Continue forcing himself through more magical duels, determined to suppress his vulnerability and prove he’s “strong enough.”

The defeat haunted

It wasn’t just the loss that stung—it was *how* it happened. The whispers, the laughter, the feeling of helplessness wrapped in a spell that had felt far too symbolic. He remembered the way the audience looked at him, not like a prince or a mage—but like a spectacle. It churned in his gut.

Instead of slowing down, Elion pushed harder.

He signed up for every sparring match, every open duel, and every challenge class. He wasn’t trying to win anymore—he was trying to *break through* something. His instructors began to worry, but he brushed them off with polite deference. He trained alone, long past midnight, his hands blistered from repeated spellwork.

Each duel, he tried a new tactic—faster, more forceful, more aggressive. But no matter how well he performed, it always ended the same: a crack in his concentration, a moment where emotion slipped through, and everything spiraled. He would find himself pinned, exposed, or mocked—not by intention, but by magical happenstance.

Once, an opponent’s spell backfired and shredded Elion’s outer robe, leaving him standing in the delicate silk underlayer most male students wore beneath their uniforms—form-fitting and glistening with protective enchantments. The crowd erupted. He flushed so deeply he could barely breathe.

Another time, a binding glyph wrapped around his ankles mid-duel, tripping him into a posture that left him kneeling at the victor’s feet. The image was burned into several students’ minds. A few girls even giggled—not cruelly, but with a teasing tone that made his stomach flutter.

Even worse, part of him noticed that flutter. And hated it.

In the academy’s enchanted mirrors—ones that revealed a mage’s magical aura—his own image had started to change. Once rigid and sharp, his aura now flickered in soft hues, laced with submissive threads of silver and violet. He dismissed it, blamed the trials, the stress.

But the truth was harder to ignore.

His body was growing accustomed to a magical rhythm that leaned toward surrender. Not ****—*guided*. The more he resisted, the more his magic tangled.

One evening, after a particularly humiliating loss that left him tangled in shimmering restraints before a half-laughing crowd, Elion found himself alone in the training hall, shaking.

He stared at his reflection in the polished crystal wall. He looked tired. Fragile. Beautiful, in a way he didn’t recognize as himself.

He pressed his palm against the glass.

“What’s happening to me…?” he whispered.

His pendant pulsed again, faintly warm against his chest.