Chapter 9
A Test of Skill, Not Magic
Randy's exceptional sword skills are put to the test in a sparring match. Even Katelyn and other magic users are surprised by his prowess, a testament to his training.
The din of the training grounds vibrated through the soles of my worn boots. Sunlight, fractured by the impossibly high stained-glass windows of the Grand Hall, painted shifting mosaics on the stone floor. Around me, a symphony of crackling energy, whispered incantations, and the sharp clang of enchanted steel filled the air. For most, this was the pulse of life at the Academy, a constant hum of developing power. For me, Randy, the magicless anomaly at position seven hundred, it was a daily reminder of what I lacked.
Today, however, the usual undertow of pity and scorn felt… different. A current of anticipation, thick and charged, rippled through the assembled students. Professor Eldrin, his beard a cascade of silver that seemed to hold the wisdom of the ages, stood at the center of the arena, his gaze sweeping over us. “Today,” his voice boomed, resonating with authority, “we assess practical application. Not raw power, mind you, but the discipline, the precision, the raw, unadulterated skill that separates a true warrior from a mere wielder of arcane forces.”
My stomach gave a nervous churn. Skill. That was my domain. My grandmother, bless her soul, had drilled it into me with every spare moment she had. While others sculpted fire or conjured illusions, I’d learned the dance of the blade, the deadly ballet of parry and riposte. And today, it seemed, was my chance to prove that skill could indeed be a force to be reckoned with.
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