Be'lana set her hammer down on the stone floor and looked at the empty warehouse that would become her school. The space smelled like rust and old rain. She'd spent three years saving coin from street performances, but it wasn't enough. The building needed walls, mats, weapons that wouldn't splinter. She needed teachers who understood what she was building. A messenger arrived the next morning with an offer written on thick paper. A patron would fund everything — the repairs, the equipment, the teachers' wages for two years. But there was a condition. Be'lana had to fight the patron's champion in the old way, at the stone clearing in the forest where disputes were settled before witnesses. She folded the letter and picked up her maul. The hammer felt solid in her hands. She walked to the forest that afternoon and found the clearing, its flat stone ground ringed by ancient trees. A carved seat waited in the trunk of the oldest tree, empty but ready. She tested the ground with her boot. It was smooth and unforgiving. This was how her school would begin — not with words, but with what she'd always done best.

Be'lana arrived at the stone clearing to find someone already there. A man stood in the center, spinning a staff overhead while a small crowd watched from the tree line. His movements were smooth and practiced, designed to impress. She stopped at the edge of the clearing and waited. The champion had built a platform against the far trees, two stories high with railings and lanterns that swayed when he moved. He climbed it between demonstrations, addressing the crowd like they'd paid admission. Be'lana walked forward and set her maul on the ground between them. The staff spinning stopped. The crowd went quiet. She didn't speak, didn't explain what she was building or why this mattered. She just stood there, and the silence said everything the platform couldn't. The champion stepped down. He understood what kind of fight this would be.