Chapter 9: The Art of War
The first thing Elara noticed about Lucien Duskbane was his smirk—the kind that said, You're already beneath me.
The second thing?
He was going to enjoy breaking her apart.
The underground dueling arena was suffocating with tension. Rows of students lined the stone stands, illuminated by floating torches flickering overhead. The scent of charred spell residue clung to the air, mingling with sweat and adrenaline.
This was Lucien's domain. His kingdom.
He stood at the center of the arena with the casual arrogance of someone who had never tasted defeat. Dressed in sleek, obsidian dueling robes embroidered with silver runes, he looked as if he had stepped out of an old war portrait—tall, chiseled, and crafted for battle.
Elara hated everything about him.
She rolled her shoulders, gripping her wand. The dueling club had been her chance to prove herself, to sharpen her skills, to become stronger. But now, standing across from Lucien, she felt like a deer staring down a wolf.
The crowd wanted blood—and Lucien? He wanted to humiliate her.
He tilted his head, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. "Try not to bore me, Nightshade." His voice was a lazy purr, like this was all some grand joke.
Elara gritted her teeth. "Try not to choke on your own ego, Duskbane."
The murmurs in the crowd rippled, some chuckling, others whispering about how foolish she was to provoke him.
The professor overseeing the match barely finished announcing the duel before Lucien vanished.
Elara's stomach dropped.
She spun wildly, scanning the arena, but he was nowhere to be seen. The torches flickered, shadows twisting around her feet.
A whisper brushed against her ear—his voice, teasing, dangerously close.
"You're already dead."
A blinding force slammed into her chest.
Her body lifted off the ground as if she had been ripped from reality itself.
Then—pain.
A shockwave crashed her into the stone wall. Her vision blurred, her lungs burning for air as she crumpled to the ground. The crowd gasped, a mix of awe and laughter.
Lucien reappeared midair, landing gracefully on his feet. He flicked imaginary dust from his sleeve. "Pathetic."
Elara forced herself up, her ribs aching. She clenched her wand, fighting the urge to collapse.
He hadn't even tried.
But she wasn't done yet.
With a growl, she thrust her wand downward, channeling raw magic into the ground. The arena floor cracked beneath her, fissures spreading in jagged lines.
Lucien's smirk faltered as the ground beneath him erupted.
He leaped back, dodging her attack, but for the first time, he had to move.
Elara lunged forward, slashing her wand through the air. A streak of blue lightning arced toward him.
Lucien sidestepped it effortlessly.
Then—he was gone again.
Her stomach twisted. Not again—
A chilling hand ghosted over her shoulder.
"You should've stayed in bed."
Then—agony.
A curse exploded against her back, sending searing pain lancing through her nerves. Elara's scream was lost beneath the roar of the crowd.
She barely registered hitting the floor. Her fingers clawed against the stone, her body convulsing.
Lucien loomed over her, his wand pointed directly at her heart.
The cheers faded into silence.
The students had seen this before.
They knew what was coming next.
Elara knew too.
This wasn't about winning anymore.
Lucien wanted to end her.
The tip of his wand glowed an eerie white. Not a stunning spell. Not a dueling technique.
A lethal curse.
No.
Her limbs wouldn't move. The pain from his last spell had paralyzed her.
Lucien exhaled, like she was an annoying inconvenience. "Goodbye, Nightshade."
The spell surged forward.
But before it could hit—a hand caught Lucien's wrist.
The arena froze.
Cassius.
His grip was iron, his golden eyes burning.
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "Huh. That's unexpected."
Cassius's jaw tightened. "You were going to kill her."
Lucien chuckled, twisting his wrist free. "Please. I was making a statement."
Cassius didn't move. "Try it again," he said, voice low, dangerous, "and I'll make a statement too."
Lucien's smirk twitched. His ego bristled at being challenged.
For the first time, the air between them felt lethal.
Cassius stepped forward, muscles taut, magic coiling at his fingertips. "Walk away, Lucien."
Lucien tilted his head. And turned his back.
Cassius moved instantly.
A spell shot toward Lucien's back—
But before it could land—
A deafening BOOM rattled the entire arena.
The air turned cold.
A shadow stretched from nowhere.
And a voice too ancient, too powerful to belong to a student whispered:
"That is enough."
A figure stepped into view.
No one had seen them enter.
No one had even felt them there.
Yet they had been watching all along.
The mysterious owner of the dueling club.
The temperature in the room plummeted.
Lucien's smirk finally vanished.
Even Cassius hesitated.
The figure didn't speak again. They didn't have to.
Their mere presence silenced the room.
Finally, they tilted their head. "Leave."
Lucien exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders. "Tch. Fine." He glanced at Elara, his smirk returning just enough to infuriate her. "See you around, Nightshade."
He strode out, his confidence unshaken.
Cassius lingered. He was still bristling, his hands still clenched into fists. But eventually, he gave the mysterious figure a sharp nod and knelt beside Elara.
She could barely breathe, let alone stand.
Cassius's grip tightened on her arm, helping her upright. "Can you walk?"
Elara forced a weak smirk. "I'd rather crawl than let him think he won."
Cassius let out a quiet laugh. Then, softly, "You'll beat him next time."
She met his gaze, grateful.
But deep down, she knew—next time, she had to.