Interpretive Combat

"Today, we fight with live blades. Rope. And one shift allowed."

Professor Draven stood at the front of the field, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

"There will be one target and three aggressors."

✦✦✦

Three figures slipped into the training arena quietly, avoiding notice.

A new captain, Silas Cormaire led the group. Beside him were lieutenants Malric Denholm and Torren Valeris.

Their task was to identify potential recruits for advancement.

Captain Cormaire's attention settled on one student in particular, a potential candidate for advancement.

She had won sparring matches against an undefeated opponent, Helga Emberhide, and, most impressively, Captain Ryker.

He'd seen her before, at speakeasies and in the shared dining hall for warriors and omegas. She was beautiful, undeniably so.

But he had never heard her speak. And he'd heard conflicting reports on her. Some warriors who were closest to Princess Meredith, their future Luna, spoke of her with open disdain.

For someone they were considering scouting, that inconsistency mattered. They needed to be sure.

✦✦✦

"Tell me," Draven continued, "in an off-soil invasion, how long would it take for backup to arrive? Assume allies are nearby, weather is clear, and there are no obstacles. How long before help reaches you?"

He scanned the rows. "Kylan."

Kylan hesitated. "Ninety seconds?"

Draven laughed once. "Three minutes."

He let the words settle.

"The target must survive three minutes without being pinned longer than ten seconds. In theory, that's how long it would take backup to arrive."

He stopped pacing. "Or, the target could take down all three opponents —fast enough that they're all down at once for ten seconds. That would buy enough time to run."

Every student went still.

"The target won't know who carries the knife, who holds the rope, or who will shift. That's for the aggressors to decide. Strategize. Adapt. Survive."

Draven scanned his list and called out a group of four.

"Vexlyn, Emberfang, Rourke, Whitlow. You're up."

They moved to the center of the arena. The target — Brantley Whitlow — was already grinning, rolling his shoulders like this was his personal stage.

"Oh, come on," he said, spreading his arms. "Three against one? What's the lesson here — humility? Because I'm gonna disappoint you."

The class erupted in laughter.

Draven just sighed.

The three attackers huddled off to the side, muttering strategies. Whitlow stretched lazily.

"Take your time," he called over his shoulder. "I'll try not to get bored waiting for my victory speech."

A few more laughs followed — the kind that made Draven rub his temple and mutter something under his breath about overconfident pups.

Meanwhile, on the far side of the arena, Cael slipped into the upper rows — half-hidden in the shadows. He wasn't technically supposed to be here, but curiosity had won out. Elle had mentioned their class was doing two-on-ones last week, which meant three-on-ones was coming. The thought made his stomach twist.

He told himself he was just checking in. Just making sure she was alright. Still... he wondered if Jax knew about this.

Elle had also warned him that her class was "a total disaster." From what he'd seen so far, that seemed generous.

A minute later, Fin appeared and dropped into the seat beside him.

"Didn't think I'd find you skulking up here." Cael said.

Fin didn't look away from the field. "Just observing."

"Uh-huh." Cael leaned forward on his knees. "Elle told me this group's a nightmare."

"She said it was a shit show actually," He added.

Fin chuckled.

They watched in silence for a moment as Draven paced the arena, explaining the rules. Then Fin's gaze drifted to the opposite stands — and froze.

"Gods," he muttered.

Cael followed his line of sight. "Captain Cormaire?"

Fin nodded, exhaling through his nose. "He's an okay captain, but such a cocky bastard. Moderate intelligence and the tactical awareness of a particularly shiny rock."

Cael smirked. "You trained him, didn't you?"

"Yes," Fin said. "Then I prayed for the border patrol to adopt him. They refused."

Draven gave the first four a sharp nod. "Positions. You have ten seconds."

The students moved to the center of the field, nerves buzzing. Dust caught the sunlight between them.

Draven raised the whistle to his lips and blew.

Silence. No one moved.

At first, everyone assumed it was strategy — a moment of suspense, someone waiting for the first strike.

But five seconds turned into thirty. Then a full minute.

The stands were dead quiet.

Finally, Draven barked, "Anytime now!"

Whitlow twitched. One of the attackers blinked. No one else so much as breathed.

Draven threw his hands up. "Saints above, what are we doing here—meditating?"

From the shadows of the upper stands, Fin groaned. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Cael didn't even look away from the field. "Nope. This is what peak performance looks like. Behold—the future defenders of the realm."

Down on the field, movement finally broke the awkward silence.

Millie Vexlyn — the largest girl in the class, but still the smallest on the field, charged forward with the rope.

Beside her, Kylan Emberfang scrambled to keep up, clutching his knife like it might bite him. The third student shifted into a brown wolf mid-stride.

Fin exhaled. "Thank the gods. Something's actually happening. I was starting to think they'd fossilized."

Cael tilted his head amused. "Give it a minute."

And sure enough—chaos.

Millie whipped the rope like she was trying to take down a thunderstorm. It sailed wide, looped around the wolf's tail, and yanked him off his feet. Kylan sprinted the wrong way entirely, realized it, spun back, and immediately tripped over Millie's discarded rope.

Draven's patience detonated.

"VEXLYN! THAT'S A ROPE, NOT A FLAIL!"

"EMBERFANG—LEFT! NO—YOUR OTHER LEFT!"

Kylan froze, looked at both hands like they'd betrayed him, and panicked.

Cael had a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking. "Is this interpretive combat?"

Fin's grin spread.

Then, as Draven turned to yell at the target — who was still cracking jokes and bowing dramatically to the crowd — Kylan made a last-ditch effort to prove himself.

He threw the knife. It sliced through the air with impressive speed. But, it was completely in the wrong direction, straight towards Draven's face. Gasps rang out.

Draven snatched it from the air an inch from his right eye.

Silence.

"KYLAN EMBERFANG! DID YOU JUST TRY TO ASSASSINATE ME?!"

Kylan's voice cracked. "No, sir!"

"THEN WHY IS MY FACE IN YOUR TRAJECTORY?!"

Cael was doubled over laughing. "He's dead. That's a closed-casket situation."

Fin wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. Down on the field, Draven was still roaring about "BASIC SPATIAL AWARENESS" while Millie tried to help Kylan up and accidentally dragged the wolf with her.

Finally, Millie managed to trap the target. After a chaotic blur of rope swings and near misses, she got the line around his arms and hauled him backward.

He stumbled, twisted—then he suddenly leaned in and kissed her.

On the lips.

Just a quick peck. A blink-and-you-miss-it sort of kiss.

But it landed squarely on her mouth.

Millie froze. Her eyes went wide.