Aster feels the air grow taut — that anticipatory hush before cruelty becomes entertainment.

  Varric watches with his arms folded, clearly pleased with himself. “Good,” he says, voice carrying just enough for the others to hear. “Let’s see if charity and gutterblood can at least make mud interesting.”

  It isn’t even clever, but the crowd laughs anyway. They always do.

  The other students, Legacies mostly, cluster around the rope barriers, their auras humming faintly like a chorus of superiority. Aster catches fragments of whispers: He won’t last a round… point-burst types always overcompensate… street rat will bite him before the end…

  He has forgotten how comforting it is to be hated in stereo. At least you know where everyone stands.

  “Ready?” he asks Rohan quietly.

  Rohan is already rolling his shoulders, the gauntlets at his wrists flaring faintly with latent Faith. “You’re still holding that toy, Legacy-boy. You planning to use it or just polish it?”

  Aster resists the urge to sigh. “You’re very fixated on me, you know that? You could try journaling.”

  That earns a snort, reluctant but real. Rohan squares his shoulders, the runes in his gauntlets faintly kindling red — a Boxing Scripture, Earth-Type short-range, Faith reinforcement around the joints. It will make his punches feel like falling bricks.

  Varric leans on the railing of the sparring pit like a man settling in for theatre. “You both talk too much; trash shouldn’t be having this much screen time. Void-Cursed, prove to us you’re capable of acting like a proper Legacy by feeding this Wanderer dirt!” he says, his smirk carved in marble.

  Varric’s aura pulses through the soil, a subtle, territorial vibration running through the ground. Another Earth element. Of course. The man probably can’t resist reminding everyone that the floor itself obeys him.

  Petty gods, everywhere you go, Aster thinks. Even in schools.

  Rohan’s eyes flick toward him. The disdain is instinctive, but under it lies something else — resignation. The look of someone used to being goaded into proving they belong.

  Aster could walk away. Should, maybe. But there’s something about the challenge in Rohan’s stance, the ugly satisfaction in Varric’s grin, that lights a small, stupid fire under his ribs.

  Fine. One spar. Then he’ll go back to pretending this school isn’t built on class warfare.

  He drops lightly into the pit. The grass muffles his steps, damp from the morning rain seeping through the open skylights.

  He taps the staff once against the mud, sending a faint ripple through his tether network, anchor points flickering in the air like dim constellations. The Scripture’s pulse is steadier now, no longer the frantic strobe it is a month ago. He has learned to pace it, to listen rather than force.

  Rohan follows — or tries to. As he makes his way over, there’s a sudden pulse from Varric just before Rohan jumps, tangling his feet and breaking his momentum.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Mud splatters up Aster’s trousers as Rohan hits the center of the ring face-first, full sprawl, a graceless collapse punctuated by a dull thunk. For a second, nobody breathes. Then comes the laughter.

  Not the good kind, either — the collective snicker of the comfortably cruel. The sound of people relieved it isn’t them this time.

  Rohan pushes up on one elbow, dripping mud, eyes burning with the kind of rage that isn’t really aimed at anyone — just the world in general for existing this way. The gauntlets hum faintly, one rune flaring as if echoing his humiliation. Aster feels the tug of sympathy before he can smother it. Reflex more than conscience, his hand goes out, half-offer, half-apology.

  “Don’t.”

  Rohan slaps the hand aside, mud streaking Aster’s sleeve. His voice comes out rough, somewhere between defiance and a plea not to be seen. “I don’t need charity from a Legacy.”

  Aster’s mouth twitches, though whether it’s annoyance or guilt, even he can’t tell. Legacy. The word lands harder than it should, like someone slipped a pebble into his boot years ago and he has never quite managed to shake it loose.

  “Right,” he says quietly. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your pride.”

  He means it to sound flippant. It doesn’t.

  Rohan turns away, shoulders rigid, jaw tight enough to creak. The mud clings to him like the system itself — ugly, heavy, and stubbornly real.

  Aster stands there, staff still humming faintly in his hand, feeling the echo of every time he has been the one on the ground, the one everyone laughed at. The difference is, no one ever bothers to offer him a hand back then.

  He watches as Rohan squares his stance, breath coming sharp, fury drying into resolve. The audience’s laughter softens, replaced by that sick curiosity that always follows weakness. They want to see if he’ll fight or break.

  Varric’s grin deepens. “Begin.”

  Rohan moves first — no hesitation, no testing of range. A step, a twist, and the air between them snaps with a dull crack as his right fist shoots forward, Faith pulsing through the embedded runes. The gauntlet glows red where his veins meet the sigils, a furnace beating in rhythm with his pulse.

  Aster barely sidesteps. The punch clips his sleeve, and the air pressure alone stings. Faith boxing. Short-range combat doctrine, scripture-forged through endurance and punishment. He has read about it. A blunt, efficient system for turning desperation into momentum. Rohan is forcing Faith through his muscles, amplifying his strength and speed.

  Aster spins the staff once, anchoring with a flicker of will. The tether snaps into place, a line of light running from his heel into the mud, a faint gold thread humming with pressure. He lets it pull him sideways, sliding across the pit as the next punch tears through where his ribs were.

  He’s fast.

  Rohan adjusts mid-swing, twisting for a backhand. Aster plants, lets the tether recoil, and bursts backward, Point Burst detonating under his soles. The air ripples, the mud hisses, and the distance reopens in a breath.

  The watchers murmur. Someone swears softly.

  Rohan’s eyes narrow. “Running already?”

  “Call it repositioning,” Aster says, tone even.

  The gauntleted man spits to the side, mud and blood mixed. “A coward’s tricks.”

  “Survival tricks.”

  That earns him a grunt. Then Rohan charges again.

  He doesn’t bother with feints, just barrels forward, both fists hammering in a rhythm too dense to read. The gauntlets are heavy, but he moves like he is born wearing them. Each strike leaves a pulse of heat in the air, faint steam rising from the rain where his knuckles pass.

  Aster deflects one, staff meeting steel, and the vibration shudders through his arms. The second comes low, catching him in the gut. Breath leaves his lungs in a cough. He stumbles, feels the tether snap under pressure.

  The crowd’s laughter ripples.

  He rolls with it, sliding in the mud, staff cutting a shallow line through the sludge as he twists back to his feet. His stomach burns. He sets another anchor with a thought; the tether hums, pulses once, steady. He needs to keep distance. Control the field.

  But Rohan isn’t letting him.

  Another step — the Wanderer is on him again, the rhythm of his punches syncing with his breath. Each exhale a strike, each inhale a step. There’s something almost sacred in the simplicity. No wasted movement. No elegance. Just the ugly purity of trying to break another human being’s bones before they break yours.