Eric's newfound internal quiet didn't last through the afternoon. It was shattered by a messenger—a harried-looking second-year who found him returning to the dorm.
"Barron? Master Eleanor wants you. Now. Sparring circle three."
A cold knot formed in Eric's stomach. This wasn't scheduled. He'd already had his "extra training" with Silk. "Why?"
The messenger shrugged, already turning away. "Dunno. Someone's sick. You're the filler. Don't keep her waiting."
Sparring circle three was one of the smaller, sand-floored rings, often used for ranked matches or advanced drills. When Eric arrived, the small spectator benches weren't empty. A dozen students, mostly second-years, lounged on them. In the center of the ring stood Eleanor, her arms crossed. And opposite her, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, was Styles.
The lightning mage's smirk was a slash of pure venom across his face. This wasn't a filler match. This was an ambush.
