The next morning came without fanfare — just the steady hum of the academy waking, mana drifting lazy through the halls as bodies stirred and boots met stone.
I moved by feel and habit, tracing the route toward the northern sparring fields. A quiet ache still lived in my shoulders from yesterday's drills, but it was the good kind — earned, not endured.
Salem walked behind me. Not too close. But not far. Her mana brushed lightly against mine when it wavered — steadying. I let her presence stay there, solid and sure, even as we stepped past the first checkpoint onto open training ground.
The field was already populated. Too many signatures to count casually, but I recognized a few — a third-year healer pacing near the medic tent, her mana clean and sharp-edged. Magister Eleris standing still along the eastern boundary — her pressure like cold wind pulled tight into wire. Watching. Waiting.
And then — ahead of me, to the left — the distinctive hum of Fay's mana, patterned with clarity and layered with ice. It didn't bite, not immediately, but it pulsed cool and clean. Focused. Controlled.
I paused near the center marker, boots finding familiar packed dirt. Reaching lightly through the air, I traced the blur of Fay's outline. She stood taller than me, frame precise, her sword already in hand. No flaring — not yet. But I could feel the tension in the line of her stance.
"Ready?" came her voice — level, crisp, almost bored.
I nodded once. "Ready."
No count-off. No warning.
Just the snap of intention as she surged forward.
Her mana bloomed in a tight arc — a rush of cold sweeping toward me — but she was slow. Too deliberate. Her ice formed with precision but not speed, and I moved sideways a split second before the frost took shape beneath my feet.
My own mana coiled close, suppressed — all but ice. I matched her element on purpose, to make it fair.
But that was all I gave her.
I pulled the string on my bow — light, not enchanted — and fired.
The arrow whispered past her shoulder, perfectly aimed to miss by inches.
"Dead," I said.
She hesitated a breath too long before turning.
Second arrow loosed. "Dead."
A flare of frustration in her mana now — heat hiding behind cold. Her stance shifted. She drew deeper from her pool. This time the frost rippled beneath her like a wave, forcing me to leap back to avoid the slick. Clever. But too late.
I circled wide. She followed, but her mana bent wrong — more downward than outward. Defensive instinct. Bad in a spar.
Third shot. Straight to center mass. I didn't need to hit — only to mark the kill.
"Dead."
Somewhere near the edge, I felt a flicker of reaction — Magister Eleris adjusting her stance. Not intervening. Just… observing harder.
Fay exhaled sharply. "You're not even trying to hit."
"I don't need to," I said calmly. "In a real fight, you'd be gone by now."
She charged this time — no ice, just motion. I felt her sword cut the air, fast enough to catch if I'd been too close.
I wasn't.
I ducked, twisted, let the world slow around me. Her arc swept wide. My foot caught solid ground. I pivoted and drew another arrow.
"Dead."
This one passed so close to her neck, she flinched from the air it displaced.
Silence stretched.
The healer's mana shifted, alert — probably watching Fay more than me now.
"Ice only, right?" Fay asked, low and tight.
I nodded. "That's all I've used."
She hissed through her teeth, mana sparking cold and brittle. "How are you this fast?"
I let the question settle for a moment, then answered:
"I'm not much faster than you," I said. "I'm just listening. Your movements—your breathing, footsteps, how your heartbeat shifts before you strike. I don't need to see you. I already know where you're going."
A pause.
Even the air stilled.
Fay's mana wavered slightly, surprised—impressed, whether she liked it or not.
Further off, I felt the subtle flare of Magister Eleris's focus sharpen — not outward, not commanding. Inward. Calculating. Filing the information away.
Fay didn't reply.
But she didn't charge again either.
Magister Eleris stepped forward at last, her presence smoothing the last threads of tension from the field.
"That's enough," she said. "Good match."
I lowered the bow. Fay didn't speak again. Just turned, shoulders rigid, and walked toward the edge of the field.
The healer's outline drifted toward her.
Salem approached from behind me, her mana pulsing quiet approval — but there was a question behind it, too.
She didn't ask aloud.
She didn't need to.
I waited until we were clear of the watching students before I answered.
"That mana yesterday — west field? I still don't know what it was. "
Her steps slowed. "You think it was—?"
"No. But Lycian was out there all day. Alone."
She didn't speak.
I stopped, turned slightly, and tilted my head toward her. "I want you to keep an eye on him. Quietly. Nothing aggressive. Just… watch."
Salem's mana brushed close again — firmer this time. Not quite protective. Something more like promise.
"I'll watch," she said.
I nodded once.
And we walked on.
The wind brushed over the tall grass, stirring the mana haze that hung like mist over the field. I didn't see the blades move — just the low shimmer of displacement where heat met chill. Something had passed this way. Recently.
He's here again, Salem said, her voice folding into my thoughts through our bond — low, wary, and alert. West field. Fourth time this week.
I stayed quiet, listening.
I was watching from far away unlike Salem who was closer by. From this distance, I could only catch glimpses — mana signatures bleeding faintly around the edges of the academy's wards. But I knew Lycian's by now: sharp, polished, coiled like a predator holding still. It shimmered with that almost-human discipline, but there was always something just a bit too calm about it. Like the stillness of an animal pretending not to be hungry.
Is he alone? I sent back.
A pause. Then: No. There's someone else. Another student, but I can't tell who — their signature's dim. Like they're… muffled.
I tensed, fingers tightening around the string of my training bow.
He's not teaching them, Salem added. He's just… talking. Standing close. I caught a phrase a moment ago. "You deserve more than this."
A faint chill threaded down my spine.
More than what?
Didn't say.
Lycian shifted then — his silhouette barely a blur against the black-on-black haze of the field, but his mana glinted just enough for me to mark it. The edge of his presence curled outward, brushing faintly against the other student's. Not overpowering. Not overt.
But it sank in.
Slow. Like ink soaking into cloth.
I inhaled quietly, trying to track their movement. The student — whoever it was — stumbled back a little, hesitated, then nodded. Their outline slipped away, back toward the dormitories.
Lycian didn't follow right away.
He stayed in place, still as marble. Then his head turned—just slightly.
Toward me.
No, not me. Salem.
He sees me? she asked, breath hitching.
No. Maybe he just sensed the bond shifting. But even as I said it, I wasn't sure. Lycian's perception had always been sharp — sharper than his rank should allow.
A low hum tickled the edge of my mind. It wasn't a sound — more like an idea, sudden and intrusive.
Don't you want more?
I flinched.
The words weren't mine. They weren't Salem's.
They weren't even thoughts. Just… invitation.
Get out, I snapped, and like a hand withdrawing from a flame, it vanished.
Salem went still. Then: You felt that too?
"No, something wrong?"
"I'm not sure, but it didn't feel quite right."
Lycian finally moved, walking back toward the central courtyard at a leisurely pace — nothing to mark him as suspicious, nothing strange. Just a prefect making rounds. Guiding a student. Maybe checking patrol paths.
But my chest stayed tight.
The whisper hadn't come from Salem, or anyone nearby.
Maybe it had come from him.
And the only ability that lets you plant seductive thoughts into someone's head is.
Tempting whisper.
Something only Devils can do.