Leon didn't sleep.
He closed his eyes for an hour. Maybe less. When the sun cracked over the academy wall, he was already washing dried blood from his hands in the basin behind the dorms. Cold water didn't sting anymore—it just woke him up.
The summons came before breakfast. Another duel.
This time, Serran.
He'd never even spoken to a Serran, but he'd heard the name like thunder—old money, old rank, old blood. They didn't speak much. They didn't need to. Their presence in the academy was an echo of legacy itself.
And now, one of them wanted his head on the sand.
Leon strapped his coat tight, slung the practice sword over his back, and went straight to the South Wing, where the challenge board hung just inside the lecture hall doors.
It was there. Pinned neatly. Wax seal still fresh.
"Leon Thorne vs. Darius Serran – Three days from now. Platform match. No weapon restrictions."
He stared at it. Not with surprise. Just confirmation.
"Looks like they're lining up now."
