Chapter 98: The List (18)
The duel was over.
The dust had barely settled, the echoes of steel still hanging in the vaulted gymnasium, and already the atmosphere rippled like a taut string about to snap.
Up in the rows of benches, the older students, second-years and above, exchanged knowing glances.
They had seen this play out before.
It always started the same: wagers whispered before the duel, coins exchanged, smug smirks from the ones who thought they’d made a safe bet.
And then, when the duel actually ended, when one battered body fell harder than the other, chaos erupted.
One particularly seasoned upperclassman leaned over to his friend and muttered, “Time to go before the children remember they all owe each other money.”
The other gave a sagely nod.
“The most dangerous part of any duel.”
One by one, like rats abandoning a ship they knew was about to sink, they began sneaking out, quietly, discreetly, so as not to draw attention.
And then, just as the last of them slipped through the double doors… all hell broke loose.
“I bet on Phillip winning!”
Someone shouted, pounding a fist into their palm.
“Liar! You said you bet on the weapon choice!”
Another shrieked back.
“No, I bet he’d use a sword, and he did, so technically, I win too!”
“That’s not how this works!”
“Then how does it work, genius? Nobody wrote anything down!”
A ripple of angry voices surged through the stands, swelling into a thunderstorm of indignation.
Pockets of students began shouting over one another, each trying to out-yell the rest, each one convinced the universe owed them a handful of coins.
One bold first-year stood on a bench and proclaimed, “I bet on Phillip’s stance form being the orthodox opening, and it was! Pay up!”
From below, someone lobbed a half-eaten bread roll at him.
“That wasn’t even a wager, you moron!”
It spiraled downward from there.
Insults turned into shoves.
Shoves turned into grappling.
And within minutes, the entire section of first-years had descended into a brawl so utterly nonsensical it would’ve made the god of mischief weep.
The irony was that, technically, most of the students had backed Phillip.
Betting on the scion of a powerful family was the safe move.
Why gamble on the nobody when everyone knew the Calvescent heir was a prodigy?
But then there were the other few, those who had been at the aptitude exam, or had heard whispers of “that strange commoner” who pulled stunts during the trials.
They had hedged their bets on Lucien, smirking smugly as the duel unfolded.
And now, with no proper bookmaker, no ledger of wagers, no one impartial enough to tally winners and losers, well, the arguments all turned into the most dangerous game of all: he said, she said.
And in the middle of it all stood three very unfortunate souls: Vaelira, Corin, and Balt.
“What the hell is going on?!”
Balt cried, ducking as a chair sailed overhead.
Vaelira’s expression was halfway between disbelief and fury, her long braid whipping behind her as she spun to avoid a stumbling boy who almost barreled into her.
“They’re fighting, over bets?!”
“Over imaginary bets!”
Corin corrected as someone yanked his sleeve.
He shook them off and swung his satchel like a flail, clearing space.
“Nobody even kept score!”
A shriek rang out as a table toppled.
Coins clattered across the floor, no one’s, everyone’s, and that was the final spark.
Half the mob dove after them like starving dogs, the other half surged forward to stop them, and suddenly the air was filled with the sound of fists, curses, and the occasional magical spark.
The poor judge, who had tried to separate Phillip and Lucien only moments before, was now completely swallowed by the sea of students.
One moment he was standing tall, waving his arms like a shepherd; the next, he vanished beneath the tide, only the top of his hat visible as he was swept away by the chaos.
“Stay close!”
Vaelira barked, forcing her way forward with sharp elbows and a glare that could cut stone.
"I am trying, but someone just bit me!”
Corin yelped.
“Bit you?!”
Balt gawked.
Another wave of students surged toward them, fists flying, voices cracking as they shouted about wagers, fairness, and justice as if the world itself depended on this ridiculous argument.
The trio found themselves back-to-back, a tiny island in the middle of an ocean gone mad.
“This is absurd,” Vaelira hissed, eyes flashing as she shoved away a boy who lunged too close.
“Absurd?”
Balt wheezed, his spectacles askew.
“We’re one minute away from becoming casualties here!”
“This is-,” Corin muttered, kicking away a flailing shoe that nearly clipped his head.
“We need the faculties to intervene. We need to get the teachers here.”
“You mean after we survive this,” Vaelira snapped.
“IF we survive this,” Balt corrected, squeaking as a girl nearly tripped over him.
Around them, the brawl escalated: one group shouting about Phillip’s bloodline, another swearing they “knew Lucien was going to win all along,” and a third insisting that none of this counted because technically the duel wasn’t even over until the judge officially declared it.
Which, of course, the judge could not do, because the judge was still being dragged along helplessly in the current of bodies, shouting muffled protests as he bobbed like a buoy.
The gymnasium, meant to host orderly duels and dignified displays of skill, had become something closer to a tavern brawl mixed with a market riot.
And Vaelira, Corin, and Balt, bruised, flustered, could only cling to one another and search desperately for a path out before they were swallowed whole.
***
Benches overturned, papers flew like startled birds, students were shoving each other over spilled wagers, and somewhere in the distance a poor chair groaned in agony before splintering against the wall.
Amid the madness, Balt’s face grew pale but firm.
“Alright. Listen. I can set up a barrier. If we stay close, we can push through before the whole roof comes down on us.”
“Barrier?”
Corin barked, squaring his shoulders as if itching for a fight.
“I don’t need no barrier. Just point me at whoever threw that chair and I’ll-”
Thunk.
The universe, in its infinite sense of humor, decided to punctuate Corin’s boast by hurling another chair straight into his side.
He staggered, nearly swearing out loud as the wooden leg jabbed his ribs.
His head whipped toward the crowd, eyes flashing murder.
“That’s it!” he snarled, cracking his knuckles.
“Which one of you-”
Before he could bulldoze into the mob like a raging bull, Vaelira’s hand shot out and seized his arm.
Her grip was surprisingly firm for her slim frame.
“Don’t you dare!”
She snapped.
“If you run into that mess, we’ll never find you again!”
Corin opened his mouth to protest, but Balt had already begun muttering incantations.
A circle of runes shimmered into existence beneath his boots, glowing lines crawling upward until a faintly translucent dome of shimmering blue light snapped around the trio.
“Alright,” Balt huffed, sweat already beading at his temple.
“It won’t hold forever, move!”
And so they moved.
Or rather, they waddled.
It turned out that pushing through a mob while stuffed inside a shimmering magical bubble was not unlike trying to move a very large and very fragile turtle shell through a stampede of drunken elephants.
Students slammed against the dome, fists and elbows bouncing harmlessly away, their curses muffled like angry bees buzzing outside glass.
A flying shoe smacked against the barrier and spun off into the air.
A bottle of ink exploded against its surface, dripping black rivulets down the dome’s curve.
“Keep pushing!”
Balt grunted, veins standing out on his neck as the spell strained against the sheer chaos pressing in.
“Push?”
Corin barked, shoulder slamming into the barrier wall.
“Feels more like we’re shoving a bloody carriage uphill!”
“I can’t breathe in here,” Vaelira complained, fanning herself as the cramped air grew warmer by the second.
“Balt, did you forget to put vents in this thing?!”
“It’s not supposed to have vents!”
Balt wheezed.
“Would you rather suffocate or get hit by another chair?!”
“Both seem possible right now!”
Lucien wasn’t here, but Vaelira still found herself snapping sarcastically as though the void had left his ghost behind.
By the time they stumbled free of the gymnasium doors, all three were flushed, panting, and slick with sweat.
The barrier flickered once, twice, and then collapsed in a shower of dying runes.
They staggered into the cool corridor air like sailors washed ashore, gasping for breath.
“I swear,” Corin groaned, bracing his hands on his knees, “if one more piece of furniture hits me, I’m throwing it back.”
Vaelira ignored him, brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead.
“What now? We don’t even know where Lucien is, he could still be in there!”
“No,” Balt said quickly, adjusting his crooked glasses.
“He should still be in the dueling arena.”
That hope carried them down the winding outside stairs, boots clattering against stone as the distant roar of the riot followed them.
They reached the arena ground level only to stop short.
Empty.
The arena floor was deserted.
The cots were gone.
No judges, no duelists, no nurses.
Vaelira’s chest tightened.
“He’s gone…”
Her voice cracked, panic lacing her words.
“Lucien’s gone. And Phillip too! What if-”
“Hey,” Corin cut in, resting a steadying hand on her shoulder.
“Think. Where would they take two half-dead duelists?”
“The infirmary,” Balt answered before she could spiral further.
“That’s the only place.”
Without another word, they broke into a near run, the corridor echoing with the sound of their hurried footsteps.
Each turn, each stairwell, their anxiety mounted, minds conjuring images of Lucien sprawled unconscious, barely clinging to life, or worse.
All of them, already familiar with Lucien’s past misadventures, found their imagination painting an ever-bleaker portrait of him, one bruised, battered, and endlessly reckless.
Each new tale only seemed to add another scar to the image they carried in their minds.
By the time they shoved open the infirmary doors, the tension had wound them tighter than bowstrings.
The door banged loudly against the wall, the trio half-shouting as they rushed in-
“LUCIEN-!”
“Shhhh!”
Three nurses hissed in unison, glaring daggers at them.
And there he was.
Lucien. Bruised, one arm suspended in a sling, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he sat upright in bed.
Beside him Phillip reclined with his head bandaged, pale but awake.
Between them, a girl with fiery cheeks, Lady Vivien Astor, though none of the trio yet knew her name, held a fan of cards in her hand, glaring down at Lucien as though he’d just accused her of cheating.
The three stared.
Lucien raised his good hand lazily, a playing card balanced between his fingers.
“You’re just in time. Want to join?”
Corin’s jaw dropped.
Vaelira made a strangled sound that was half-relief, half-outrage.
Balt blinked twice, then another time, just to make sure what he was seeing was real.
The nurses hissed again.
“Quiet!”
