The Citadel courtyard erupted into a pandemonium of flashing blades and panicked shouts. The rhythmic shriek of the alarm bells was now joined by a deeper, guttural roar that vibrated through the very stones underfoot. A monstrous sand-drake, its hide like tarnished copper and scales the size of dinner plates, had breached the outer defenses, its serpentine neck snaking through the torn gap in the wall. Acidic spittle sizzled on the ground, dissolving the hardened clay into smoking pits. Cadets, still half-asleep, stumbled out of their quarters, scrambling for their weapons. A wild, fevered energy whipped through the throng. This wasn’t a drill. This was the Crucible of Valor, the most brutal trial to earn advancement. Xadira shoved Tavros aside, the lingering heat of his jealousy-fueled grip still burning on her arm. “Move!” “Wait, Xadir!” Tavros bellowed, his voice cutting through the din. He was already weaving through the chaos, his twin curved blades flaring with an aggressive, amber light. His eyes, usually narrowed in suspicion, were now sharp with focus. “It’s a Skarn-Drake! They’re blind to Ember-light, but their venom is corrosive enough to melt through bronze plate!” “Then stay clear of its fangs, genius!” Xadira retorted, already sprinting toward the beast. The field test had begun. Every single hit, every maneuver, every drop of blood spilled, was being tallied. The Warlord's clock was ticking down to three days. She couldn’t afford hesitation, or even a single cooperative moment with Tavros, not if she wanted to prove she was worthy of the rank on her own. The Skarn-Drake, a creature of raw, desert-born might, lashed its tail, sweeping aside a cluster of panicked third-years. Its head, a blunt, armored wedge, reared back, and a torrent of emerald acid spewed forth, dissolving a training dummy and the stone plinth beneath it with an awful hiss. “Xadir, stop! It’s too large to engage head-on!” Tavros yelled, a frantic edge to his tone. He moved with a practiced fluidity, deflecting a spray of venom with his guard. “We need to coordinate! Flank it, draw its attention, hit its soft underbelly!” “I don’t need your strategy, Helicon!” Xadira snapped back, her twin Ember-blades roaring to life in defiant orange. She didn’t even glance his way. Her eyes were locked on the beast, her mind a furious tempest of calculations. The head was too armored. The tail too swift. The underbelly… that was the target. But getting there required a distraction, a singular, audacious move. She vaulted onto a low stone wall, using the elevation to gather momentum, then launched herself directly at the drake’s massive, scaled flank. The creature hadn't anticipated such a direct assault. It turned its head, a low growl rumbling in its throat, but Xadira was already a blur of orange light and determined motion. “Are you insane?!” Tavros roared, lost in the din. “That’s its venom sac! It’ll shred you!” But Xadira was already there. One blade slashed deep into the thick, leathery hide, drawing black ichor. The drake shrieked, a sound like grinding stone, and thrashed wildly. Its tail whipped around, a blur of scaled muscle, and a needle-sharp barb, dripping with venom, tore across her left side. Pain, hot and immediate, exploded through her, a searing line from her ribs to her hip. She gasped as the air caught in her throat, but her hands stayed clamped around both hilts. The venom began its work instantly, a fiery ache spreading outwards, making her muscles seize. Her vision swam, but the Vanguard points were within reach. This was it. The final push. She ignored the agony, ignored the frantic warning in Tavros's voice, now a distant echo. She would not ask for help. She would not yield. With a ragged cry, Xadira thrust her second glowing point directly into the soft flesh behind the creature's jaw. The creature shuddered, a terrible, gurgling sound escaping its maw. Its body convulsed, then went slack, collapsing with a deafening thud that shook the entire courtyard. Its glowing, reptilian eyes glazed over, fixed on nothing. A cheer erupted from the cadets, a ragged, relieved roar. Xadira had done it. She had killed the Skarn-Drake. The points. Her promotion. The contract… A dizzying blackness began to creep in at the edges of her vision. Her legs gave out. The hilts slipped from her numb fingers, clattering onto flagstones. The last thing she saw before the world dissolved was Tavros’s furious, fear-stricken face as he sprinted towards her, his features twisted in an expression she couldn’t quite decipher. *** When Xadira woke, a dull, heavy ache pulsed through her entire body. Her limbs felt like lead, refusing to obey her will. The air smelled of herbs and antiseptic. She was in the Citadel’s infirmary, a quiet, dimly lit chamber with cots lining the rough-hewn walls. Her head felt foggy, detached. She tried to move her hand, to touch the searing line on her side, but nothing happened. A heavy sense of paralysis held her captive. “Ah, the stubborn one awakens.” The voice was smooth, laced with a familiar, sneering contempt. Inspector General Kaizir stood beside her cot, immaculate in his gilded uniform, brass monocle gleaming. Beside him stood the garrison chief, Roric, wearing an unreadable scowl on his sun-baked face. Tavros was nowhere in sight. “What… what happened?” Xadira tried to ask, but her tongue felt thick, her words slurring. The inspector's thin lips curled into a dry sneer. “You were dosed with a rather potent nerve relaxant, cadet. For your own good. The Skarn-Drake venom required a rather invasive cleansing process. You might have struggled.” He paused, letting his gaze drift over her. “A shame, really. You showed a certain brutish tenacity.” Xadira’s heart, despite the paralyzing drugs, began to thrum with a cold dread. “The… my promotion?” Roric finally spoke, his voice a low rumble. “The kill was impressive, Voss. No cadet has taken down a Skarn-Drake single-handedly in living memory.” He cast a weary glance sideways. “Yet the inspector has ruled your claim to the merit points invalid.” The words hit Xadira like a physical blow, even through the haze of painkillers. Invalid? Her vision narrowed, focusing on Kaizir’s smug face. “Unsanctioned weapon modifications,” Kaizir drawled, tapping his eyepiece. “Those blades you wield are… unique. Unregistered. Their flame output exceeds standard Citadel allowances by a significant margin. A clear violation of article seven-beta regarding Combat Audits.” He spread his gloved hands. “Rules are rules, Cadet Voss. Your kill is thrown out. You will not receive your promotion today.” Three days. Three days, and she was already out of the running. Her stomach plummeted. The Warlord. The contract. All her brutal struggle, all the pain, for nothing. Kaizir gave a final, condescending nod. “Good day, Cadet. Enjoy your recovery. Such as it is.” He turned and strode out, his footsteps echoing in the silence. Roric sighed, dragging a rough palm over his balding head. “I’m sorry, Voss. My hands are tied.” He walked to the foot of her cot, then stopped, his eyes falling to the blood-soaked fabric clinging to her side. “Medic! He’s still bleeding through the dressing!” A gruff, burly medic with a shaved head and calloused hands lumbered forward, carrying a tray of instruments. He set it down with a clatter, picked up a pair of polished steel shears, and without a word, reached for Xadira’s tunic. His fingers brushed against the blood-caked cloth just over her chest. Xadira watched in horror, utterly helpless, as he began to cut.

Venom and Disqualification