Citadel (Book 1): Training in Necessity by J. Clevenger

heart was beating rapidly and his breathing was labored.  "Hector, I don't know what I'm feeling!"  Jason gripped his friend's arm.
    "It's fear, Jason.  Everyone's feeling it."
    The combat room was changing.  Its light grew dimmer, the combatants’ shadows grew darker.  It made no sense.  Duncan seemed to be getting larger.  His expression changed.  It was cruel, threatening.  Jason didn't understand.  He was in no danger.  Why was he so affected?
    "Jason, relax.  It's not that bad.  Duncan- he's projecting it."
    Yes.  Yes, of course.  It was obvious.  How had he not been able to see that?  Jason concentrated on his breathing, his heart, felt himself relaxing.  It took some time.  He was not aware of anything else until he had finished.
    Duncan was attempting to extricate himself from the wall, near Coach Achala's exit.  Apparently, while Jason was distracted, he had charged and the instructor had dodged.  Jason wondered why Achala was not taking advantage of his opponent's temporary disability. 
    He had merely resumed his stance, having turned to face Duncan.  Soon, the boy had managed to tear himself free.  He advanced more slowly this time, cautious.  The combat instructor's motions were short and quick.  Duncan would throw a punch or a kick, sometimes trying to grab.  Achala intercepted each with a small blow to the other's arm or leg, just enough to throw it off course.
    "Why the gloves?"  Hector asked.
    "Hm?"  He was right.  Achala was wearing a pair of tightfitting, black leather gloves.  "I had not noticed them.  Nor do I understand their purpose."  He had also added a pair of small pouches to his uniform's belt.
    The fruitless exchange of blows ended.  Duncan struck at Achala, a simple straight jab.  The instructor met his fist with an open palm, rather than striking at the forearm and deflecting it. 
    It should not have been possible.  The image did not convey sound; the walls were thick stone, but Jason was certain he could hear Duncan’s scream.  His hand and arm had been shattered. Coach Achala returned the blow with a backhanded slap. 
    Duncan was flung several feet to the side, prone.  Again, the instructor failed to follow-up on his advantage.  Rather than attack his downed opponent, he stood back.  Jason thought he might be speaking but it was difficult to be sure.  The feeling, the fear, was receding.  It seemed as if the combat room's lighting was returning to normal as well.
    Duncan rose from his position on the floor.  His face was malformed.  The jaw was broken, possibly unhinged.  Jason could see blood coating his teeth.  He shook his head, not seeming to care about the pain that motion must have caused him.  Slowly, the trainee stood upright.  He raised his hand, beckoning Achala forward.
    "Okay, I may not like the guy, but that takes balls."  Jason would not have phrased the sentiment in the same way as Hector, but he did agree.
    Apparently, Coach Achala was not inclined to meet his opponent's request.  He removed something small from one of his pouches. A ball bearing?  The instructor flicked the ball forward, like shooting a marble.  It flew quickly but not so fast that Jason could not track it.  The ball bearing bounced off the floor and came to rest against the combat room's curved wall.
    Jason could not hear him scream, not this time, but Duncan's mouth was open and he was clutching his leg.  The missile's path had intersected Duncan's thigh.  Jason had not thought it was moving fast enough to cause injury but Duncan's leg was bloody and misshapen.  He fell to the floor.  Moments later, he began rapidly tapping his hand against the ground.
    "Well," Hector said, "now we know what an operative is capable of."
    The fight was over.  The view vanished, replaced with a plain stone wall.  The healer moved, quickly entering the combat room.
    "You are more familiar with the schedule than me, Hector, which fight should we watch