Jurgis blinked, his trowel pausing mid-pat. Archmage Zoritsa’s eyes were slate-grey, fixed with an intensity that made the surrounding air feel brittle. Her question, a single syllable, hung heavy between them. “How?” she repeated, her voice a low thrum that seemed to vibrate the very earth underfoot. “Oh, you mean the tilling?” Jurgis gestured vaguely with the trowel, then pointed to the small, neatly turned patch of soil. “It was a bit more… enthusiastic than I intended. Still, good aeration, wouldn’t you say? Perfect for my forget-me-nots.” He flashed her a hopeful smile, oblivious to the chasm tearing through the distant Ghartal Peaks, a canyon that still smoked faintly against the cerulean sky. Duke Volos, who had been attempting to inconspicuously polish a speck of dust from his master’s sleeve with a handkerchief the size of a postage stamp, emitted a strangled squeak. He promptly collapsed into a low bow, his form shimmering with uncharacteristic distress. “Oh, the silent god speaks of ‘aeration’! Truly, his cosmic wit knows no bounds! The mountains were but a mere clod of soil to be turned by his divine hand!” Zoritsa ignored the prostrate demon, her gaze unwavering. She felt the subtle hum of residual power in the air, a vastness that defied categorization, a raw, unfettered force unlike any thaumaturgic current she had ever charted. It was the same signature that had accompanied the seismic shockwave, the one that had left even the ancient geomancers of the campus speechless. And this man, this utterly unremarkable man, was talking about forget-me-nots. Before she could press him further, a sharp, imperious voice cut through the stunned silence. “This is an outrage!” Lord Kestutis Radvila, eldest scion of his house, marched towards them, his face contorted with aristocratic fury. Behind him trailed his younger sister, Lady Leda, her delicate features pinched with disdain. His robes, embroidered with the silver griffin sigil of his house, seemed to bristle with indignation. He pointed a trembling finger, not at the canyon, but at Jurgis’s humble garden patch. “You! Commoner! You dare defile the manor lawn with your… peasant horticulture? And after scarring the sacred Ghartal range, the very backdrop to our family’s ancestral lands, with your uncontrolled, *crude* display?” His voice rose to a near-shriek. “This affront cannot stand! I, Lord Kestutis Radvila, challenge you to a formal contest of thaumaturgic prowess! By the ancient rites of the institution, I demand your expulsion!” Jurgis tilted his head. “A duel? For the garden plot?” He looked from the noble's enraged face to his tiny patch of earth. “Oh, I see! A friendly competition for the best spot to plant! How delightful! Though I must admit, I was rather fond of this sunny corner. Is the prize the right to keep it?” Duke Volos whimpered, digging his spectral claws into the manicured lawn. “A friendly competition! The Lord of Oblivion jests! He shall unmake the very concept of formal combat with a flick of his wrist, and the fool speaks of prizes!” The noble's mouth worked furiously. “The prize, you imbecile, is your immediate removal from these hallowed halls! And perhaps, if I’m feeling merciful, the preservation of your meager life!” He puffed out his chest. “Do you accept, townsman?” Jurgis beamed. “Oh, absolutely! I do love a good competition. What are the rules? Is it best out of three dandelions?” Zoritsa watched, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. The Radvilas’ pride was legendary, but their challenge to this man felt like a moth drawn to an inferno. She took a step forward, but the challenger was already turning, signaling to the nearby youths who had gathered, drawn by the ruckus. The martial ring, a circular expanse of perfectly flat, reinforced paving stones, quickly became a focal point. Onlookers, arrayed in the various colors denoting their bloodline purity, formed a wide circle. Whispers, like a murmuration of starlings, swept through the crowd. “A Radvila calling out a laborer?” “Did you see the mountains? That was *him*?” “He’s going to be obliterated!” The scion stood at one end, his silver griffin robes fluttering in a self-generated breeze. He held his hands aloft, his posture radiating generational authority. “By the power of my line, I invoke the Rite of Unmaking!” Crimson sigils, intricate as ancient lacework, flared around his hands, then pulsed outwards, weaving themselves into a complex array of energy. The air grew heavy, crackling with raw, focused power. A jagged, dark-red spear of pure force coalesced above his palms, growing in size and intensity. It was a potent spell, ‘Crimson Lash of Kordis,’ known for its piercing destruction, the culmination of centuries of refined spellcraft. Jurgis, standing opposite him, frowned. He noticed a small, cerulean butterfly flitting erratically near his face, a vibrant splash of color against the grey ring stones. It was terribly distracting. He raised a hand, intending to gently shoo it away, a soft, almost imperceptible flick of his wrist. At that precise instant, the ‘Crimson Lash of Kordis,’ fully formed and hurtling towards him with the force of a battering ram, simply… ceased. Not dispelled, not deflected. It unravelled, not into scattered energy, but into nothingness, like a dream forgotten upon waking. The raw magical force that had comprised it, now without a target, recoiled violently. It didn’t dissipate; it *exploded*. The surge of unbound power, previously contained within the meticulously crafted spell slammed back into its caster. The scion was flung backward, a bewildered puppet on cut strings, crashing into the ornate plinth that held his lineage's revered ancestral statue: a magnificent, life-sized gryphon carved from polished basalt. With a sickening crack, the gryphon’s head snapped clean off, rolling across the flagstones and coming to rest at the feet of a petrified first-year novice. The young lord lay amidst the shattered fragments of his family’s legacy, his hair singed, his expensive robes tattered, a thin plume of smoke curling from his ear. His eyes, wide with shock, stared vacantly at the sky. He had not been merely defeated; he had been erased, his power not countered but rendered utterly irrelevant. The silence that followed was absolute, heavier than any magical ward. The novices, mouths agape, looked from the shattered statue to the dazed young lord, then to Jurgis, who was still idly watching the butterfly flutter off into the distance, a faint, puzzled frown on his face. “Odd. Did it get scared?” he murmured. Zoritsa broke the hush. She stepped forward, her footsteps echoing sharply on the paving stones. Her voice, calm and clear, carried across the stunned crowd, each word a hammer blow to the prevailing order. “This clash is concluded. Lord Kestutis, your formal strike is acknowledged, and your expulsion of Jurgis… unsuccessful.” She paused, her gaze sweeping over the assembled nobility, before settling on Jurgis. “Effective immediately, Jurgis is no longer merely an unranked outsider. He will be joining my personal research retinue, as my senior Research Assistant.” A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. An outsider? An assistant to Archmage Zoritsa, the most reclusive and brilliant mind in the halls? It was unheard of. It was an insult. It was an appointment that shattered every expectation. From a high balcony overlooking the courtyard, a figure in deep violet robes stood motionless. Patriarch Mykolas, father of the fallen boy, watched the scene unfold. His face was a mask of cold, implacable fury. In his hand, a delicate crystal wine goblet, forgotten and gripped too tightly, splintered with a sharp crack, shards digging into his flesh.

The Duel for a Dandelion