The sun had barely cleared the horizon when Edran stepped onto the stone-paved courtyard of the Crowns Academy. Dawn mist clung to the ground in curling ribbons, drifting between the training pillars and low hedges like sluggish spirits reluctant to leave the night. His steps were unhurried, but his eyes were sharp, sweeping over the familiar grounds with a faint frown.
Something felt different.
Not the obvious kind of change—no banners, no grand announcements—but a subtle shift in the air. It was the way the guards at the main gate stood a little straighter, their eyes lingering on passing students longer than usual. It was the clusters of instructors, speaking in low voices that cut off when anyone walked too close. Even the wind seemed to carry whispers.
Edran adjusted the strap of his satchel. The cool glass of the vial within brushed his ribs, and his mind drifted to the Dean's private study the night before—the low light, the scent of old parchment and ink, the weight of the Dean's gaze as he placed the vial of Azure Dragon Dew in Edran's palm.
> "Do not waste this gift. The path ahead will demand more from you than you think you have to give."
He hadn't uncorked it yet. That kind of treasure wasn't something to use lightly.
---
Instructor Budge was already on the martial platform, watching the early risers drill. A tall, iron-shouldered man with streaks of grey in his hair, he wore a dark training robe that had clearly seen its share of battlefields before it ever saw a classroom. His expression was as flat as the edge of a whetstone.
"You're early," Budge said without looking up as Edran passed. "Either you're eager… or restless."
"Restless," Edran admitted.
Budge's mouth twitched into something that might have been a smirk. "Good. Restless swords don't rust."
---
Further down the walkway, Instructor Seris stood outside the formations hall, a rolled-up scroll under one arm. She was younger than most instructors—late twenties, perhaps—with sharp hazel eyes that missed nothing. Students often underestimated her for her looks, but the last person to make that mistake spent the next week dismantling and reassembling a defensive array until his fingers bled.
She caught Edran's gaze as he passed. "Morning, prodigy," she said in a tone that was half-teasing, half-measuring. Then, in a lower voice, "Keep your ears open. Several students… transferred out yesterday. No notice. No farewells."
Edran slowed, brows drawing together. "Transferred? Or disappeared?"
Seris tilted her head. "Depends who you ask. Just… don't walk the eastern wall at night." She left it at that, disappearing into the formations hall before he could press further.
---
The scent of crushed herbs drifted from the alchemy wing, drawing him toward Master Orlun's garden. The elderly herbalist sat on a low stool, trimming the leaves of a glowing moonroot plant. His beard was a thick, snowy curtain, and his hands—though knotted with age—moved with meticulous precision.
Orlun glanced up. "Back from glory already, are you?" His gaze dropped briefly to Edran's satchel, and for a moment his eyes sharpened like a hawk's. Then he looked away, returning to his pruning. "Some treasures… sing even when hidden. Keep it quiet, boy. Not all ears here are friendly."
Edran inclined his head. "I understand."
---
In the training hall, Edran went through his morning drills. His movements were crisp, efficient—no wasted flourishes. He avoided pushing his limits too far; the Azure Dragon Dew would be most effective if he used it at the right bottleneck, not squandered on routine practice.
That was when Cain Fall entered.
The air seemed to bend around him—not visibly, but perceptibly, like a shift in pressure before a storm. His steps were deliberate, the heel of each boot clicking against the polished floor. A faint smirk tugged at his lips, but it wasn't the easy arrogance Edran had seen before the tournament. This was different. Sharper. Hungrier.
Edran's eyes narrowed.
Cain didn't approach him directly this time. Instead, he moved to an empty sparring circle and began striking the practice dummies. His blows were too strong for someone who hadn't broken into the Foundation Realm—stone cracked where wood should have merely dented. An almost imperceptible wisp of darkness curled from his knuckles as he drew back from one strike, gone before anyone else seemed to notice.
Across the hall, Veylan's gaze flicked toward Cain, lingered for a heartbeat, then shifted away. If the instructor had seen what Edran saw, he wasn't showing it.
---
The rest of the day passed under that quiet, watchful tension.
During a formations exercise, Seris leaned close enough that her voice wouldn't carry. "Your friend over there," she murmured, tilting her chin toward Cain, "has a new edge to him. Edges cut… or they break."
Edran said nothing, though his grip on the chalk stick tightened slightly.
---
That evening, long after the sun had dipped below the rooftops, Edran left Master Orlun's workroom. The old herbalist had kept him late discussing the properties of rare spirit herbs, his hands moving like clockwork as he prepared tinctures.
The academy was quieter at night. Shadows stretched long between the lampposts, and the air carried a faint metallic chill. Edran's steps echoed softly on the stone path.
Then Cain stepped from behind one of the pillars, blocking his way.
His eyes gleamed in the dim light, and his smile was all teeth. "You've been busy," he said.
Edran didn't break stride. "Move."
Cain's hand shot out—not a full attack, just a casual palm strike toward Edran's chest. But the moment their arms met, Edran felt it: a strange, invasive force riding Cain's strike. It wasn't simply spiritual energy; it was thicker, almost oily, and it pressed against his guard with a cold, needling persistence.
Edran deflected, stepping back into a balanced stance. His gaze sharpened. "What did you—"
"Next time," Cain interrupted, his grin widening, "you won't stop it."
He turned and walked away, shadows seeming to cling to him a moment longer than they should.
Edran stood in the empty path, the Dean's warning echoing in his mind.
The path ahead will demand more from you than you think you have to give.
And for the first time since the tournament, he felt the truth of those words settle like ice in his veins.