Part Two
ZALAN
Athame Arts, Bealnora School of Magecraft, Londaria
I stand back-to-back with Reginald Smoot in the center of the combat octagon in our Athame Arts classroom, loaner wand held at my side.
Exactly how did I end up in this mess again? Oh, that’s right, the prick snatched my wand, and he’s holding it hostage.
“Ready?” Markus Argall questions.
I nod, gripping the loaner wand tightly in my gloved palm.
“En garde!” Argall calls out, and the duel begins.
My loaner wand thumps vertically against my breastbone as I start to advance. One pace. Then two. Then three and—
I turn, dropping all the way to the floor in a wolf crouch. My left leg and right arm extended out to the sides for balance as I take aim with my left, ready to unleash my first spell.
A dangerous smile tugs at the edges of my lips.
The truth is, even though I have never particularly enjoyed magikal combat—be it solely with wands or combined with athame—I learned a lot growing up with three older brothers. Mainly, that people—especially mages—are predictable creatures. And when engaged in battle, an opponent who feels their victory is assured will strike hard and brutally fast to crush the will of their adversary.
However, if said adversary were not to be where that mage were expecting them to be…
All bets are off.
My spell ignites a heartbeat after I fling out my arm and foot. And then I feel the loaner wand crack in my palm.
Fuck! This is exactly what I was afraid of.
The danger in using a loaner wand—a wand you didn’t carve yourself—is that it wasn’t made with your unique mixture of magik in mind. Which means that it can fail you at any moment. Either because you have a conflicting affinity or because the magik you possess far outstrips what the wand was ever meant to channel.
The blowback of my spell as the wand cracks throws me straight onto my ass. But it hits Smoot just the same, causing his magikal blast to sail far overhead and obliterate something wooden into splinters.
“Damn it! Who forgot to turn on the spell boundary field?” Argall shouts angrily as I reach back, pushing myself to my feet during the confusion.
This loaner wand is a real piece of shit. If I’m not careful, I’m going to blow it to bits. Or worse, expose the fact that I don’t even need a wand in the fucking first place.
Our combat continues in a harrowing frenzy that couldn’t be more ridiculously one-sided. It’s a fucking disgrace that could hardly be called a proper bout. With me running and dodging Smoot’s pitiful excuse for attack spells like a frightened deer in the forest because I can’t trust this bit of wood in my hand.
I fling myself into a barrel roll to avoid his spell and buy myself time to think of a plan. But I’m not nearly fast enough, and his spell blasts a charred hole through my uniform coat.
“Got you!” he yells in triumph.
I straighten to my full height. “Just singed my uniform a bit.”
“Isn’t that enough?” he counters with a scowl.
“Was it enough when I tagged you square in the chest right at the beginning?”
The look on his face is as foul as the vile stench of his magik.
“Yeah, didn’t think so.”
I aim the cracked loaner wand at Smoot and ready myself for his next volley of inferior casting.
So it’s to be utter domination or surrender. Very well, I can play by those rules.
“Duel” ExSpelled © 2025 by Kat Vancil
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