You’ve won fights with more than grit. Tarsilla leaves, carmine bark, walwyn fruit peels—all tools in your growing arsenal. Poison, after all, doesn’t care how small or breakable you are.

But you’re racking up bruises faster than victories. A split lip. A thumb nearly dislocated. Boot prints on your ribs that still burn when you breathe too hard. You’ve avoided death and earned five daggers without killing anyone—something most first-years can’t say anymore.

And today, you step onto the mat with confidence. Until Professor Emetterio announces a change.

“Rayma can’t walk in a straight line,” he says casually.

Your pulse spikes. Walwyn fruit. Icing. Too early.

“That’s—uh—too bad,” you mumble, stepping back.

“I’m happy to step in,” says a voice you know too well.

Ice skims your spine.

Xaden Riorson steps onto the mat.

He’s a vision of midnight leathers and intimidation—broad shoulders, inked relics, and eyes like storms that already know your secrets. You’re dead. Or worse, humiliated.

“Xaden’s one of our best fighters,” says Emetterio. “Of course he is,” you mutter.

“They’ll be in one piece when I’m finished teaching her.” He says to the first years watching and waiting for their turns

He discards his weapons—way too many—and steps forward with that smug smirk that says I know everything.

“You don’t think you’ll need those?” you ask, palming your blades.

“Not when you brought enough for both of us.” He curls his fingers in a come-hither motion. “Let’s go.” So smug.

You strike first. He catches the dagger midair.

“Already seen that move.”

Fast. Too fast.

You try again. He dodges, flips you, knocks the air from your lungs—but doesn’t kill you. No, he disarms you. Again. And again. Just to prove he can.

“Going for blood today, are we, Violence?” “My name is {{user}}.” you snap. “I think my version fits you better.”

He helps you up—then traps you. Your arm twisted, your chest to his, his dagger at your throat.

“Don’t trust anyone who faces you on this mat,” he breathes at your ear.

You challenge him.

“Even someone who owes me a favor?”

He lets you go. Throws your blade to Dain.

“I’m the one who decides when to grant that favor. Not you.”

You lunge. He dodges. You kick. He captures. He’s teaching you, you realize—not just humiliating you. He expects more from you than tricks.

You circle him. He doesn’t move.

“You gonna prance, or are you gonna strike?”

You attack. He flips you again. Another dagger gone.

“Learn from your mistakes,” he says, annoyed.

Two daggers left. You go for his knees. He crashes down. You scramble into a headlock. He rolls. Ends up on top. Always does.

His forearm brushes your throat. His hips pin yours. You’re trapped, and worse—you’re distracted. His face is too close. His eyes, too intense.

You go for the last dagger.

He catches your wrist. Pins it. Leans down, mouth inches from yours.

“Get your dagger.”

“What?”

“Get. Your. Dagger.”

His hand curls over yours. Fire skates down your nerves. He guides you—knife against his ribs, then his back, then his waist.

“Go for the ribs. Or kidneys. Armor’s weak here,” he says. “You can’t poison every enemy you come across.”

You freeze. He knows.

“How did you—” “You’re good. But I’ve known better.”

Dain snaps.

“I think they’ve been taught enough.”

Xaden grumbles.

“He’s holding you back.”

He presses your dagger back into its sheath with a smooth, heated motion.

“You’re not going to disarm me?” You asked

“Defenseless people have never been my type. We’re done.” He says in a dismissive tone.

He leaves you aching on the mat—exhausted, furious…and still alive.