They all froze. An Astania student took Harry by his wrist and dragged him to a private spot. “What are you doing, man?” he whispered, breath sharp, eyes darting back toward the others. “I know you’ve been exceptional throughout the week, but challenging a Westlake is madness.”

  Harry let himself be pulled, but only for a few steps. He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers lingering there as if soothing an ache that had been building for days. “It is cowardice not to at least try.”

  He turned to walk away.

  The boy yanked him back harder this time. “You think this is about your stupid pride? Any failure you attract in this place brings Astania’s glory down.” His voice cracked on the last word.

  Harry paused. The sounds of the yard pressed in again. Boots scraping dirt. Low laughter. The creak of wood and leather. He nodded once, slow. “But cowardice,” he said, almost to himself, “is more an insult to my bloodline.”

  He stepped out of the shadow and walked straight toward Collins. Every step felt loud. Too loud. He raised his arm and pointed. “Bring it on.”

  The students closed in, some folding their arms, others gripping their sleeves or clasping their hands like they were bracing for impact. No one spoke. Even the wind seemed to hesitate.

  Collins’ grin spread slowly, deliberately, like he was savoring the moment. “Set it up.”

  A bow was passed forward. Another boy jogged off and returned with a target, planting it at the far end of the training field. Farther than usual. Much farther. Someone laughed under their breath.

  The boys squinted toward it. “I can barely see the center point,” Cole muttered. “Harry does not stand a chance.”

  More heads turned. Whispers rolled outward like ripples in water. Students from other groups drifted closer, curiosity tugging them in. “What’s going on?” “An archery contest.” “Between who?” “Westlake and Astania.”

  By the time Collins stepped forward, nearly everyone had gathered at the arena’s edge.

  He selected his bow without hesitation. Ran his fingers down the string. Chose an arrow. The motion was practiced, careless in the way only confidence could be. He lifted the bow, feet planted, shoulders relaxed. The dusk clung to the air now, blurring edges, softening lines.

  He didn’t squint. Didn’t hesitate. The arrow leapt from the string. It cut through the air cleanly and buried itself dead center in the target.

  For a heartbeat, no one breathed. Then the crowd erupted. Gasps. Shouts. Someone swore under their breath. Cole’s mouth hung open. “I expected excellence,” he said quietly. “But not this perfection. How did he even see the center? It’s almost dark.”

  Collins lowered the bow and turned slightly, just enough to look back at Harry. His smile sharpened. Harry’s heart hammered so hard it felt like it might split his ribs. The target looked impossibly small now. A pale circle swallowed by shadow. His palms were damp. His throat tight.

  “How can I beat that?” The thought flickered, quick and dangerous. Pride surged up to smother it. “It is better I try and fail than to run away.”

  He stepped forward and took the bow. It felt heavier than before. The arrow’s shaft was cold against his fingers. He lifted his gaze toward the target and tried to breathe.

  Master Fen’s voice rose in his memory, calm and steady. You must believe you can hit the target. You must imagine it before you release the arrow.

  Harry raised the bow. The darkness pressed in. The center ring blurred until it might as well have been a rumor. His hands trembled, just slightly.

  Collins noticed. “How are bastards sired?” he asked loudly, trying to mock him.

  A ripple of laughter followed.

  Gaius leaned forward, grinning. “Mostly in brothels.” The words struck like a slap. “They mainly products one of a one night stand,” Harry added.

  Something snapped inside Harry. Heat surged up his arm, sharp and sudden. His left hand pulsed. His vision shifted. The world seemed to pull inward, narrowing, tightening. The target lurched closer. Larger. Clearer. The grain of the wood stood out. Cracks. Old marks from previous arrows.

  Harry released his arrow.

  The arrow vanished. For a moment, there was nothing. No sound. No movement.

  Then the students broke into a run. They skidded to a stop near the target. “Whoa!” Hands flew to heads. Someone stumbled back.

  “He didn’t just hit the target,” a boy breathed. “He broke it.”

  The wooden face had split. The arrow had punched clean through, snapping the board and burying itself deep into the frame behind.

  Silence spread again, heavier this time.

  Collins didn’t smile. His jaw tightened. His eyes flicked from the shattered target back to Harry, searching.

  Harry stood where he was, chest rising and falling, the bow still in his hand. He hadn’t meant to step forward, but he did. One step. Then another.

  No one laughed now. No one spoke. Somewhere in the crowd, someone whispered his name.

  Harry.

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  Collin's eyebrows furrowed. “That is not possible, only a Master archer can do that.” He walked closer in disbelief then saw it. “Holy God!” He exclaimed. He paused and stared at Harry. “Maybe I underestimated you,” he said to himself. “This time I will go harder.”

  The torchlight flickered across Collins’ face as he studied the target again, as if hoping the arrow would shift on its own and prove his eyes wrong. His lips pressed into a thin line. Pride recoiled, then stiffened, refusing to bend. A murmur moved through the students like wind through tall grass. Some leaned forward. Others crossed their arms, suddenly unsure of where to place their loyalty.

  He turned to the crowd, and clapped. The sound cut through the whispers. “Yes, he hits the target. And even pierced the stake behind it. But that does not mean he won.” He touched his own chest. “I also hit the target. We are at level.”

  A few boys nodded quickly, relieved to cling to the familiar certainty of Collins’ dominance. Others exchanged looks, brows knit, eyes drifting back to Harry as if seeing him clearly for the first time.

  Cole exhaled sharply once again. His shoulders sagged as though the air had been knocked from him. “This means we are back to exactly whether we started.”

  Collins nodded. His smile returned, slow and deliberate. “Yes, but let's try one more time.” He lifted a finger. “This time, our eyes should be tied.”

  The words landed heavily. A ripple of unease spread through the group. Someone laughed nervously. Another boy shifted his weight, boots scraping against the dirt.

  Harry’s heart kicked against his ribs. The sound felt loud inside him, too loud, like it might spill out and betray him. For a while he looked at his hand, flexing his fingers as if testing whether they still belonged to him. The memory of that sudden sharp clarity lingered, slippery and uncertain.

  “The God Hand just help me,” he said to himself, barely breathing the words. His throat felt tight. “That was because I got angry when I was insulted.”

  He swallowed. The night air tasted dry. “If I must win, I must be insulted.”

  Harry nodded. “Let's do it.” A low hum rose from the gathered students, half excitement, half dread. Collins did not hesitate. He picked up a piece of cloth, rough and dark, and tied his eyes with practiced ease. The knot was firm, confident. No tremor betrayed him.

  He held the bowstring, adjusted his stance, feet planted like roots. The forest seemed to lean in, listening. He aimed and released it.

  The arrow kissed the air then landed. For a breath, no one moved. Then the boys ran over to where the target was, voices colliding as they jostled for a view. “Whoa!” they screamed. Hands flew to heads. Someone laughed in disbelief. “Even with his eyes tied he was still close to the center line.”

  Collins untied the cloth and turned slowly, letting the moment stretch. His grin was sharp now, satisfied. He rolled his shoulders once, loosening them.

  He faced Harry. “Now your turn. Let's see if you can hit the target,” he said, his tone almost casual, “not to talk about getting close to the center line.”

  A few boys snickered. Others watched Harry closely, searching his face for doubt.

  Harry’s faith left him. It slipped away quietly, like water draining through cracked fingers. He scratched his head, forcing a crooked smile that did not quite settle. “What do I do now?” He asked himself. The question echoed louder than he liked.

  He went over to Larry, the Astania boy, pulling him slightly aside. “Do you want me to win?” he asked him. “Of course, m—” Larry responded, stopping himself, his voice threaded with anxiety. His eyes darted toward Collins, then back to Harry.

  “Repeat those nasty things Gaius said earlier,” Harry said. His voice was calm, almost light, as if asking for something ordinary.

  Larry blinked. “What! You can not be serious.” Harry smiled, a thin line that held more resolve than humor. “I am damn serious.”

  Larry opened his mouth, then closed it. His fingers curled into his palms. “This is madness,” he muttered. Harry did not argue. He turned away.

  He picked up the cloth and tied his eyes himself. The world vanished into darkness, immediate and absolute. His breath sounded too loud. He held the bowstring and placed his arrow by feel alone. The wood felt cool beneath his fingers.

  “Larry now!” he called.

  Larry hesitated for a while. The pause stretched. Someone coughed. Another shifted impatiently.

  Then Larry’s voice rose, shaking at first, then hardening as the words forced their way out. “You are a bastard. A son of a prostitute. probably a product of a one night stand. You are not worthy to be among us. You are a stain to the royal lineage.”

  The words struck like stones. Each one landed heavy, deliberate. A few students winced. Others watched with narrowed eyes, unsure whether to look at Harry or the bow trembling faintly in his hands.

  Harry absorbed it all. He did not move. His jaw tightened. Something hot unfurled in his chest, coiling upward, sharp and fierce. Anger surged inside him, fast and bright, washing away the doubt, the noise, the fear.

  Then his eyes glowed.

  This time bright enough to be visible underneath the cloth. A thin, searing light bled through the fabric, pulsing once, twice.

  “What is that bright light?” Gaius asked, pointing at Harry’s eyes. His voice cracked halfway through the sentence. But no answered. They were more focused on the target than him.

  The air seemed to thin. The forest faded. His eyes zoomed through the clothe. The target became bigger and the center point closer. He released the arrow and it flew and hit the center point.

  The boys ran over. This time they didn't scream, they all bowed before Harry. The dust around the target was still settling, the broken wood hanging loose where the arrow had split it clean through. No one spoke at first. Even their breathing seemed careful, as if a loud breath might shatter what had just happened.

  “You repeated it. Even with your eyes closed,” Cole said. His voice came out hoarse, like he had been shouting all night. He stepped forward, then lowered his head properly. “You are our leader.”

  One by one, the others followed. Boots scraped the ground. Knees bent. Some bowed stiffly, like it pained them. Others did it without hesitation, relief flickering across their faces. The hierarchy they had all assumed was gone, replaced by something raw and undeniable.

  Harry smiled. The excitement of being recognised exploded in him, hot and sudden, almost dizzying. For a moment he forgot the insults, the fear, the dark cloth over his eyes. His chest felt too small for what was inside it.

  “We are all equal,” he said. His voice carried farther than he expected. “When we are in that forest, it is us against those beasts, not against each other.”

  A few heads lifted. Someone nodded slowly. Someone else let out a breath they had clearly been holding since the contest began.

  Harry turned to Collins.

  Collins’ face was now drained of color, like all the blood had abandoned it at once. His jaw worked, teeth grinding. His eyes flicked from the target to Harry’s face, then away again, as if looking at him directly burned.

  Harry stretched his hand to him. The gesture was open, steady. “One team,” he said. For a split second, it looked like Collins might take it. His fingers twitched. Then his face twisted, fury flooding back in sharp, ugly waves.

  “Never will a bastard lead me,” he screamed. The word cracked the night like a whip. He shoved Harry’s shoulder hard enough to force him half a step back, then stormed away, boots pounding the earth.

  No one followed.

  The space Collins left behind felt heavy, but it did not collapse. The rest of the team remained where they were, eyes moving between Harry and the direction Collins disappeared into. No one spoke up in protest. No one defended him.

  Students from other groups had gathered closer now, pretending not to stare while staring anyway. Whispers moved through them like insects in dry grass.

  “He is truly special,” they muttered.

  “Did you see his eyes?”

  “That arrow.”

  Harry felt their gazes, felt the weight of something new settling onto his shoulders. It was not pride alone. It was responsibility, sharp-edged and unavoidable.

  Morning came faster than expected. The sky was still pale when Master Fen stood in front of the students once again. The night’s tension lingered in their postures, in the way some groups stood too close together while others kept careful distance between members.

  “I hope you have all chosen your leaders?” he asked. “Yes,” they responded in unison. The sound echoed faintly off the stone walls.

  “All leaders should step forward,” Master Fen instructed. One by one, they moved. Boots scraped. Cloaks shifted. Faces lifted.

  They were all Westlake students. Except group five. Harry stepped forward.

  A murmur rippled through the ranks. Master Fen’s eyes flicked to him, then back to the line of leaders. For a heartbeat, his expression was unreadable. Then he gave a short nod, as if confirming something to himself.

  He handed each leader a rolled map, his movements precise and unhurried. The paper crackled softly as it changed hands.

  Then one by one he escorted the groups across the gate. The iron gate groaned as it opened, the sound deep and old. Beyond it, the forest waited. Thick. Dark. Silent in a way that felt deliberate.

  When he escorted group five, Master Fen paused. He placed his hand on Harry’s shoulder. It was heavier than Harry expected, the grip firm, grounding. “You are alone now,” Master Fen said quietly. “You only have yourself.”

  Harry met his gaze. “Survival is not sure at there,” Master Fen continued, his voice low enough that only they could hear, “but if you remain united, your chances of returning alive would be higher.”

  For a moment, something like approval flickered in his eyes. He forced a smile. “You have seven days. You must try not to die.”

  Then he turned, walked away, and locked the gate. The clang of iron slamming shut echoed behind them. Final. Absolute. Harry’s heartbeat became louder. He could hear it in his ears, in his throat. In front of them was a thick forest, its canopy swallowing the light, its depths impossible to see.

  Leaves rustled even though there was no wind. “Let's go,” Collins said with the authority of a leader. Harry’s head snapped toward the voice.

  Collins was already moving, stepping past him, chin raised, acting as though nothing had changed. A few boys hesitated, caught between habit and reality.

  Harry did not argue. He lifted his hand instead. “Stay close,” he said. Not loud. Not soft. Just enough.

  They began to move. The forest swallowed them almost immediately. The air grew cooler. The light thinned. Branches clawed at their clothes. Every step sounded too loud, every snapped twig a potential threat.

  They were barely into the forest when they heard a strange sound. It was low. Wet. Not quite a growl.

  They all turned at once.

  “That must be one of the beasts,” Collins breathed. Cole's legs trembled a bit. “Why so soon? We haven't even been here for ten minutes.”

  Harry turned to them. “Now the mission begins.”