The familiar, cold flagstones of the training courtyard did not offer their usual grim comfort. Tonight, the heavy weight of the training sword in my hands felt different. It was no longer just the weight of steel, but the weight of a dirty secret.
I began my nightly ritual, calling upon the echoes of my humiliation. My body moved, parrying the ghost of Damien's blade, but my mind was elsewhere. It was filled with the image of three students laughing, of a helping hand on a struggling friend's shoulder, of a bond forged in mutual effort, not in a cold hierarchy of power.
My movements were sloppy. My focus, which I had fought so hard to cultivate, was shattered. Every time I parried a phantom strike, my mind screamed at me: This strength you are building, who will it serve? Will you use this sword to protect, or will you use it to clear a path for Damien's evil?
The self-loathing was a bitter acid in my throat. I stumbled, the echo of a low sweep playing out in my mind a half-second before my feet tangled, sending me to one knee. I stayed there, breathing heavily, the tip of my sword resting on the stone.
What was I doing? Was I just a coward, training in secret while actively helping a villain plot the downfall of a good person?
A cold, sharp clarity cut through my despair. What was the alternative? Refuse Damien and die? That would help no one. Leonidas and his friends would still be in Damien's sights, and I would be a forgotten corpse.
No. Weakness was not an option. Hesitation was not an option. The only path forward was to become so strong that Damien's orders became suggestions, not commands. The only way to protect anyone was to accumulate enough power to have a choice.
A new, desperate fire burned away my self-pity. My focus returned, sharper and more intense than ever before, fueled by this new and terrible purpose. I was no longer just fighting for my own survival. I was fighting for the chance to protect the very people I was tasked to betray.
I got back to my feet and began the drill again. This time, my movements were sharper. When I replayed the memory of Damien's two-strike combination—a feint to the left followed by a quick thrust to the chest—I didn't just parry the first strike. For the first time, my body, guided by a flicker of instinct forged in endless repetition, managed to flow from the first block into a clumsy, but successful, second one. I had defended against the combo. The success, small as it was, felt like a defiant scream against my fate.
After my sword practice, I settled into my Mana Breathing meditation. Usually, my goal was to quiet my mind, but tonight, I used the calm to think. The end of the week was approaching. I needed to prepare my report for Damien.
My options were a minefield.
I could tell him the complete truth: that Leonidas's greatest weakness is his deep, fierce loyalty to his two commoner friends, Thomas and Mara. I could give him their names, their schedules, and the key to emotionally blackmailing the hero. This was the easiest path for my own survival, and the thought of it made me want to vomit.
I could lie and say I found nothing. This was a suicidal path. Damien was too perceptive. He would see the lie in my eyes, and even if he didn't, he surely had other sources. Being caught in a direct lie about a direct order would be the end of me.
There had to be a third option. A way to navigate the treacherous space between the truth and a lie. Information was a weapon, and like any weapon, it could be aimed. I didn't have to give him the whole truth. I could give him a version of it—a carefully crafted report that was factually accurate but strategically misleading.
The plan formed in my mind, a delicate and dangerous piece of subterfuge. I would tell Damien that Leonidas spends his free time training. I would mention that he does so with two other, less-talented commoner students. But I would frame it not as a bond of strength and loyalty, but as a flaw in his ambition. I would present it as Leonidas foolishly wasting his precious time and energy on hopeless cases, held back by a sentimental attachment to his commoner roots.
It would make Leonidas seem naive, not noble. It would make his friends seem like distractions, not leverage. I would omit their names and the true depth of their bond. It was a report that was true in every detail, yet it painted an entirely different picture. It was a gamble that relied on Damien's own aristocratic prejudice. He was more likely to see a commoner helping other commoners as a sign of a limited, provincial mindset than as a source of profound power.
The next day, to make my report more credible, I needed to confirm their names. I couldn't just know them from the novel. I went to the Grand Hall, where a massive, enchanted board listed the rosters for all academy classes and clubs. Under the guise of checking my own schedule, I scanned the lists for first-year students.
There they were. Leonidas val Aris. Thomas Fell. Mara Stonecroft.
Seeing their names written in elegant, glowing script made them terrifyingly real. They weren't just characters anymore. They were my responsibility. My secret, unwilling wards. Seeing their names solidified my resolve. I would not let them become footnotes in Damien's cruel story.
That evening, I did not wait for Damien's summons. I went to his door and knocked. It was a subtle power play, a way of showing the initiative he claimed to value. When he let me in, his golden eyes were sharp with inquiry.
I stood before him, my posture deferential but my mind a fortress. I had my weapon loaded. My carefully crafted report was ready. And as I prepared to speak, I knew I was taking my first real step in this deadly game. I was no longer just a piece on the board. I was trying to become a player.