Page 33 of City of Secrets and Shadows
“I imagine he does,” she replied. “Well, best of luck in the trials. The academy can be... challenging for those not raised with certain advantages.”
As they walked away, I heard Cassia whisper, “Her accent is atrocious. Like a merchant trying to sound noble.”
“And did you see her hands?” Drusilla added. “Calluses everywhere. Probably works her own fields.”
Their laughter followed me as I finished preparing. In the arena, such enemies would be simple to handle — a directchallenge, a decisive victory, status established. Here, the rules were different, the weapons invisible, the victories measured in whispers and subtle social hierarchies.
For the first time since we’d conceived this plan, I felt truly out of my depth.
The candidates assembled in the central arena, arranged in rows according to our assigned numbers. The imperial legates addressed us from their platform, delivering speeches about tradition, excellence, and duty to the empire. I barely heard them, my attention divided between maintaining my posture and fighting the urge to look at the Emperor, whose presence I felt like a physical weight.
“The first assessment will be combat,” announced the Chief Legate, an older man with a military bearing. “Pairs will be announced. This is an evaluation of form, technique, and adaptability, not a contest for victory. You will be judged on how you fight, not whether you win.”
A scribe began calling names in pairs. I watched the first few matches with careful attention, noting the distinctive noble fighting style — formal, technically correct, but largely ornamental. These were people trained to display martial arts as a cultural accomplishment, not as a survival necessity.
“Livia Cantius and Jalend Corvus.”
I stepped forward, searching for my opponent. The name had triggered no reaction from the crowd — clearly another minor noble like myself. A murmur rippled through the female candidates as a young man emerged from the opposite side of the field. Even in the standard academy training uniform, he commanded attention.
Tall and lean with an aristocratic bearing, Jalend moved with the fluid grace of a natural swordsman. His features were striking — high cheekbones and a strong jaw softened by unexpectedly full lips. His dark hair was cut slightly longer thancurrent fashion dictated, curling around his ears and the nape of his neck. His olive skin had the warm, sun-kissed glow of Imperial nobility, unmarred and evidently well-tended.
I heard Valeria whisper something to Cassia, who giggled and straightened her posture. Several other young women had similarly adjusted their stances, subtly preening despite the imminent combat demonstration. Jalend, for his part, seemed oblivious to the effect he had on his audience, his expression remaining coolly detached as he approached.
Up close, his beauty was even more apparent — and more unsettling. There was something in the set of his features that spoke of privilege worn with casual indifference, the look of someone who had never needed to consider how others perceived him. His attire lacked any personal embellishments or house insignia, yet somehow this absence of ostentation only heightened his natural elegance.
We met in the centre of the field. Up close, I noticed his eyes — a striking grey that seemed almost silver and that seemed to assess everything with clinical detachment and boredom.
He offered the formal bow of greeting, his movements precise but minimal.
“Begin,” called the legate.
We circled each other, wooden practice swords held in the standard opening position. I waited, letting him make the first move as Septimus had instructed. “Never show your full capabilities immediately,” he had said. “Let them underestimate you.”
Jalend’s first strike came without warning — direct and efficient, lacking the flourishes I’d observed in earlier matches. I parried correctly, maintaining the formal style Octavia had drilled into me rather than the brutal efficiency I’d learned in the arena.
“Provincial,” he said, the word neither question nor insult, merely observation.
“Is it that obvious?” I replied, countering with a textbook series of strikes.
He deflected each with minimal effort. “Your technique is too perfect.”
“I wasn’t aware perfection was a flaw.”
“It is when it’s memorized rather than internalized.” His next attack came at an unexpected angle, forcing me to adapt.
I adjusted, careful to maintain the noble style. “Perhaps you could recommend a tutor who teaches imperfection.”
A flicker of something — surprise or amusement — crossed his face before the mask of indifference returned. “Your feet betray you. You stand like someone expecting an actual attack, not a demonstration.”
He was observant — dangerously so. I deliberately relaxed my stance, sacrificing combat readiness for aristocratic poise. “Better?”
“More convincing,” he replied. “Though now you’re vulnerable to this.” He executed a swift feint followed by a strike that would have contacted me if I hadn’t instinctively shifted my weight.
The movement was pure gladiator — compact, efficient, life-preserving. I immediately corrected, but his raised eyebrow told me he’d noticed.
“Interesting,” he said quietly. “Where did you study?”
“Private tutors,” I replied, launching my own combination to distract him. “And you? Your style lacks the usual... embellishments.”
