Damon didn't look back as he approached the maid—Lina, still pale and motionless, clutching a towel.
"Give it here," Damon said flatly.
Her hands trembled, but she offered the cloth without a word. He took it and wiped the rain and sweat from his face with slow, methodical motions. His jaw ached. His wrists throbbed from the relentless strikes. But his grip never loosened.
Nearby, Thorne coughed wetly on the marble, curled in on himself like a broken animal.
Damon finished wiping his face and folded the cloth with deliberate care before tossing it at Thorne's feet.
Instructor Kael finally stepped forward, arms still folded behind his back, gaze lingering not on Thorne, but on Damon.
"Enough for one day," he said quietly. "Lesson's over. All of you—return to your dorms. That includes you, Valtair."
Damon looked at the instructor. "I will. But, Instructor Kael… do you mind if I ask how you hid without us noticing?" His tone was calm, but there was a subtle edge to it—genuine curiosity undercut by the veiled challenge in his gaze. "You and the second-years both. It's almost as if you were... watching from the start."
Kael didn't answer at first.
The rain softened, falling in a gentle rhythm across the marble, muffling the retreating footsteps of the other students. Only the instructors, the second-years, and the bruised weight of silence remained.
Then Kael's lips curled—not into a smile, but something close. A flicker of amusement beneath his usually stony features.
"I wasn't hiding, Valtair. You were too focused to notice." His eyes—cold, storm-gray—met Damon's without blinking. "And that's the point."
He stepped forward, boots splashing softly as he moved past Thorne's crumpled body.
"You think swordplay is about who swings hardest? Who strikes the fastest?" Kael's voice cut through the rain like a drawn blade. "The moment you draw your weapon, half the battle is already lost. The real duel begins the moment your opponent steps onto the field—and sometimes long before that."
He looked to the second-years, who straightened at his glance.
"Every courtyard here has watchers. Second-year squads train in observation and intervention. They knew where to stand, how to listen, how to blend into the marble and the silence." He turned his gaze back to Damon. "And you, Valtair... you were so focused on humiliating Veras, you didn't even notice when half a dozen wolves circled the edge of your bloodsport."
Lady Serina stepped up beside him, her amethyst eyes unreadable. "That was the real lesson," she said. "Not just how to fight—but when you've been marked."
Kael nodded once, then gave Damon a look that wasn't quite approval—but something close.
"You did well. You showed strength, cruelty, and precision. But the next time you let your emotions rule your blade... you might not walk away." Then, as if the moment hadn't happened, he turned to leave.
"Oh," Kael added over his shoulder, tone dry. "And for the record—"
"Bullshit," Damon cut in.
Kael paused mid-step.
"You didn't just blend in," Damon continued, stepping forward, water sloshing underfoot. "I was looking straight at that corner. I saw you ripple into existence. That's not some clever hiding technique."
His eyes narrowed, and a dangerous curiosity flickered behind his smirk.
"So tell me, Instructor…" Damon drew his wooden sword again—not raised, not threatening yet, but pointed just enough to make the meaning clear. "Was that magic?"
Kael turned fully now. The rain had softened to a whisper, but the tension between them crackled like lightning.
"You're smiling," Kael said mildly, ignoring the blade.
Damon's grin widened. "And you're dodging."
Silence reigned for a beat, the second-years watching closely, especially Lady Serina, whose hand subtly drifted to her own sword hilt.
Kael finally spoke.
"I won't insult you with a lie. No, it wasn't magic." He tilted his head slightly. "At least, not by your current definition."
Damon's expression sharpened. "So it was something else."
Kael stepped forward, unbothered by the blade pointed at his chest.
"You've heard of the Sigil Stones?"
Damon didn't lower his sword. "No."
"You wouldn't have," Kael replied—his voice like velvet wrapped around iron. "We don't distribute them until second year. And even then, only to those who've bled for the right. By fourth year, we might teach how to use them—if you're still alive."
His eyes raked Damon up and down.
"And you're not there. Yet."
Damon lowered his sword by a hair. "But I will be."
Kael's lips twitched—somewhere between a smirk and a warning. "I don't doubt it."
He stepped in closer, lowering his voice so only Damon could hear.
"But if you ever raise a blade to me again—even in jest—make damn sure it isn't made of wood."
The weight of the words settled between them. Damon didn't flinch.
But the smile faded.
Then, Kael reached inside his coat and pulled out a small object wrapped in black cloth. He held it out.
Damon stared.
"You're vicious," Kael said. "Reckless. Brutal." He dropped the cloth into Damon's hand. It was heavier than it looked. Still faintly warm.
"I like that."
Damon opened the wrap. Inside was a small, blackened emerald—rough-cut, streaked with crimson veins. It pulsed faintly, like something inside it still breathed.
"A Blood Stone," Kael said. "Horseborn. Fifteen years old when killed. Fast as sin and hard to break. It's yours."
Damon blinked. "Why?"
"Because I'm curious," Kael said, already turning away. "But don't get excited. I won't teach you how to bind it. If you want what's inside it, you'll have to figure out the final part of the ritual yourself. Fail or succeed—that's your problem."
He paused a step away.
"Call it a head start. Or a test. Your choice."
Then he looked back, just once.
"Now go. Cool off. Or next time, I'll show you how real invisibility works—with a blade through your ribs."
And then he was gone—dissolving into the air like mist, along with Thorne and the second-years, as if the rain itself had swallowed them.
Damon stood motionless, staring down at the stone in his hand.
It throbbed like a second heartbeat.
There were secrets buried in this academy.
And he had just been handed the first shovel.
The smirk returned—smaller now, colder. Calculating.
He turned on his heel.
"Lina," he said quietly.
She flinched, still rooted behind him.
He didn't look back.
"To my room. Now."
And like a shadow chasing a storm, she followed.