Leon spent the next three days training harder than he ever had before.
Mornings with Aren, drilling sword forms until his muscles screamed. Afternoons with his mother's senior mage, learning to hold ice longer, shape it better. Evenings alone in his room, practicing Frost Edge until the technique became second nature.
**[Skill Level Up: Swordsmanship, Lv 5 → Lv 6]**
**[Skill Level Up: Neve Family Technique: Frost Edge, Lv 2 → Lv 3]**
**[Skill Level Up: Ice Affinity, Lv 1 → Lv 2]**
The notifications came steadily. Leon dismissed each one and kept pushing.
But tonight, he had a different purpose.
The Winter Ball was being held in the grand ballroom. Every major house in the northern territories had sent representatives. His father called it tradition. Leon called it politics dressed in silk.
He stood near the refreshment table, watching the crowd. Nobles laughed and danced, their expensive clothes glittering under mage-light chandeliers. Everyone was friendly. Everyone was smiling.
Someone in this room wanted him dead.
Leon had been thinking about his mother's question. What had changed three weeks ago? His birthday, yes. But that alone wasn't enough. Hundreds of noble children turned thirteen every year. Why specifically target him?
He watched House Crystalline's delegation. Lady Frost was here with her son, a boy around Leon's age. They kept their distance from the Neve family, polite but cool.
House Bergman had sent their youngest daughter. She was dancing with one of the minor lords, her laugh carrying across the room.
House Valemont. House Thornhall. House Ironwood.
All here. All watching each other with careful eyes.
Leon grabbed a cup of cider and made his way through the crowd. He'd learned something in the past few days. People talked more freely around children. They assumed he wasn't paying attention.
He was always paying attention.
"The Neve boy is coming along nicely," someone said behind a marble pillar. Leon slowed his steps, staying out of sight.
"Which one? The heir?"
"No, the third son. Leon. Earned his Swordsman class at thirteen. They say he's got his father's tactical mind."
"Dangerous combination with the Neve bloodline."
Leon recognized the second voice. Lord Harwin from House Ashford. A minor house, barely worth his father's notice.
"The Ashfords shouldn't worry about the Neve children," the first voice said. Leon still couldn't place it. "Focus on your own prospects."
"I'm simply observing. The political landscape shifts with each generation."
Leon moved on before they noticed him. The conversation was interesting but not useful. Everyone knew House Neve produced talented children. That wasn't new information.
He found a quiet alcove overlooking the ballroom floor and pulled up his Status screen, pretending to be bored like any other teenager forced to attend adult events.
But he wasn't looking at his stats. He was watching reflections in the screen's transparent surface, using it like a mirror to observe the room.
There. House Mordain's delegation.
Lord Marcus Mordain stood with his wife near the far wall. Their son was with them. Damian Mordain. Also thirteen. Also recently earned his first class.
Leon had met Damian twice before at formal events. Quiet. Serious. Good with a spear, from what he'd heard.
As Leon watched, Lord Marcus leaned down to whisper something to his son. Damian's eyes flicked across the room, landing directly on Leon.
The boy's expression didn't change. But something in his gaze felt cold.
Leon dismissed his Status screen and moved to a different position, keeping his movements casual. He grabbed another cup from a passing servant, smiled at Lady Thornhall as she passed, every inch the polite young noble.
But his mind was working.
House Mordain. Western territories. Old bloodline, respectable power. Their lands sat far from House Neve — different climate, different tradition, different ambitions. Their specialty was shadow magic, the opposite of ice. Where the Neves were direct and visible, the Mordains were subtle and hidden.
And Damian was the same age as Leon. The same position. Third son of a major house.
Leon found a servant he recognized. One of the older men who'd worked in the keep for years.
"Excuse me," Leon said quietly. "Do you know much about House Mordain?"
The servant bowed slightly. "Some, young master. What would you like to know?"
"Their heir. What's he like?"
"Lord Damian? Serious boy. Talented with shadow magic, they say. Earned his Reaper class recently."
"Reaper?"
"Aye. Rare class for one so young. Requires mastery of both spear work and shadow techniques." The servant lowered his voice. "There's talk he might surpass his older brothers. Some say Lord Marcus is grooming him as the true heir."
Leon felt something click in his mind. "Even though he's third born?"
"Even so. The Mordains value skill over birth order. If Damian proves himself superior, the inheritance could shift."
Leon thanked the servant and moved away, his thoughts racing.
Third son with exceptional talent. Potential to become heir despite birth order. In a house that valued merit over tradition.
Leon was the same. Third son of House Neve. But his family didn't work like that. Aren was the heir, groomed since birth. Leon's talents didn't threaten that succession.
Unless someone thought they did.
He found another alcove and thought it through.
If House Mordain saw Leon as a threat, it wouldn't be about current power. It would be about future potential. Two thirteen-year-olds, both talented, both from houses with reach. In twenty years they would be at the height of their influence — Neve controlling the northern territories, Mordain the western ones. Adjacent ambitions had a way of becoming competing ones.
But only if Leon lived that long.
Leon watched Damian across the ballroom. The boy was talking to his father, his expression neutral. He looked harmless. Just another noble heir learning politics.
But if Lord Marcus thought Leon might become a problem in the future, removing him now would be smart. Clean. Before Leon grew strong enough to be a real obstacle.
It made sense. Cold, calculated sense.
Leon needed proof.
He spent the next hour circulating, listening, watching. House Mordain kept their distance from the Neves, but that wasn't unusual. Most houses maintained polite separation at these events.
But then Leon saw it.
Lord Marcus was talking to Lord Ashford. The same Lord Ashford who'd been discussing Leon earlier. They spoke quietly, heads close together. After a moment, Lord Ashford nodded and moved away.
Minutes later, Lord Ashford approached Leon's father. They exchanged pleasantries, then Lord Ashford mentioned something about training facilities, future prospects, the next generation.
And Duke Aldric's expression shifted. Just slightly. A subtle tension around his eyes.
Leon couldn't hear the conversation from where he stood. But he could read his father's body language. The Duke was being careful. Guarded.
Lord Ashford was fishing for information about Leon.
And House Mordain had sent him to do it.
Leon felt cold certainty settle in his chest. Not proof that would stand in court. Not evidence he could bring to his mother. But enough for him to know.
House Mordain had tried to kill him.
They'd failed.
And they were still watching, still planning, still waiting for another opportunity.
Leon could tell his parents. His mother would investigate. His father would confront Lord Marcus. It would become a political incident, possibly even lead to conflict between the houses.
Or Leon could keep this to himself.
He thought about Damian. About the way the boy had looked at him earlier. Cold. Assessing. Like Leon was a problem to be solved.
Fine.
Let them think he was oblivious. Let them think the assassination attempt had been some random threat, unconnected to them. Let them underestimate him.
Leon would remember. He'd train. He'd grow stronger.
And someday, when he was ready, he'd make sure House Mordain understood exactly what kind of obstacle they'd tried to remove.
The ball continued around him. Music played. Nobles danced and laughed.
Leon smiled politely, played his part, and filed away every detail about the Mordains he could observe.
His Status screen pulsed.
**[New Skill Acquired: Political Awareness, Lv 1]**
Leon dismissed the notification without reading it fully. He didn't need the System to tell him he was learning how power really worked.
He was thirteen years old.
Someone had tried to poison him.
And now he knew who.
The knowledge settled in his chest like ice. Cold. Patient. Waiting.
---
Later that night, after the ball ended and the guests departed, Leon stood at his window watching the last carriages leave. The Mordain carriage was near the end of the procession, their shadow-black horses pulling it into the darkness.
Damian sat visible through the window. As the carriage passed beneath Leon's window, the boy looked up.
Their eyes met for just a moment.
Then Damian smiled. Small. Knowing.
And Leon understood. Damian knew. Maybe not that Leon had figured it out, but he knew about the assassination attempt. He might have even suggested it.
This wasn't just House Mordain eliminating a future threat.
This was personal.
Two thirteen-year-olds, both talented, both ambitious, both seeing each other as obstacles to their future.
Leon didn't smile back. He just watched until the carriage disappeared into the night.
Then he turned to his desk and pulled out a blank journal.
On the first page, he wrote a single name.
*Damian Mordain.*
Underneath it, he began making notes. Everything he knew. Everything he'd observed. Every detail that might matter someday.
His Status screen pulsed.
**[New Achievement Tracked: Identify Your Enemy]**
**[Progress: 1/1]**
**[INT: D → C-]**
Leon felt the change immediately. His mind felt sharper, clearer. The C rank was different from the lower tiers. Once you reached C, the System started measuring in finer increments. C-, C, C+. Then the same for B and A ranks. It meant progress became harder to measure, but also more meaningful. Each step mattered more.
He dismissed the notification and stared at the journal.
This wasn't over.
It had barely begun.