Jacob moved through the estate without any real destination, his steps carrying him from one corridor to the next as if the act of walking itself might quiet his mind, though of course it never did.

His thoughts were scattered, drifting between fragments of guilt and idle musings that had no real substance, and he found that by letting them swirl without order he could at least keep himself from dwelling too heavily on the slow passage of time or on the mistakes that still pressed down on him with the weight of stone.

It was during this wandering that he came across one of the training fields, and there, in a scene that no longer surprised him, Arthur and Alex were once again locked in their relentless practice, blades flashing under the late sun, their movements precise and efficient.

Yet what drew his attention even more than the sparring itself was the presence of a crowd gathered at the edge of the field, a crowd of people he knew all too well.

'Yggdrasill,' Jacob thought as his pace slowed, the name itself brushing against his mind like a whisper. 'I managed to find a way to use true runes on my own, so perhaps now you can change the reward for defeating Dawson.'

The reply came immediately, clear and cold within his thoughts. 'Of course I will. In fact, I might as well teach you another true rune.'

Jacob's eyes narrowed slightly as he adjusted his stride, angling toward the gathered spectators. 'Then I'll hold you to that.'

The voice continued, unyielding. 'But understand this, I'll only teach it to you if you kill him. Simply defeating him will not be enough.'

Jacob might as well not have heard that last condition, for he gave no pause, no flicker of hesitation. In truth he had heard it, but after all the long months of replaying his humiliation and nursing the bitter fire of revenge, it hardly mattered. He had already decided what he wanted to do when the time came, and Dawson's death had always been at the top of that list.

By the time he reached the edge of the field, the crowd had already turned to face him. He could feel their eyes on him, and more than a few sneers were openly displayed, their expressions dripping with the same disdain they had always carried for him, as though nothing in the world could alter the shape of their contempt.

Jacob felt none of it pierce him. Instead, he simply raised his hand slightly to the side and spoke in a calm, even tone. "Belemir. My sword."

Almost instantly the shadow at his feet stirred, and from it a sabre shot upward as if pulled from some dark and hidden place. Jacob caught the weapon with ease, feeling the familiar weight settle into his palm, and with a measured turn he shifted his stance until his eyes were locked on the one man in the crowd who mattered, his enemy, the one he had been waiting for.

There were formalities to be observed in matters such as these, Jacob knew that well enough; there were rules and traditions and procedures that demanded he give reason for his challenge, that he phrase his request with politeness and with the proper respect due to his opponent, and for a moment he had every intention of following them, but all of that crumbled the instant his eyes met Dawson's and he saw, plain as ever, the condescension written across his face, that smug expression that seemed to mock him without a single word.

In that moment all the emotions Jacob had been holding back, all the bitterness and humiliation and rage that he had buried inside himself, pushed upward with such force that they drowned out every consideration of courtesy, and without hesitation he spoke.

"I challenge you to a duel."

It was blunt, even shameless, a challenge that gave no regard to formality, a declaration that would have been easy enough for Dawson to dismiss, had he wished to hide behind rules and propriety. Jacob did not care, and in truth he already knew Dawson did not care either.

And as he expected, the reply came with scorn. "It seems you truly want to die. I had thought perhaps you had learned your lesson." Dawson's hand closed around the hilt of his blade as he stepped forward, his voice steady and unhurried, every word laced with the certainty of superiority. "Very well. I accept. Come, and I will remind you of your place."

The gathered crowd shifted as Dawson moved, parting to make way for him, and Jacob followed in turn, each step he took carrying with it the sting of whispered ridicule that buzzed at the edge of his hearing.

Yet instead of weakening him, every sound, every mocking glance, seemed to fuel something within him. It was not merely anger, though anger was certainly there, but a tangle of emotions long suppressed, a storm of guilt and frustration and desperation that wanted nothing more than to break free all at once.

And still, some small measure of restraint held him back, some part of him refusing to allow the storm to erupt before its time, though he could feel how precarious that control was.

They reached the center of the training field where Arthur and Alex had been sparring only moments earlier. The sight of the two moving toward a duel drew both brothers' immediate attention, and while Alex stepped forward, intent on putting an end to it before it began, he found his sleeve caught by Arthur's hand. Alex could have shaken him off with ease, and for a moment he almost did, but he stopped when he saw the expression on Arthur's face.

"Jacob will win this time," Arthur said quietly, though there was a firmness beneath his words, "or at the very least I believe he will. For him to have reached us in that cell, however he chose to move in the shadows, he must have fought and won at least once. If he did, then he is no longer the same as before." He glanced toward the field, his eyes following Jacob's steady steps. "Trust him, just a little."

Alex hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. Out of all their siblings, he was the only one who had placed some measure of trust in Arthur, the only one who seemed to acknowledge his presence without dismissing it entirely, Jacob included.

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The others treated Arthur with indifference at best, but Alex was different, though not for reasons of affection or loyalty. He understood the value of talent, and Arthur had talent in abundance, he could command both aura and mana, and he was under the guidance of the grand scholar himself. If he could help the prince bind such a person to his side, then he would be aligning himself with a future powerhouse, and Alex, ever pragmatic, saw opportunity in that.

Shaking his head to push aside his thoughts, Alex turned his focus back to the field, his gaze settling on the two figures who now faced each other, Jacob and Dawson, poised on the edge of something inevitable.

Jacob stood opposite Dawson, his sabre resting lightly in his right hand while his left was folded calmly behind his back, his posture steady and deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world.

Dawson, upon seeing this, gave a derisive laugh, the kind of laugh that carried both mockery and casual arrogance, and he shook his head as he spoke. "Still clinging to that blade? You should give it up already and put your efforts into magic, at least then you might have a chance at relevance."

He chuckled again, his eyes narrowing as though Jacob's silence itself amused him. "How many moves shall I grant you this time? I have little patience to waste, so perhaps fifty will do, more than enough for you to realise how hopeless this is." He opened his mouth to laugh again, but the sound faltered when he noticed, for the first time, the expression that Jacob wore. Jacob was smiling.

Without saying a word, Jacob drew his left hand from behind his back and leveled it directly at Dawson, his intent made clear without the need for a challenge spoken aloud. In the space of a heartbeat, flames burst from his palm, roaring into existence and racing forward with a speed and violence that left Dawson with no time to sneer.

"Damn it—" Dawson hissed as his leg shone with a sudden coat of white light, his aura compressed and released in a sharp burst. He kicked off the ground hard, hurling himself sideways just in time for the flames to sweep past, the heat trailing across his skin, the smell of scorched air biting at his senses.

He landed with a grimace, half-prepared to mock Jacob again, but the words died in his throat because Jacob was no longer where he had been, he was in front of him, sabre angled for his chest, the strike already in motion.

For an instant Dawson's heart froze, his instincts screaming at him, and with a desperate surge he raised his longsword to meet the blow. Steel met steel with a force that rattled his bones, the impact driving him downwards until his knees struck the earth, his arms straining beneath the pressure. The ground seemed to quake beneath the exchange, dust rising in faint clouds.

But Dawson did not linger in that position. He twisted sharply to the side, pulling himself free of the clash and kicking up a swirl of dust in the process, reducing Jacob's visibility and buying himself precious moments. His aura surged again, flowing into his arms and into the weapon he gripped, preparing him for what came next.

As Jacob's silhouette rushed through the haze, Dawson reacted instinctively, channeling his aura attribute without hesitation. His sword shuddered, then expanded outward, the length of the steel stretching unnaturally as his aura forced it to grow, though with the familiar drawback of making the extended blade more fragile.

Even so, the reach gave him an immediate advantage, and he thrust forward, the tip cutting through the dust and driving towards Jacob with frightening speed.

Jacob raised his sabre in response, his blade angled to intercept, and Dawson felt the surety of the exchange settling into his chest as he readied himself to press forward and capitalize with a follow-up strike. But then, in that same moment, Jacob's left hand rose once more, the gesture deliberate and unmistakable.

Dawson's instincts flared again. He abandoned his attack and darted sideways, his body moving before his mind had fully caught up, prepared for the inevitable torrent of fire that never came.

The expected heat, the roar of flames, nothing reached him. He looked up, confusion flashing across his face, only to see Jacob already above him, descending with a heavy downward swing, the sabre cutting a direct line toward him. The rune glowing faintly in Jacob's palm was incomplete, a half-formed sigil meant for no spell at all.

"Damn, he baited me." The realization struck in the split second before impact, and Dawson knew there was no time left to dodge, no chance to parry cleanly or absorb the blow without consequence. If he could not avoid it, then he would at least ensure Jacob suffered as well.

The sabre cleaved down into his shoulder, biting deep as it carved a path toward his chest, and Dawson gritted his teeth through the pain, forcing his own blade forward with every ounce of strength he could muster.

His aura flared once more, the metal stretching unnaturally again as the longsword pierced upward, its reach extended in the desperate hope of striking Jacob even as his own blood spilled freely.

"Nice try," Jacob's voice cut through the clash, and almost at once Dawson felt the strength in his aura falter, its flow weakening before it finally dissolved altogether. For a moment he did not understand what had happened, then his eyes caught it, the faint, curling haze of grey mist that coiled lazily around Jacob's sabre, a familiar energy that pressed against the world itself, and in its pressure Dawson recognised something undeniable.

The blade did not merely carry Jacob's strength; it bore a presence, a dominance that crushed his aura and stripped his attack of power before it could even land.

Dawson's gaze shot upward and locked onto Jacob's, and what had begun as shock gave way to a darker fire kindling in his chest. He could not comprehend it, two months ago this same boy could scarcely keep hold of a blade, swinging clumsily as though it weighed too much for him, and yet now he stood here not only able to wield it with precision but also capable of casting spells and cloaking himself in an aura that suppressed his opponents outright.

To call that talent was one thing, but to accept that talent alone explained this was impossible. And yet people would later speak of him as though it were nothing remarkable, the child who had been hailed a prodigy of the sword, only to abandon it after a single defeat, a figure spoken of in stories more for his wasted potential than for what he had achieved.

And now, with a mere handful of months behind him, that same wasted genius had erased more than a decade of Dawson's training, standing above him with blade in hand and an expression that seemed almost casual.

The realization filled Dawson with an anger that went beyond frustration, it was rage, it was unwillingness, it was the violent refusal to accept that he could be so easily eclipsed by someone who had turned his back on the sword until it suited him.

His vision narrowed, tinged with red, his breath heavy and uneven, and though the sabre continued to carve its way down his shoulder, though pain seared through his arm, Dawson's grip on his weapon only tightened. His knuckles whitened around the hilt as he lifted his longsword again, aiming not for Jacob's chest this time but for the hand that guided the sabre, determined to cut him down even at the cost of his own body.

Jacob, reading the intent in his movement, released the pressure and leapt back, the sabre sliding free in a spray of blood as Dawson stumbled upright, his arm trembling, his shoulder slick with red. He did not waver. He planted his feet, raised his weapon once more, and allowed his aura to surge outward in a violent wave, unstable but resolute, as though to announce that he would not accept this outcome.

So what if Jacob bore the Skydrid name. So what if he had humiliated Jacob once already and he wanted revenge. So what if he was blessed with talent and gifts others could not reach even with a lifetime of work.

Dawson's teeth clenched and his eyes burned as he steadied himself, because he refused to yield, because in his heart he believed himself to be more than a stepping stone for someone else's talent.

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