My day passes in fragments. There are lessons, but I remember none of them; only mounting pressure, squeezing tighter with every passing minute. It’s as if Ulric’s challenge has burrowed into my bones. In Physical Conditioning, my legs drag, the world dampened and slow, limbs resisting orders, mind slipping constantly back to what’s coming. My professors call me out twice. Both times, I mutter apologies, distracted, my eyes darting to the wall clock counting down to the match.
By midday, the duel has become the day’s spectacle. My name floats through the halls, followed by “spar” and the awe-struck, doubting tone that comes with it. I catch people sizing me up when they think I’m not looking, calculating odds. Some have already decided how long I’ll last.
By my last class, expectations t
