Extra's POV: I am the Sixteenth Son

A whole day had passed since the big match, and all the second years got a free day off. Ares lay flat on his bed, staring at nothing, his mind spinning like a broken wheel. Today, he decided to skip all training - no sword practice, no running, no nothing. But his thoughts wouldn't stop racing.

The weird thing was, he wasn't thinking about losing. He was thinking about how much better he'd gotten.

"Two wins out of three matches," he muttered to the ceiling. "And nobody ever beats Sylas anyway." A small grin crept across his face. "I did way better than I thought I would. Sure, beating Maelia was expected, but Lysandra?"

His grin faded as he remembered all those times during training with Jareth. Lysandra would stare at him like she was trying to see right through his skull. Those cold, studying eyes that made him feel like a bug under a magnifying glass. Now that he'd beaten her, those stares were probably going to get ten times worse.

"Great," he groaned, rolling over. "Just great."

He remembered what Jareth had told them yesterday. "Jareth said no more combat lessons. He only taught us in the first place to make our selection match more exciting." Ares sat up suddenly, struck by an idea that was either brilliant or completely stupid. "Starting tomorrow, I'm going to the Echovault to train. Maybe almost dying a few times will teach me something new."

Across the room, Roul had been watching his roommate talk to himself like a crazy person. He noticed Ares wasn't doing his usual meditation today - the guy looked completely drained from yesterday's fights.

"Hey, Ares!" Roul called out, just to make sure his friend hadn't actually lost his mind.

"Huh?" Ares blinked, looking around like he'd forgotten where he was.

Roul took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. "You've caught the attention of a very dangerous snake."

"Snake?" Ares tilted his head like a confused puppy. "What do you mean?"

Both boys swung their legs over their beds, sitting on the edges facing each other. Roul looked like he'd rather eat his own boots than continue this conversation.

"I mean Vael," he finally said.

"Vael de Eisenklinge?" Ares's voice cracked a little. His eyes went wide like someone had just told him a dragon was coming for dinner.

"Yes!" Roul nodded grimly.

"What does he want?" Ares practically squeaked, jumping to his feet. Even though Roul had warned him to avoid Vael before, Ares had seen what happened to other students who crossed the guy. It wasn't pretty.

Vael ranked 5th in the entire school and was a finalist. He was trouble with a capital T - the kind that left bruises and broken pride in his wake.

Roul quickly stood up and put his hands on Ares's shoulders. "Calm down. I'll do my best to make sure you two never meet." There was a good reason Vael couldn't mess with Roul directly - Roul was strong enough to fight back. But Vael was still a finalist, getting special lessons that even fourth years didn't know about. Roul wasn't about to bite off more than he could chew, especially when his friend's safety was on the line.

– – –

That same day, in a different dorm across the academy, Lysandra lay on her bed like a statue made of frustration.

She stared at the ceiling above her, eyes wide open and burning with exhaustion. Morning light crept through her small window, soft and pale, but it only made the angry fire in her chest burn colder.

She hadn't slept a wink.

Her body ached everywhere - muscles sore and stiff, bruises blooming in places she didn't even remember getting hit. But the physical pain wasn't what kept her awake. It was the fight. Their fight.

Ares versus Sylas.

She played it over and over in her head like a broken record - every step, every clash of steel, every moment when their blades met like thunder in a storm. The image of Ares collapsing after his final attack was burned into her brain. She was sure he'd called it Fire Bolt. Such a ridiculous, reckless move that somehow fused two elements together.

And it had actually worked.

Sylas had barely blocked it. The impact had thrown him across the arena like a rag doll, even though he'd won in the end.

That fight had made the entire Cradle go dead silent.

She rolled over and bit into her pillow to muffle the angry growl building in her throat. She'd fought hard. Trained harder than anyone. She never slacked off, not once. So why? Why did it feel like the gap between her and those two had suddenly become as wide as an ocean?

No, that wasn't fair to herself. She'd seen something important in that fight.

Sylas fought like a chess master, every move planned, controlled, perfect. Ares fought like a wild storm - raw power, brilliant instincts, complete chaos. Two totally different paths, and somehow both had left her eating their dust.

She gripped her blanket so tight her knuckles went white.

"Next time," she whispered to her empty room. Her voice shook, but not from fear, from pure, burning determination. "Next time, it won't be them everyone's talking about."

Her sword leaned against the far wall, within arm's reach. She'd polish it again today, then head out early for extra training. No excuses, no feeling sorry for herself, and definitely no settling for third place.

Lysandra Le Eisenklinge didn't just watch history happen.

She planned to make it.

– – –

The pain felt like background music now, quiet but always there.

Sylas blinked up at his stone ceiling, golden dawn light trickling through his narrow window. The soreness in his shoulders and the stiffness in his legs were proof that yesterday's match hadn't been some crazy dream.

He turned his head slowly, looking at the spear leaning against his wall. The same weapon he'd pointed at Ares, demanding surrender. The same one that had felt almost wrong to raise at the very end.

"I won," he said quietly, his voice rough from sleep.

The words tasted bitter.

He sat up carefully, his body complaining with every movement. His breathing was steady, but his mind was spinning like a tornado. The final seconds of the fight kept replaying in his head: Ares stumbling around, completely exhausted, then somehow pulling together that insane last attack.

Fire Bolt.

At first, it hadn't even looked dangerous. Just another one of Ares's wild gambles. But the speed, the raw force of it, Sylas had almost been too slow. If he hadn't gotten his spear up in time, that explosion would've launched him clear out of the arena. That wasn't just some flashy trick. That was everything Ares had left, thrown into one desperate final scream.

Ares had meant to end the fight right there.

Sylas ran his hand through his messy hair and sighed into the quiet room. He'd known Ares was determined, but he hadn't understood what it looked like to fight someone with absolutely nothing left to lose.

He stood up on wobbly legs and walked to his window, staring out at the academy grounds.

Why does it feel like I lost?

Because Ares had pushed himself beyond his limits. Because Sylas had played it safe when he should've taken risks. Because that match had tested him harder than any fight in his entire life. And in the end, he'd only won because Ares's body gave out first.

That thought stung worse than all his bruises combined.

"I need to get stronger," Sylas whispered to his reflection in the glass.

Not for his reputation. Not for some title. But because next time, Ares wouldn't collapse from exhaustion. And if Sylas didn't grow stronger before then... next time, he'd be the one hitting the ground.

– – –

A/N – Was it fire or mid? Don't just vanish—powerstone, comment, review. Let me feel your presence.