The cuts from previous matches burned as his grip tightened, but he kept his face carefully blank, refusing to give Trescan the satisfaction of seeing his pain.

Five exchanges. Ten. Fifteen. Soren found himself constantly on the defensive, retreating across the sand as Trescan pressed his advantage. The crowd's murmur grew, nobles leaning forward with satisfaction as order reasserted itself in the ring.

"He's being contained," someone observed loudly from the Karvath gallery. "The novelty wears thin when faced with true discipline."

Sweat trickled down Soren's spine as he parried another perfect combination. Trescan was toying with him, demonstrating the gulf between street-learned survival and generations of formalized training. Each exchange revealed more of the pattern, Trescan wasn't fighting to win quickly, but to win decisively, to make an example that would resonate throughout Northaven.

The shard against Soren's chest suddenly flared cold, Valenna's presence surging forward with unexpected urgency.

'Perfect the petal,' she whispered, her voice cutting through the arena's noise with crystalline clarity. 'One stroke. Now, while he thinks you broken.'

Soren took a breath, deep and centering. The world narrowed to this moment, this exchange, this singular opportunity. He let go of desperation, of fear, of the gnawing certainty that he faced a superior opponent.

As Trescan advanced for another combination, Soren finally unleashed what he had practiced in the pre-dawn darkness. The first form of the Nine Petals, not what he had been taught, not as a noble academy would recognize it, but as he had refined it through blood and sweat. One perfect movement, stripped of everything unnecessary, honed to lethal simplicity.

His blade moved with a precision that felt beyond his own skill, carving through Trescan's perfect guard like water through stone. The tip opened a shallow cut across the knight's sword arm, crimson blooming against the expensive fabric of his sleeve.

Gasps erupted from the crowd, nobles rising to their feet in shock. First blood, drawn not through chaos or trickery, but through perfect, disciplined execution.

Trescan stepped back, genuine surprise breaking through his composed facade for the first time. He glanced at his arm, at the spreading stain that marked Soren's success, then back at his opponent with new assessment in those cold gray eyes.

"Interesting," he said, voice pitched for Soren's ears alone. "Perhaps there's more to you than gutter reflexes."

The knight's stance shifted, deepening as he reset his guard. His breathing changed, slower, more deliberate, drawing from the diaphragm rather than the chest. Something altered in his presence, a subtle shift that raised the hair on the back of Soren's neck.

Faint scarlet light, like the last embers of a dying fire, began to outline Trescan's blade. It spread along the steel in delicate traceries, then flowed up his arm in patterns too precise to be natural. Aura, the physical manifestation of a knight's inner power, the separation between trained fighters and true Blades.

The crowd roared as they recognized what was happening. Nobles stood in their galleries, faces alight with vindictive satisfaction. Commoners pressed harder against the barriers, voices rising in protest or encouragement.

"He's showing Aura!" someone shouted. "Against a common opponent!"

"The wolf drew blood!" another voice countered. "Forced his hand!"

Soren felt a chill that had nothing to do with the shard against his chest. He had seen Aura during training, watched knights manifest it during controlled exercises, but never faced it directly in combat. This was what separated him from them, not just training or birth, but this fundamental power that couldn't be stolen or imitated.

Trescan attacked again, and everything changed.

His blade moved with impossible speed, cutting air with a sound like tearing silk. Each strike carried the weight of certainty behind it, each movement amplified by the scarlet energy that now flowed freely around him. What had been precise before now became absolute, leaving no room for error or evasion.

Soren parried the first combination through sheer reflex, his arms shuddering with the impact. The second drove him back three steps, boots sliding in the sand as he fought to maintain his balance. The third nearly tore his sword from his grip, the force rattling his bones and reopening the cuts on his palms.

Blood slicked his grip as he struggled to match Trescan's new tempo. The flower form he had perfected before dawn remained clean in his mind, but his body couldn't execute it against this onslaught. Each clash drove him deeper into the sand, each block came a fraction slower than the one before.

Without Aura, his body simply couldn't withstand what Trescan unleashed. The difference was brutal, undeniable, like a child trying to hold back the tide with cupped hands.

Soren's guard finally split on the seventh exchange, Trescan's blade sliding through his defense like silk through water. The steel bit deep into his shoulder, sending liquid fire down his arm as the crowd erupted around them.

Soren staggered backward, his sword nearly slipping from nerveless fingers. Blood soaked through his shirt, warm and sticky against his skin. The wound burned with each movement, muscle and sinew protesting as he fought to keep his weapon raised.

'Now you understand,' Valenna whispered, her voice sharp as winter wind. 'This is what separates them from you. This is why they rule.'

The scarlet light around Trescan's blade pulsed brighter, casting dancing shadows across the sand. His face remained composed, professional, a craftsman demonstrating his mastery over inferior materials. When he spoke, his words carried to the galleries above.

"This is the difference," Trescan announced, raising his glowing blade for all to see. "Between noble training and gutter instinct. Between tradition and chaos." His cold gray eyes fixed on Soren with clinical detachment. "Some gaps cannot be bridged."

The crowd roared approval, nobles rising to their feet as order reasserted itself in the ring. From the Trescan gallery came shouts of vindication, voices raised in celebration of hierarchy restored.

Soren pressed his free hand against the wound, feeling blood seep between his fingers. His vision blurred at the edges, exhaustion and blood loss combining to sap what little strength remained.

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