Maya's qualified with a catch. The director, Mistress Denna announced this way.
"Maya Thornfield advances with consideration, pending review of conduct during the dueling exhibition."
The words stuck, her outburst in the duel with Elsia had cost her more than just poise. It showed something the academy wasn't ready to ignore.
Ethan kept his eyes on her. She was standing tall, chin tilted up, like she was daring anyone to say more. He wasn't sure if the others saw it, but he did. The way the shadows around her bent wrong when she got angry. Shadow magic doesn't sleep, not when the person carrying it's been hurt.
As the students started to drift off, Ethan sensed someone behind him and turned slightly.
Master Donovan, his gray hair was the same mess it always was, and he carried that familiar slouch meant to look harmless, but his eyes, those storm-colored eyes were locked on Ethan.
"Ethan Cole," he said, soft but firm. "A word, if you would."
They stepped into an alcove off the main hall. Not any random alcove. He didn't do random, and Ethan was sure he picked that spot for a reason. He'd forgotten how deliberate Donovan could be, or maybe he just hadn't seen it clearly back when he was actually sixteen.
"Your performance today was... remarkable," Donovan said, folding his hands behind his back. "Especially the footwork, during your match with Mistress Denna."
"Thank you, Master Donovan." Ethan kept it even, but his chest tightened. "I've been training since I was little."
"Of course," Donovan said, like he wasn't quite convinced. "Still... the stance. The way you plant your left foot. The shoulder turn when you shift between defense and offense... It's distinct."
He moved around Ethan slightly, nothing too obvious, but Ethan knew he was being studied. The rest of the academy carried on around them, laughter, distant voices, shoes against stone, the occasional clang of a cup, but here in their quiet little corner, the world narrowed to just them.
"Tell me," Donovan said, his tone gentler now, like a mentor trying not to push too hard, "who taught you the Valorian Guard position?"
Ethan froze. That name, that stance. Donovan had taught it to him himself, just not yet. It was one of those secret lessons they used to share before everything fell apart. Before his execution and not many knew the technique, but those who did remembered it.
"I… I don't recognize that name," Ethan said, trying to sound puzzled.
"My father showed me some swordwork when I was younger. Maybe I just figured the stance out over time."
Donovan's eyes flicked, just briefly. Enough to make Ethan's pulse jump.
"Naturally," Donovan repeated, like he was trying the word on for size. "It's not a common thing to stumble into. The Valorian Guard is precise or let's say refined. A product of military design, not backyard practice."
Silence settled between them. Ethan felt a bead of sweat slide down the back of his neck.
"Perhaps," Donovan said, his tone shifting again, "you trained with someone. A former soldier, maybe? Someone who knew what they were doing."
Ethan grabbed the excuse like it was oxygen.
"That could be it," he said quickly. "There were a couple of veterans in our village who usually checked on my father and sometimes saw me practicing with him, giving me some lessons."
Donovan nodded slowly, but his eyes didn't budge.
"Makes sense. Retired guardsmen often teach the young ones. Still... your form today had the kind of polish you only get after years. Real years."
He didn't say it out loud, but Ethan heard it clear as day. He was sixteen. That level of instinct shouldn't be there.
"I've always learned fast," Ethan said.
"I don't doubt it," Donovan replied. There was the ghost of a smile, but it wasn't reassuring.
"Well, we'll see just how fast. The advanced cohort won't make things easy."
He turned and walked away, but Ethan could still feel the weight of his attention hanging behind him.
By the time Ethan reached the edge of the common room, his hands had started to shake.
That short talk had rattled him more than he wanted to admit. If Donovan somehow remembered even pieces of who he was, or who he used to be, it could blow everything apart.
**************
The celebration didn't feel like one. They said the wine was from Tidehaven's best vineyards, but it tasted like dust to Ethan. Students gathered in clusters, voices low, faces flickering between excitement and nerves, while some were already drunk on victory, others were quiet, holding on to their pride with brittle grins.
Ethan moved through the room, answering questions where he had to, smiling just enough to not stand out, but all he could think about was Donovan. That moment in the alcove. That quiet suspicion.
Donovan hadn't pushed, but he hadn't let go, either.
Eventually, Ethan found Maya near one of the tall windows. She was alone.
Torchlight played off the red in her hair, but there was nothing soft about her stance. Her arms were crossed. Her back stiff. When their eyes met, she looked away fast, her jaw set hard.
She was keeping her distance.
The duel had shaken her. That much was obvious and her magic had slipped. It had gone too far, whatever it revealed, it had spooked her. Now, she was retreating, the way people do when the world punishes them for being seen too clearly.
Ethan stayed back, just watching.
Caught between two quiet storms, one of Donovan's careful watching, and the other of Maya's silent retreat.
Both mattered as both could explode if handled wrong and trying to fix one might just make the other worse.
The party went on without him. Laughter, raised voices, the occasional burst of applause, but it all felt far away.
He was carrying too much, just too much he couldn't explain. Too many lies he had to keep straight.
Every word he spoke felt like it had to be measured. Every glance, every choice.
He wasn't just playing a part, he was living on a thread.
Tonight reminded him just how easy it would be to fall.