. Perfect team for the job.”

  Sorin turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. He was actually a bit surprised at his friend’s knowledge. Jackson was far more intelligent and knowledgeable than everyone gave him credit for. Everyone just saw the cowardice in his friend, not the genius that he clearly had. Jackson was and always would be a valuable asset if he could be dragged along to whatever encounter they had.

  Tytus let out an exaggerated groan and said, “We know, Jackson. You were right. Congratulations. You want a medal or something?”

  “Just acknowledgment of my brilliance is enough,” Jackson replied with a mock bow.

  Diego rolled his eyes. “We’d acknowledge it if it happened more than once a decade.”

  Even Torrid grunted, “Jackson talk too much.”

  The group chuckled, their banter lightening the atmosphere as the illusion above continued to display the unfolding competition.

  The illusion shimmered, shifting seamlessly between scenes of intense combat unfolding within the forest. The viewing screen presented the battles with breathtaking clarity, capturing every clash of weapons, every burst of power, and every strategy executed by the competing Disciples.

  The first fight displayed a team from Stormhold Academy squaring off against a team from Valoria Academy. The forest seemed to tremble under the weight of their battle. The Stormhold team, masters of elemental manipulation, unleashed a tempestuous assault. One member, a towering man with lightning arcing across his body, hurled bolts of electricity that crackled through the trees. The air around him shimmered with heat, each strike carving jagged paths of destruction.

  Valoria’s team countered with precision and unity. A heavily armored woman, her shield glowing with an ethereal green light, absorbed the brunt of the attacks while her teammates flanked the enemy. One of them—a wiry man with crimson tattoos spiraling across his arms—called forth roots and vines from the earth, entangling the Stormhold team and disrupting their rhythm. The forest floor became a battleground of elemental fury and natural resilience.

  With a roar, the Stormhold leader conjured a whirlwind, breaking free of the vines and scattering his foes. The Valoria team’s formation faltered, and the illusion shifted away as the battle climaxed and finished, leaving the Stormhold team the clear victor.

  The scene transitioned to a quieter, more methodical clash between a team from Silverblade Masters and one from Warbringer Academy. Unlike the chaotic elemental brawls, this fight was a showcase of stealth and precision.

  A Silverblade student, cloaked in shadow and wielding twin daggers, darted between trees like a ghost. Every movement was calculated, and every strike aimed for vital points. Her opponents were no less skilled; a Warbringer student armed with a massive greatsword parried her strikes with surprising agility. Their weapons sparked as they clashed, the sound echoing through the forest.

  Meanwhile, another Silverblade student hung back, summoning shimmering blades of light to rain down on the Warbringer team. One of the Warbringer Disciples raised a glowing barrier, deflecting the assault, but the strain was evident in his trembling hands.

  The Warbringer leader, a stocky man with an axe wreathed in black flames, roared as he charged forward, disrupting the Silverblade formation. The Silverblade leader, a calm and composed swordsman, intercepted him, their weapons meeting in a shower of sparks that illuminated their grim determination.

  The illusion shifted again, this time to a battle that embodied pure chaos. A team from Darkplight Institute, known for their raw and unrestrained combat style, clashed with a team from Valoria Academy, renowned for their well-rounded students.

  A Darkplight student, his fists glowing with fiery energy, leapt into the fray, his punches creating shockwaves that rattled the trees. His opponent, a stoic Valoria fighter, wielded a hammer that gleamed with spirit. Each swing of the hammer unleashed bursts of frost, freezing the ground and forcing the Darkplight student to adapt his fiery attacks.

  Another Darkplight student, a lithe woman with chains of glowing energy wrapped around her arms, spun and twirled through the battlefield, her chains lashing out like serpents. The Valoria mage she targeted countered with barriers of crystalline ice, each clash between the chains and ice ringing out like a symphony of destruction.

  Above the battlefield, a Valoria archer fired arrows that exploded into bursts of flame or lightning. A Darkplight mage retaliated by summoning a swirling vortex of wind and debris, deflecting the projectiles and obscuring the battlefield in a maelstrom of dust.

  As the illusion shifted between battles, the crowd watching from outside the Overlord’s castle was captivated. Gasps, cheers, and murmurs rippled through the onlookers as each display of skill and power unfolded.

  Sorin’s eyes were locked on the illusion, analyzing every movement, every strategy. His friends were equally engrossed, with Tytus muttering about how the Darkplight team’s chaos may be adapted to his own powers, Diego quietly admiring the precision of the Silverblade tactics, and Jackson commenting on how he’d hate to be caught in the middle of any of these fights.

  Torrid, however, simply grunted. “Big hits. Good fight,” he said, his eyes gleaming with appreciation for the raw power on display.

  The illusion shifted again, promising yet another thrilling battle as the tournament continued, each team striving to prove their worth and secure their academy’s place in the rankings.

  The battle unfolded in vivid detail, displayed for the gathered crowd through the masterfully conjured illusion. Sorin leaned forward in his seat, his gaze locked on the final fight as tension rippled through the crowd. The Stormhold Academy’s Disciple Team clashed with Darkplight Institute’s warriors in a brutal and chaotic skirmish that left no doubt as to the stakes of the competition.

  The Stormhold leader, a towering figure armed with a glaive, moved with precision and purpose. Each swing of his weapon unleashed arcs of frost, freezing the ground beneath the Darkplight team and slowing their movements. He barked commands to his team, his deep voice cutting through the din of battle. His teammates, trained to perfection, executed his strategies with ruthless efficiency.

  Darkplight’s leader was a stark contrast. A muscular woman whose fiery aura seemed to burn hotter with every blow, she led her team with raw ferocity. She slammed her fists into the ground, sending shockwaves that cracked the frost and scattered Stormhold Academy’s formation. Her aggression was a rallying cry, driving her teammates to fight harder, faster, and with reckless abandon.

  The clash in the center of the clearing was thunderous. The Stormhold mage, a wiry man covered in glowing spirit, summoned spears of crystalline ice and hurled them toward the Darkplight warriors. One of Darkplight’s fighters, a woman wrapped in chains of bronze spirit, intercepted the projectiles with skillful spins, sending shards of ice flying harmlessly into the trees. She retaliated with a fiery burst, forcing the mage to retreat under the relentless barrage.

  Another Darkplight warrior, a hulking man wielding a lightning-wreathed hammer, charged forward with a roar. The earth trembled beneath his feet as he brought his weapon down in a devastating arc. A Stormhold shieldbearer stepped forward, raising a barrier just in time to absorb the blow. The impact sent a resounding crack through the battlefield, but the barrier held, allowing his team to counterattack. The shieldbearer’s unwavering defense gave the mage a chance to regain his footing and unleash another wave of icy projectiles.

  Amid the chaos, the Darkplight leader surged toward the Stormhold’s glaive wielder. Fire and frost collided in an explosive display of power, the ground beneath them scorching and freezing in alternating patches. Every clash of their weapons sent shockwaves through the battlefield, their movements becoming more desperate as exhaustion set in.

  The illusion shifted, focusing on a Darkplight archer perched high in the trees. Her arrows crackled with explosive energy as she took aim at the Stormhold mage below. The shot loosed with deadly precision, striking the mage’s shimmering shield. The impact was enough to knock him to the ground, dazed and vulnerable.

  The Stormhold leader reacted instantly. He shouted an order, and the shieldbearer broke away from his defensive position to slam his barrier into the archer’s perch. The branch splintered, sending the archer tumbling to the ground. The Stormhold team pressed their advantage, overwhelming the remaining Darkplight fighters with relentless coordination.

  The leaders clashed one final time, the fiery fists of Darkplight’s captain colliding with the Stormhold glaive wielder in a brutal exchange. Her uppercut sent frost flying as it connected with his chest, but his counterattack—a driving strike to her abdomen—left her crumpling to her knees.

  As the last Darkplight fighter was restrained, the earth-shaking horn blast echoed across the battlefield and through the castle grounds. The illusion froze, capturing the Stormhold team standing victorious over their fallen opponents. The criteria of all teams, except for ten being eliminated, had been fulfilled.

  The Stormhold supporters erupted into cheers, their voices filling the air with triumph. Across the viewing area, Darkplight’s crowd sat in stunned silence, their disbelief palpable. The energy of the moment was electric, a stark reminder of the stakes at hand.

  Sorin sat back, his jaw tightening as he exchanged glances with his friends. The sheer level of skill and power on display left an impression. “That,” he said quietly, his voice steady with determination, “is the level we need to reach.”

  Torrid crossed his arms and gave a decisive grunt. “We get strong. Crush all.”

  The illusion began to fade, leaving behind a lingering tension in the air. The follower of Mysterium took to the dias once again and began to gather spirit. She cast her spells once again, and portals manifested into being. Time passed as the returning Disciples stumbled out of the teleportation portals and into the sprawling lawns of the Overlord’s castle. Their disorientation was evident, but it didn’t last long before they were swept up in a wave of exuberant celebration.

  Warbringer Academy erupted in cheers, their shouts echoing across the grounds. Three teams from their academy had made it into the top ten, a triumphant display that had the students and faculty roaring with pride.

  Sorin and his friends watched from their spot among the crowd, their expressions a mixture of awe and camaraderie as the Disciples of their Academy were mobbed with congratulations. The energy in the air was infectious, and the excitement of their fellow students was a reflection of what they had felt the previous day. The Disciples were treated as heroes, each embrace and cheer cementing their place as some of the best in the city.

  After what felt like an eternity of revelry, the celebration began to calm. The noise dulled to a murmur, and heads turned toward the central podium. Instead of the imposing figure of the City Overlord stepping up to address the crowd, it was Celeste who ascended the dais. Her stride was confident, her presence commanding, and her smile sharp and calculated.

  She raised her hands, and the crowd immediately quieted. Her obsidian armor caught the fading light of the day and sucked it in, never to remerge. Sorin’s gaze lingered on her; there was something undeniably captivating about how the armor complemented her strength and elegance.

  “Warriors of Cestead,” Celeste began, her voice ringing clear and strong. “My father, the City Overlord, wishes me to convey his congratulations to every academy that participated in this stage of the Ranking Tournament. The effort and skill displayed over these past days have been nothing short of extraordinary.”

  A wave of applause swept through the crowd, and Celeste paused, allowing the sound to wash over her before continuing.

  “I especially wish to commend the twenty teams from across the academies who have advanced to the next stage of the competition. Your performance in the field was exemplary. But let me remind you,” she said, her eyes gleaming with a competitive edge, “the true test lies ahead.”

  The crowd listened intently as Celeste detailed the upcoming stage. “Tomorrow, the second phase of the tournament will begin. It will consist of single-elimination duels, where each team member will fight one-on-one. Like the team battles, these duels will be split into Acolyte and Disciple brackets. These duels will determine not only your individual strength but also the ranking of your academy. The stakes are higher now, and the margin for error slimmer.”

  Celeste’s voice softened slightly, though it lost none of its authority. “I urge all of you who have advanced to prepare yourselves for the challenges ahead. This city watches you closely. Your triumphs and defeats will shape the path forward for your academies and yourselves.”

  There was a moment of silence as her words sank in, the weight of her speech palpable. Then her smile returned, sharp as a blade. “But that is a matter for tomorrow. Tonight, we celebrate.”

  Her hands extended outward in a welcoming gesture. “The City Overlord invites all of you to a grand ball at the castle this evening. It is an opportunity to honor your achievements thus far and to come together as a unified city of academies. This is not merely a time to compete; it is a time to reflect on what unites us as warriors, scholars, and citizens of Cestead.”

  The announcement was met with a mixture of cheers and murmurs of anticipation. Celeste’s eyes scanned the crowd, lingering briefly on Sorin before she continued.

  “Dress your finest and join us in the great halls of the castle. Let tonight be a night of celebration, camaraderie, and perhaps a little fun. You’ve earned it.”

  She stepped back from the podium with a slight bow of her head. The crowd erupted in applause, the energy renewed as students and faculty began discussing the evening ahead. Sorin’s thoughts turned toward the ball, his mind racing with possibilities and plans. Celeste’s glance hadn’t gone unnoticed, and he couldn’t help but wonder what the night might bring.

  Then Sorin realized something; a furrow of confusion etched his brow, and he turned to his friends. "A ball? Why is this the first I'm hearing about it?"

  His friends froze for a moment, staring at him as if he’d just confessed to not knowing the sun rose in the east. Then, almost in unison, their expressions shifted to shock and disbelief.

  “You’re joking, right?” Tytus finally said, his voice tinged with exasperation. “You’ve never heard of the tournament balls? They’re legendary in Cestead!”

  Jackson threw up his hands, his tone dripping with theatrical disbelief. “How does someone not know about the parties? These aren’t just any parties—they’re the parties. People talk about them for years afterward! They are hosted after the team battles and every night after the duels. It's basically a week of partying if you aren’t scrambling to avoid getting stabbed.”

  Sorin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not from this city, remember? Of course, I didn’t know.”

  Jackson scoffed, crossing his arms. “I’m not from Cestead either, and I still managed to pick up on the basics. You’re telling me you, the direct disciple of Zane Warbringer, didn’t catch a single whisper about these balls?”

  Sorin shot Jackson a glare that could have chilled fire. “Not all of us have the luxury of eavesdropping on gossip while avoiding training, Jackson.”

  Tytus laughed, slapping Sorin on the back hard enough to make him stumble forward. “Come on, guys, cut him some slack. He’s clearly been living under a rock—an ambitious, hardworking, sword-swinging rock, but a rock nonetheless.”

  Diego, who had been watching the exchange with an amused smirk, finally chimed in. “This explains so much, honestly. Sorin, you’re like a baby bird just figuring out the world. It’s kind of adorable.”

  “Adorable?” Sorin muttered, his glare now fixed on Diego.

  Vestian, perched on Sorin’s shoulder, squawked indignantly as though offended on his behalf. Although Vestian was probably just offended by the infamous ‘B-word.’

  Torrid, standing off to the side, scratched his head and grunted. “Why you not know party? Big thing. Everyone know.”

  Sorin groaned, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright! I get it! I didn’t know. Can we drop it now?”

  Tytus grinned, leaning in conspiratorially. “Not a chance. We’re just getting started. You do realize you’re going to have to actually dress up for this, right? You can’t show up in your academy uniform looking like you’ve been dragged through a battlefield.”

  Sorin frowned, glancing down at himself. “I don’t think I even have anything remotely nice enough for something like a ball.”

  The group collectively groaned in unison.

  “This,” Tytus declared dramatically, “is a major problem. You can’t show up looking like a peasant if you’re going to be in the same room as Celeste. Forget just being in the room—what if you want to dance with her? Or, Gods forbid, woo her?”

  Jackson snickered. “Woo her? Oh, yeah, nothing says ‘let’s dance’ like showing up looking like a hillbilly Acolyte in your Warbringer uniform.”

  Sorin shot him another glare. “I’ll manage somehow. Do you all ever get tired of mocking me?”

  “Never,” Jackson replied, his grin widening. “You make it too easy.”

  Tytus clapped his hands together. “Alright, crisis averted. We’ll get you sorted. Someone in this academy has to have spare formalwear. You’ve got to look your best if you’re going to stand a chance with Celeste.”

  “And,” Diego added with a teasing smile, “not embarrass us in front of the whole city. Dying of embarrassment is not how I wish to meet my God.”

  Sorin groaned again, but there was a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He had a feeling this was going to be a long day.

  Before Sorin could continue his rumination, Tytus hooked an arm around Sorin’s shoulders and began steering him away from the group before Sorin could protest. “Come on,” he said with a grin. “If we’re going to get you looking halfway decent for tonight, we need to start now. Trust me.”