Leon didn't sleep.
He closed his eyes for an hour. Maybe less. When the sun cracked over the academy wall, he was already washing dried blood from his hands in the basin behind the dorms. Cold water didn't sting anymore—it just woke him up.
The summons came before breakfast. Another duel.
This time, Serran.
He'd never even spoken to a Serran, but he'd heard the name like thunder—old money, old rank, old blood. They didn't speak much. They didn't need to. Their presence in the academy was an echo of legacy itself.
And now, one of them wanted his head on the sand.
Leon strapped his coat tight, slung the practice sword over his back, and went straight to the South Wing, where the challenge board hung just inside the lecture hall doors.
It was there. Pinned neatly. Wax seal still fresh.
"Leon Thorne vs. Darius Serran – Three days from now. Platform match. No weapon restrictions."
He stared at it. Not with surprise. Just confirmation.
"Looks like they're lining up now."
Riva stood beside him, arms folded. She wasn't smiling.
Leon didn't look away. "Saves time."
"You're going to run out of bruises to bleed from."
He reached up, tore the challenge sheet from the board, and folded it once. "Then I'll grow more skin."
She caught his arm as he turned. "Leon."
He paused.
"They're not all like Delmont. You know that, right? Serran fights to end things."
"I'll be ready."
"You say that like it's a choice."
He pulled his arm free and walked off.
Two hours later, Leon knelt in the training hall, blindfolded.
Elric paced behind him, circling like a hunting dog.
"Sound tells you more than sight," the instructor barked. "Focus on the pressure before it shifts. Feel the cut before it comes."
A wooden sword cracked across Leon's thigh.
He didn't flinch.
Another blow struck his shoulder.
Still, no movement.
Then the whisper of steps on sand. A shift in air. Leon ducked, rolled to the right, and swung up blindly.
The tip of his blade smacked against something solid.
"Better," Elric muttered.
Leon pulled off the blindfold, sweat slicked down his neck. His legs trembled slightly. He ignored it.
"You'll be dead in three seconds against a Serran if your balance slips like that."
Leon nodded.
But didn't sit. Didn't rest.
That evening, the courtyard fountain ran red.
Not with blood—dyed wine. Some noble celebration for a House Leon didn't care about. He passed through the edge of the crowd. Heard laughter, caught the sharp scent of honey and spice. Saw Marcus Delmont sitting stiffly on a bench, surrounded by girls who only liked scars after they were cleaned.
Leon didn't stop.
Someone called his name.
He didn't answer.
The dining hall was quieter. His usual spot empty.
Until Roth slid in opposite him again, two plates in hand.
"You keep attracting attention like a plague."
Leon stabbed a piece of meat with his fork. "Then why sit with me?"
"Because I like watching people sweat when you walk by."
Leon almost smiled. Almost.
Roth leaned forward. "You know who Darius Serran is?"
Leon chewed. Swallowed. "No."
"Sixth-year. Reserved for academy elites. They say he trained under one of the king's own Blades."
Leon wiped his mouth. "Then he won't panic when he bleeds."
Roth whistled. "You're serious."
"I don't have time not to be."
He stood up.
Left the tray half-full.
And went back to the East Yard.
The wind had picked up. Frost licked the flagstones.
He stood in front of the dummy again, sword drawn. But this time, he didn't swing. He breathed. Let the world narrow into the space before him. Three moves forward. One step back.
Each breath dug deeper.
Each silence between steps gave the night something new to fear.
He wasn't thinking of Serran. Not directly. He was thinking of pressure, of breaking points, of the exact instant where speed overtakes grace.
He whispered the same word each time he struck:
"More."
More speed. More weight. More sharpness.
Until the straw burst and the dummy collapsed.
He made another.
Started again.
By the second dummy, his palms had blistered. He didn't stop.
This one was shorter—thicker around the middle. Harder to cut through cleanly. Leon adjusted his stance, narrowing his base, blade angled low. Wind slipped through the East Yard trees, stirring loose frost into the air like white dust.
He moved.
One strike. Step. Second strike. Twist.
A third—halfway in—and the sword caught on a bent spar of wood inside the frame. Leon yanked back, cursed under his breath, and pivoted with a sharp elbow into the post. It cracked. Not enough. He followed with a rising cut that finally split the thing in two.
Breathing fast now, he stepped back and let the sword drop point-first into the dirt.
His fingers throbbed. His wrist ached.
He dropped to one knee and stayed there.
Not out of weakness. Out of calculation.
Fatigue had a sound. His body was screaming it.
He needed to know exactly what his limits were before Serran exposed them.
A shuffle of boots scraped behind him.
"You really don't know how to sleep, do you?"
Emily.
She crouched beside him, her braid damp with cold. Her breath fogged in front of her.
Leon didn't look at her. "You keeping count?"
"I stopped after you broke the third dummy yesterday."
She glanced at the ruined pile beside him.
"Five now."
He closed his eyes. "Still not enough."
Emily pulled out a small cloth from her coat and handed it over. Leon stared at it, confused.
"For the blood," she said.
He took it.
Silence passed.
"People are scared, you know," she added.
"Of Serran?"
"Of you."
Leon didn't respond. Just wrapped the cloth slowly around his hand.
"I heard two instructors discussing whether you were being pushed too fast. One of them said you'd snap. The other said that's what makes you dangerous."
He finished tying the cloth. "Which one's right?"
She stood up, boots crunching frost. "I don't know. But neither of them said you'd win."
Leon looked up.
"You think I won't?"
"I think it doesn't matter what I think. I just wanted to see if you were still standing."
He stood.
He didn't say goodbye. Neither did she.
By the time the moon reached its highest point, Leon was in the sparring ring alone.
And by the time it dipped behind the South Tower, he wasn't.
Two silhouettes crossed into the torchlight. Both younger. First-years. They didn't carry blades.
Leon didn't acknowledge them until one stepped forward.
"You're Thorne, right?"
Leon kept wrapping his wrist. "That's what they say."
The boy hesitated. "I... we just wanted to say we saw what you did to Delmont. That was—"
"I didn't do it for show."
"I know, it's just—people talk."
Leon finally turned his head. "What do they say?"
"That you fight like someone who shouldn't be here. But also like someone they'd follow."
Leon blinked.
Then turned back to his sword.
"Then tell them this," he said, voice quiet. "I don't care if they follow. I only care if they learn."
The two lingered a moment longer. Then left.
Leon stayed.
The wind sharpened.
His breath steamed.
And still, he moved.
His muscles screamed now. Every swing dragged the ache deeper. But there was purpose behind it. Each repetition carved closer to the shape he was trying to remember—the man he used to be.
He didn't want strength. He wanted control.
He didn't want speed. He wanted certainty.
By the time the bell tower struck first light, he was still swinging.
Just slower.
Sharper.
Back in the dorm, Leon collapsed onto the bench near the washbasin. His clothes stuck to his skin. He didn't bother changing. Just splashed water across his face, wiped the back of his neck, and leaned into the stone wall until his pulse calmed.
He thought of his father, briefly.
How the old man had looked at him when he dropped the blade years ago.
And how he'd never once told him to pick it up again.
Leon closed his eyes. Just for a second.
Then the bell rang again—lecture hour.
He didn't move.
Another chime.
He stood.
Sword in hand, shoulders stiff, mouth set.
Three days.
He would be ready.