A hush fell over the flagstones as Zandir’s last words echoed, heavy with implied threat. Miyara’s hand instinctively tightened on her spear, her gaze flicking between Zandir’s smug face and Tiraz’s unreadable expression. The young support buffer stood calmly, a faint, almost imperceptible smile gracing his lips. It wasn't the smile of a man caught in a lie, but of someone observing an amusing, if dangerous, play. “Well, Tiraz?” Zandir prodded, stepping closer, his voice rising again for the benefit of the now-gathering onlookers. “Speak. Confess your avarice. Or perhaps you’d prefer the company of the desert scavengers, alongside your dear sister?” Around them, students paused, drawn by the public spectacle. Proctors, usually quick to intervene in brawls, stood by and watched, their faces impassive. Zandir, son of a High Councilor, was rarely gainsaid. Tiraz took a slow breath, his eyes meeting Zandir’s with an unsettling tranquility. “I confess,” he stated, his voice clear, carrying across the courtyard. “I did… ‘borrow’ the Symbol of Oraz from the archives. My intentions were… to study its ancient wards. I sought only to understand the arcane better.” He paused, allowing the murmurs to build. “And yes,” he continued, his gaze unwavering as it landed on Zandir, “I was acting under the direct order of the esteemed Zandir, who asked only that I return it after my ‘research’ was complete.” Zandir’s smirk widened, a vicious flicker in his eyes. He raised a hand, not to console, but to strike. The open palm connected with Tiraz’s cheek with a sharp crack that silenced the quad. Tiraz’s head snapped to the side, a crimson flush blooming on his skin. He swayed minutely, but did not fall. The warm smile remained, unwavering, even with the sting of the blow. “Foolish buffer,” Zandir scoffed, retracting his hand as if Tiraz’s skin was unclean. “Such is the price of arrogance. To think you, a mere support, could comprehend the ancient lore. I had merely entrusted you with its return, and you betrayed that trust.” He gestured with the Symbol of Oraz. “See how easily these ‘buffers’ succumb to temptation? They are useful only when guided by their betters.” As Zandir spoke, Tiraz subtly shifted his weight, a minute tremor passing through his fingers. A nearly invisible shimmer of energy, a whisper of a skill, emanated from him, directed towards Zandir’s ornate, flowing cape. Zandir, caught up in his grand pronouncement, took a step forward, intending to kick Tiraz while he was seemingly off balance. But his foot caught. His own magnificent, golden-threaded cape, suddenly feeling heavy as lead, snagged around his ankle. Zandir stared downward in surprise, then panic. His arms flailed uselessly, an undignified squawk escaping his throat as he pitched forward. He landed with a spectacular thud, face-first in the polished flagstones, the Symbol of Oraz clattering from his grasp. His cape, still burdened by Tiraz’s subtle gravity buff, settled over him like a golden shroud. A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers, quickly followed by stifled snorts and outright guffaws. Even the proctors, usually stern, found their lips twitching. The ‘Chosen One,’ face-down in the dust. Miyara, who had been tensing to step between Zandir and Tiraz’s impending kick, froze. Her brow furrowed. That… wasn't right. That wasn’t an accident. A flash of memory, of Roshir’s own uncanny ability to turn an opponent’s strength against them, flickered in her mind. Zandir scrambled up, his face scarlet, dusting off his robes furiously. His eyes blazed with humiliated fury, fixing on Tiraz. “You… you did this!” he hissed, taking another enraged step. But Miyara moved faster. Her spear, ‘Sun’s Edge,’ swept across, the polished shaft resting firmly against Zandir’s chest, blocking his path. Her expression was cold, her stance unyielding. “Enough, Zandir,” Miyara stated, her voice low, resonating with quiet command. “The boy has confessed. His punishment is expulsion. Further violence serves no purpose.” Zandir spluttered, but the spear’s tip pressed lightly against his uniform, a clear warning. Just as he opened his mouth to retort, a chilling sound ripped through the air. A high-pitched, tearing shriek, like crystal shattering, directly above the grounds. The sky, a brilliant azure moments before, suddenly fractured. A jagged, obsidian tear, shimmering with violet light, ripped open directly overhead. A micro-rift. Chaos erupted. Students screamed, scattering in all directions. Elite combatants instinctively drew weapons, forming defensive lines. Zandir, who had been puffing out his chest, let out a choked cry. His face went ashen, his bravado evaporating like mist in the desert sun. He didn’t reach for a weapon, didn’t assume a defensive stance. Instead, with a whimpering shriek, he shoved Miyara aside and lunged, not towards the rift, but directly behind Tiraz, using the frail buffer’s body as a shield. He clung to Tiraz’s back, trembling uncontrollably, burying his face between Tiraz’s shoulder blades. “Protect me! Protect me!” he babbled, his voice high-pitched with terror. Miyara stared, aghast. Her eyes went from Zandir’s cowardly form to Tiraz’s still-calm back, then up to the rift that pulsed ominously. A shape began to coalesce within the violet tear, a creature of sharpened angles and glistening scales. It descended with unnatural grace, its crystalline form reflecting the panicked courtyard. It was a Glass-Stalker, its slender limbs ending in wickedly sharp talons. It ignored the brave students forming ranks, ignored the instructors shouting orders. Its head, a faceted jewel, swiveled slowly, its glowing, multi-lensed eyes sweeping over the panicked crowd, bypasssing the warriors, the elite. Then, with a predatory click, its gaze locked onto a small, unaware figure across the wide plaza, near the fountain, chatting happily with a group of friends—Niravi.

The Golden Coward