Asher
I don't even know why I decided to interfere.
The words left my mouth before I had fully accepted them myself, and the moment they did, I felt the familiar irritation settle heavy in my chest like an unwelcome guest. I had never come to Altheris Academy to involve myself in its politics, its brutal trials, or its twisted sense of morality. I had come for one reason only: to live quietly and make sure my stubborn younger brother, Ashriel, didn't get himself killed while trying to spite our parents by enrolling in this damned institution.
That was supposed to be my only concern.
Yet here I was.
And since I had already crossed the line, I wasn't about to retreat halfway.
I would see this through.
"Mr. Asher?" Ysara called my name, surprise coloring her voice as though she had just discovered I possessed the ability to speak at all.
I ignored the implication.
"Mr. Asher, you're new here," one of the female professors said calmly. If my memory served me right, her name was Selene Hollow.
"This has always been how things are done."
I turned to face her fully, meeting her gaze without flinching.
"Professor Hollow," I said evenly, my voice low but carrying across the field, "has it ever occurred to you that a girl with no visible power, standing alone against four opponents, each armed, each empowered...
She was never meant to make a single move before dying?"
A ripple of unease passed through the gathered students like a visible wave.
"We shouldn't be blamed for her misfortune," Irene Vary cut in sharply, her tone laced with irritation.
I didn't even spare her a glance.
First and foremost, I wanted no contact with her. And I was not defending this girl out of any personal interest.
That part was true. Or at least, it needed to be.
"She foolishly chose the twin blades herself," another professor added. His name surfaced easily in my mind... Evander Nightfen.
I exhaled slowly.
Yes. I agreed with that much. Twin blades were not the safest option. Not when bows, spears, or long-range weapons had been available. She had chosen poorly, perhaps out of pride, familiarity, or a desperate fear of appearing even weaker than she already was.
But poor judgment did not deserve a death sentence.
"Professor Nightfen," I said, keeping my voice measured and calm, "even so, she deserves a chance."
I paused, letting my words sink into the heavy silence.
"Four opponents for one person cannot be called fair by any definition. If one of them kills her, all four claim victory. But for her to survive, she must kill every single one of them. That is not balance... that is execution."
Silence followed, thick and uncomfortable.
I realized then that I had spoken more in these few moments than I had in nearly a century of my existence. All for a girl who meant nothing to me. A girl I would likely never speak to again.
And yet…
I could not stand by and watch someone be erased so purposely, so blatantly, under the guise of "fairness."
"We don't need to argue among ourselves," Ysara finally said, her tone smooth as polished glass. "Let us ask the students."
She turned to the crowd, her smile never wavering.
"If anyone here believes this pairing is unfair," she continued, "raise your hand. If at least half of you agree, Miss Valoria will be spared, and her misfortune will be transferred to another student powerful enough to face these four opponents."
Her gaze lingered on the sea of faces.
Waiting.
And for the first time since arriving at this academy, I wondered how many of them still remembered what fairness looked like.
It was obvious what they wanted.
They wanted Nyx dead.
No sane person would willingly take on four opponents at once when the rules allowed for one-on-one combat at the start, especially not a girl already whispered about in hushed voices. A girl rumored to be cursed. A girl no one wanted to stand beside, let alone defend.
This was never about fairness.
It was about erasure.
I looked back at Nyx, and the sight of her unsettled me more than I expected. There was no panic in her eyes. No desperate pleading. Just a quiet, exhausted acceptance, as though she had already made peace with the fact that no one was coming to save her from what was clearly a visible, deliberate threat.
That kind of resignation only came from someone who had learned, far too early in life, that hope was unreliable.
The students began to raise their hands, slowly at first, one by one. Some hesitated, glancing around as though afraid of being seen as weak or sympathetic. Others lifted their hands with stiff reluctance, their expressions tight with discomfort rather than genuine conviction.
When the counting finished, the number didn't even reach thirty.
Twenty-two.
That was all.
Twenty-two students thought this was unfair. Twenty-two out of over a hundred. Enough to confirm the injustice, but nowhere near enough to change the outcome.
I stepped back to my previous position, my jaw tightening imperceptibly.
So that was it.
No one could save Nyx now. Not the professors. Not the rules. Not the crowd that had just proven how easily fairness could be sacrificed when fear and self-preservation were involved.
Only she could save herself.
And I didn't believe she would.
Before I could stop myself, I walked back toward her. I didn't raise my voice. Didn't draw unnecessary attention. I leaned close enough that only she could hear me, my words quiet but deliberate.
"I believe in you," I said softly. "You can win this."
The words tasted like a lie, but not because I meant to deceive her. I said them because she needed to hear something other than silence.
Because sometimes encouragement wasn't about truth, it was about giving someone enough strength to stand when the entire world had already decided they would fall.
She looked up at me.
And then my gaze landed on her eyes.
Her eyes were a deep amber, warm at first glance. Almost normal.
But the longer you looked, the more it felt wrong.
The color didn't stay still.
Something beneath it shifted, faint, fluid, like light moving under glass.
You couldn't tell what it was.
And that was the unsettling part.
"I believe in you," I murmured, repeating myself again. "You can win this."
Not because I was certain she could, but because she needed someone to say it. And maybe, just maybe, because I needed to believe it myself.
When our eyes met again, they seemed to hold every shade of the night at once, darkness and hidden fire, exhaustion and something far older.
I exhaled slowly. Whatever happened next, I knew one thing with absolute certainty, I would never forget those eyes.
They weren't just eyes.
For a moment, I couldn't look away.
"Goodbye, Nyx," I said to myself as I stepped back, the words silent but heavy in my chest.
Even before the fight began, I already knew how this would end.
And I hated myself for believing it.