Wands vs Swords

The Tournament Begins

The arena held twenty thousand people.

William stood in the tunnel beneath the stands, listening to the roar of the crowd. The sound was a living thing—a beast with twenty thousand throats, hungry for blood, for magic, for spectacle. The Grand Conjunction tournament was the biggest event of the year. The biggest event in a decade, some said.

And he was about to walk into it alone.

“You don't have to do this,” Julian said beside him. The blonde boy's face was pale beneath the torchlight, his hollow eyes fixed on William. “There are other ways.”

“There are no other ways.” William adjusted the leather wrapping on his sword's hilt. The blade was covered in a cloth sheath—ordinary, unremarkable, hiding the black hunger beneath. “The winner gets access to the Council. The Council controls the tower. The tower holds the Saint's chains.”

“And your mother?”

William's jaw tightened. “My mother is dead. I'm doing this for the living now.”

Julian didn't argue. He had learned, over the past weeks, that William's grief was a wall that could not be climbed. Only endured.

The tunnel stretched before them, leading to the arena floor. Torchlight flickered on stone walls covered in banners—the symbols of the five founding Wand bloodlines. Cross. Vane. Holt. Draven—no, that banner had been torn down years ago. Erased.

“Your first match is against Roric,” Julian said. “The Wand Guard captain. He's been training for this since he was twelve. He's strong. Fast. And he hates you.”

“He doesn't know who I am. I'm Garrett Shaw, remember?”

“He hates anyone who fights without magic. And you're about to walk into that arena with a sword and no spells.” Julian grabbed William's arm. “The crowd will boo you. The Council will watch you. If you lose, they'll execute you on the spot. If you win, they'll send stronger opponents.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

William touched his face. He hadn't realized he was smiling. “Because I'm not afraid anymore. The Rust took my fear. Took my grief. Took everything except the hunger.” He looked at Julian. “I'm going to win this tournament. Not because I want to. Because I have to. And nothing they send against me will be worse than what I've already faced.”

The announcer's voice boomed through the arena. “Next match! From the Academy's third year, representing the Wand Guard—Roric!”

The crowd erupted. Cheers. Whistles. Stomping feet.

Roric walked onto the arena floor. He was huge—broader than William remembered, his shoulders thick with muscle, his face set in a permanent scowl. He carried a mana-lance in each hand, the tips crackling with blue energy.

The announcer continued. “And his opponent—a newcomer to the tournament. No family. No magic. No name you would recognize. Representing himself—Garrett Shaw!”

The cheers turned to boos. A student without magic? Fighting in the Grand Conjunction? It was an insult. A joke.

William walked out of the tunnel.

The sunlight—artificial, but blinding—hit his face. He squinted. The arena stretched before him, a massive circle of white stone, ringed by rising tiers of seats. Every seat was full. Every eye was on him.

He kept walking.

Roric waited in the center of the arena, his mana-lances raised. His scowl deepened as William approached.

“You're the one who killed Thomas,” Roric said quietly. Only William could hear. “I don't care what name you're using. I know your face.”

“Thomas was my friend.”

“Thomas was my friend too. And you cut his throat.”

William stopped a few feet away. The crowd's boos faded to a murmur, waiting for the fight to begin.

“I didn't kill him,” William said. “The sword did. And it wasn't his time. It wasn't anyone's time. But the Council decided to use his death as an excuse to hunt me.”

“The Council doesn't make excuses. They make justice.”

“Then show me your justice.”

The announcer raised his hand. “Fighters ready?”

Roric raised his lances. William raised his sword—still sheathed in cloth.

“Begin!”

Roric fired.

Two bolts of blue energy shot toward William's chest. He didn't dodge. He swung his sheathed sword, batting the bolts aside. The energy dissipated against the arena's protective wards.

The crowd gasped. A student without magic—deflecting spells?

Roric fired again. Faster this time. Three bolts. Four. Five.

William moved. Not fast—efficient. Each swing was minimal, economical, exactly enough to deflect the bolt and no more. The cloth sheath smoked but did not burn.

“You're good,” Roric admitted. “But you're not good enough.”

He charged.

The mana-lances became melee weapons—bludgeons of crackling energy. Roric swung at William's head. William ducked. Swung at his ribs. William sidestepped. The lances passed inches from his face, close enough to feel the heat.

William didn't strike back.

He couldn't. Not yet. The sword was still sheathed. If he drew the blade, the Rust would be visible. The Council would know who he was.

So he dodged. And dodged. And dodged.

The crowd grew restless. They wanted blood. They wanted magic. They wanted a show.

“Fight back!” someone shouted.

“Coward!” another yelled.

Roric's face reddened with frustration. He was faster than he looked, but William was faster still. Every swing missed. Every lunge fell short.

“Stand still!” Roric roared.

“No.”

William stopped dodging.

He stepped inside Roric's guard—close, too close for the lances to be effective. He drove his sheathed sword into Roric's stomach.

The big man doubled over. The air left his lungs in a whoosh. William followed up with a knee to the face.

Roric's nose broke. Blood sprayed across the white stone. He staggered backward, dropping one of his lances.

The crowd went silent.

William raised his sheathed sword and pointed it at Roric's throat. “Yield.”

Roric spat blood. “Never.”

He lunged with his remaining lance. William sidestepped and brought the sword down on Roric's wrist. The bone cracked. The lance fell.

Roric knelt on the arena floor, cradling his broken wrist, blood streaming down his face. He looked up at William with eyes that held no hate—only confusion.

“Why didn't you kill me?”

“Because killing you wouldn't bring Thomas back.” William turned to the announcer. “The match is over. He can't fight.”

The announcer looked to the Council's box—a raised platform overlooking the arena. Five figures sat there, robed in white. The Council of Wands.

One of them nodded.

“Winner—Garrett Shaw!”

The crowd didn't cheer. They didn't boo. They simply stared at the boy with no magic who had just defeated the captain of the Wand Guard.

William walked back toward the tunnel.

Julian met him at the entrance. “That was reckless. You could have drawn the sword.”

“I didn't need it.”

“Next time, you might.”

William looked back at the arena. Roric was being helped to his feet by healers. The Council's box was empty—the five figures had already left.

“Next time,” William said, “I'll be ready.”

---

The second match came three days later.

William spent those days training in The Hound's chamber, learning to control the Rust without the sword's help. The black veins had spread to his neck now, curling up his jaw like the roots of a dead tree.

“You're running out of time,” The Hound said. “The Rust doesn't care about your tournament. It cares about feeding.”

“Then I'll feed it carefully.”

“There's no such thing.”

The Hound handed him a wooden practice sword. “Again.”

They sparred for hours. William's broken hand had healed—the Rust had accelerated the process, knitting bone and flesh together in days instead of weeks. But the hand was stiff. Scarred. It would never be the same.

On the morning of the second match, Elara came to him.

She stood in the doorway of the chamber, her auburn hair loose around her shoulders, her brown eyes tired. She had been helping Marcus recover from his wounds, and the strain showed on her face.

“Your next opponent is Sasha,” she said.

William's blood went cold. “Julian's sister?”

“She's been advancing through the tournament faster than anyone. She's using the Rust. The Council doesn't seem to care—or maybe they don't notice.”

“They notice. They just don't want to admit that a fourteen-year-old girl is using forbidden power right in front of them.”

Elara stepped closer. “William, if you fight her—if you hurt her—Julian will never forgive you.”

“And if I let her win, she'll kill me. The Rust has already taken her mind. She's not Sasha anymore. She's a weapon.”

“Then find another way.”

William looked at his hands. The black veins pulsed. “There is no other way.”

---

The arena was fuller for the second match. Word had spread about the magicless fighter who had defeated Roric. The stands were packed with students, nobles, and commoners from the Core who had scraped together enough coins to buy a seat.

William walked onto the floor. The crowd cheered—not the boos of before, but cautious applause. He had earned their respect, if not their loyalty.

Sasha waited for him in the center of the arena.

She was small. Frail. Her white hair hung in tangled strands around her pale face. But her eyes—her eyes were black. Not dark. Black. Empty. Like the Saint's.

“Hello, William,” she said. Her voice was soft. Childlike. “Julian talks about you. He says you're going to save us all.”

“I'm going to try.”

“You'll fail. The Rust doesn't want saviors. It wants slaves.” She raised her hand. Black crystals grew from her palm, forming a blade of solid Rust. “But I'll make your death quick. Julian would want that.”

The announcer raised his hand. “Begin!”

Sasha moved faster than anyone William had ever fought.

She was a blur of black and white, her Rust-blade cutting through the air in arcs that left trails of dark energy. William raised his sword—still sheathed—and blocked.

The impact drove him back a step. Sasha was small, but the Rust made her strong. Stronger than Roric. Stronger than Thorne.

“You're holding back,” she said. “Don't.”

She swung again. William blocked. Again. Again. Each blow drove him further back, closer to the arena wall.

“Draw your sword,” Sasha said. “I want to see it. The black blade. The Saint's blade.”

“No.”

“Then die.”

She lunged. Her Rust-blade aimed for William's heart. He sidestepped—too slow. The blade caught his shoulder, slicing through cloth and flesh.

Blood sprayed. The crowd gasped.

William stumbled. His left arm went numb. The Rust from Sasha's blade mixed with his own, spreading across his chest in a cascade of black veins.

“Now you're infected,” Sasha said. “Now you're like me.”

William looked at his wound. The Rust was spreading faster than ever, crawling up his neck, across his face. He could feel it in his brain—a pressure, a whisper, a hunger.

“No,” he said.

He grabbed the cloth sheath of his sword and tore it away.

The black blade blazed.

Not with light—with darkness. It absorbed the sunlight, the torchlight, the very air around it. The crowd fell silent. The Council leaned forward in their seats.

Sasha's black eyes widened. “Beautiful.”

William raised the blade. The hunger in his chest roared. The Rust on his body surged toward the sword, drawn by its thirst.

“Last chance,” William said. “Yield.”

Sasha smiled. “Never.”

She charged.

William swung.

The blades met—Rust against Rust, black against black. The impact sent a shockwave across the arena, shattering the protective wards. The crowd screamed. The Council rose from their seats.

Sasha was strong. But William was stronger.

He drove her back. Step by step. Her Rust-blade cracked under the pressure. Her arms shook. Her smile faded.

“How?” she whispered.

“I have something you don't.”

“What?”

“A reason to live.”

William swung again. Sasha's blade shattered. The pieces flew across the arena, dissolving into black dust. Sasha fell to her knees, her hands empty, her black eyes wide.

William stood over her, his blade at her throat.

“Yield.”

Sasha looked up at him. The black in her eyes receded, replaced by pale gray. For a moment, she looked like a child again. Scared. Lost.

“I yield,” she whispered.

William lowered his sword.

The crowd exploded—not with boos, but with cheers. The magicless fighter had defeated another champion. He had drawn a blade that should not exist and won.

William looked at the Council's box. The five figures were staring at him. One of them—an old woman with silver hair—was smiling.

She knew who he was.

She had always known.