The eve of the duel crackled with nervous anticipation. Luke sat in his quarters, sharpening his practice sword with meticulous care. He couldn't deny that a sliver of doubt gnawed at him. Matthew, with his higher tier and potent crimson aura, was a formidable opponent. Yet Zubin's cryptic words offered a flicker of hope.
A knock on the door startled him out of his thoughts. "Enter," he called out.
The door creaked open, revealing Gregor's burly form and Elara's slender frame. They both wore determined expressions, a silent promise of support etched on their faces.
"We brought you something," Elara announced, her voice laced with a hint of mischief.
She produced a small, covered flask and two chipped mugs. Gregor chuckled, a deep rumble that seemed to shake the room.
"Not academy swill, my friend," he explained, a wink accompanying his words. "Elara procured this from a reliable source outside the walls."
Luke couldn't help but smile. The academy strictly prohibited alcohol, but a little rebellion before a big fight was a well-established tradition. He uncorked the flask, a wave of sweet, fruity aroma filling the air.
"To victory," Elara toasted, raising her mug high.
Gregor and Luke echoed her sentiment, the clinking of mugs a brief, defiant melody in the tense silence of the night. As they sipped the potent brew, conversation flowed freely. They reminisced about their journeys to the Order, their struggles, and their triumphs. Gregor recounted hilarious tales of his first attempt at horseback riding, while Elara regaled them with a witty account of her escape from a particularly strict etiquette lesson.
The camaraderie warmed Luke's heart. These weren't just fellow recruits; they were his friends, his confidantes. He confided in them about his anxieties about the duel, the pressure of proving himself, and the gnawing uncertainty about the stele within him.
Elara listened intently, her brow furrowed in concern. "Don't let Matthew's arrogance get to you, Luke," she said, her voice firm. "You've come a long way, further than anyone expected. You have the talent, the determination, and something… more. Trust yourself, and that… something… will guide you."
Gregor placed a massive hand on Luke's shoulder, his voice gruff but reassuring. "Aye, Elara speaks the truth. We believe in you, friend. Fight with honor, fight with cunning, and most importantly, fight with all your heart."
Their words filled Luke with a renewed sense of purpose. He wasn't just fighting for himself; he was fighting for his place amongst the Order's finest, for the respect of his peers, and for the trust of his newfound friends.
As the night deepened, the alcohol wore off, replaced by a quiet resolve. They discussed strategies for the duel, with Elara pointing out weaknesses she'd observed in Matthew's fighting style, and Gregor offering tips on countering the offensive power of a crimson aura.
Finally, exhaustion settled upon them. With a final handshake and a shared look of determination, Gregor and Elara bid Luke goodnight. He extinguished the single candle illuminating his room, plunging himself into darkness. Yet, amidst the shadows, a feeling of calm settled over him. He wasn't alone. He had friends; he had a purpose, and he had the whispers of the stele, a yet-to-be-understood power humming within him. Sleep came easily, filled with dreams of victory and the promise of a brighter future.