Leon's forearm burned with every swing.
Not from the duel—he'd gotten used to that pain—but from the hundred plus strikes he'd thrown since dawn. The East Yard was dead quiet, the kind of quiet that usually meant people were either still asleep or smart enough to stay inside. Leon was neither.
His blade sliced through the air again. Clean. No resistance. He reset his stance.
Again.
And again.
And again.
A shape shifted near the edge of the yard. He didn't stop. Boots crunched before the voice followed.
"Didn't you already prove your point yesterday?"
Fena.
He kept his eyes forward. "Not enough."
"Marcus's neck might disagree."
He adjusted his grip and stepped back to his mark. "He got back up."
She stepped into the light—no sword, no training gear, just a long black coat and the kind of calm that made cold irrelevant.
"You're bleeding."
Leon glanced down. Knuckles split open. Barely noticed. "Good. It means I'm doing it right."
She didn't say anything right away. Just watched as he moved through another set.
"You're not gonna say anything about it?"
"No."
"Not even about how your name's been echoing through the halls since yesterday?"
"No."
"Or how half the nobles are starting to hate you?"
That made him pause. The sword dipped to his side.
"I'm not here to be liked, never expected them to."
"You're doing a damn good job of that."
They locked eyes. No flinch from either of them.
Leon bent over, dunked his hand into the water barrel, and splashed his face. Cold. Sharp. Cut through the fog better than her voice ever could.
"You came out here just to scold me?"
"I came because no one else will." Her arms folded across her chest. Voice steady. "And because if you keep going like this, you'll burn out before midterms."
He leaned against the post, blade resting on his shoulder.
"I've got something to prove."
She waited. He didn't explain.
Finally, she exhaled. "You know they're going to challenge you again."
"I know."
"It won't always be in a formal duel."
"I know that too."
"So you'll fight back?"
He pushed off the post. "Do I look like someone who won't?"
Her eyes softened, just a little. "You look like someone who's gotten too used to being alone."
His gaze hardened.
"I'm not used to it," he said quietly. "I'm just better at it than most."
Later, Leon sat by himself in the mess hall.
Plates clattered, spoons scraped, and laughter echoed from the far end—nobles, bright uniforms, easy smiles.
His own plate was barely touched. He chewed slowly, mechanically. Jaw tense.
The chair across from him scraped. He didn't look up.
Roth sat down anyway.
"Do you mind?"
Leon glanced his way. "If I did, you'd already be gone."
Roth grinned. "Good. I'm not really here for polite company anyway."
He tore off a chunk of bread and ate loud on purpose. Leon didn't react. Roth leaned in.
"They're coming for you. Delmont wasn't just some random name."
Leon kept chewing. "He bled just like anyone else."
"That's not the point."
Leon set down his fork on the plate. "Then what is?"
Roth leaned back in his seat. "The point is, you've got attention now. Some folks want you gone. Some want to test you. And a few…" he took another bite, "just want to watch what happens when you break."
Leon nodded slowly. "That's fine, let them try."
Roth smiled. "That's the spirit."
A sharp voice cut in from behind them.
"Thorne."
They both turned.
Instructor Yarik stood in the doorway, arms folded, stare sharp as glass.
"Headmaster wants to see you."
Leon wiped his mouth, stood up, and left his tray behind.
The headmaster's office was too warm. Mahogany shelves lined with scrolls, a big window looking out on the courtyard. Headmaster Caldus sat at his desk, tapping a quill against a ledger.
Leon stood still, spine straight.
Caldus didn't look up right away.
"You made quite the impression."
Leon didn't reply.
Finally, Caldus looked up.
"You disarmed a Delmont heir in front of half the whole Academy."
Leon held his gaze. "I simply followed the rules."
"Yes, you did."
A pause.
"But rules don't always protect you from politics."
Silence.
Caldus got up and moved to the window.
"I watched your duel. And you fight like someone who's seen real death. That's not very common at your age."
Leon stayed quiet.
Caldus turned back around now.
"I'm not warning you. I'm asking."
"Sir?"
"What are you really doing here, Thorne?"
His eyes fixed on Leon.
Leon didn't flinch. "I'm here to get better."
Caldus studied him for a long beat. Then nodded.
"Very well. Just remember...sharp blades don't care who they cut."
Leon turned to leave.
"Oh, and Thorne?"
He paused at the door.
"You've got another challenge. End of the week. This one's Serran blood."
Leon nodded once. Then walked out, fists tightening.
The training yard was empty when he got back.
He didn't grab his real blade. Not this time. Just the beat up training sword with the worn grip.
Then he started again.
Step forward. Slash. Backpedal. Counter.
Each move bit through the cold.
No instruction. No voices. Just the rhythm of someone who'd decided pain was the best teacher he had.
He didn't stop until his leg finally buckled beneath him.
Sat there, breathing hard, sweat stinging his eyes.
Then stood up again.
And started over.
His hands shook...not from fear, not even from exhaustion. It came from something deeper. A quiet, heavy fury that hadn't cooled since the duel. He poured it into the next swing.
Gravel shifted behind him.
"You're still out here?"
Leon didn't respond.
Instructor Elric stepped into view, hands behind his back. Took one look at the blood on Leon's knuckles, the frayed grip, the cracked sleeve.
"Get some rest, Thorne."
Leon lowered the blade, but didn't relax.
Elric didn't wait for an answer.
He was gone before Leon took his next swing.