Swordsmanship practice was held on the eastern field, where the ground was always a little dusty and the air always smelled faintly of sweat and iron. I arrived early, mostly because Sigurd insisted, but also because I wanted to avoid Cassian.
Naturally, he was already there.
The moment his eyes landed on me, that smug, insufferable smirk curved across his mouth. He lifted his practice sword and tapped it against his shoulder with a flourish like he was posing for a portrait.
"Well, well," Cassian mused, loud enough for half the class to hear. "Look who crawled out of the infirmary. I was beginning to think my little love tap did you in."
Jerry, curled loosely around my upper arm, hissed. "How has he not been expelled?"
"I don't know," I muttered. "Corruption? Blackmail? The universe punishing me personally?"
Sigurd poked his plush head out of my pocket. "Who is that pompous melon?"
"That," I said, exhaling sharply, "is Cassian Thorne. Future duke. Fiancée to the princess. A menace to swordsmanship and common decency."
Sigurd sniffed. "He carries himself like a spoiled donkey who's been given two legs and a haircut." Then louder—"And the least noble presence I've sensed today."
Cassian didn't hear him, but I wished he had.
The professor, a graying man with a stern brow and eyes sharp enough to cut steel, called the class to order. "We begin with basics. Stances. Footwork. Grip. If you cannot handle those, you have no business holding a blade."
His voice carried the authority of someone who'd survived more battles than he cared to recount.
We followed along. Most students were already familiar with formal stances; their lines were crisp, movements clean, a kind of organized beauty I'd never seen in fighting. My style had always been different—born from necessity, shaped in darkness, meant for survival and killing, not artistry.
After drills, the professor clapped his hands. "Pair up."
Instantly, the class scattered.
Not a single person even looked in my direction.
Cressia, a noble girl from Castimonia, physically stepped back when our eyes met. Two boys from Laetitia whispered something, glanced at me, and bolted toward the opposite end of the arena. Even Alya—sweet Alya—was already paired up, giving me an apologetic wince and tiny wave.
Cassian caught my eye purposely, then dramatically turned his back, pairing up with another noble with a loud, mocking laugh.
I exhaled. "Well. That's flattering."
"You fight like a wild animal," Jerry reminded me cheerfully.
Sigurd thumped my sternum with his plush fist. "This is why you need me. Your raw talent is admirable but your form is horrendous."
"Thank you," I muttered.
The professor's shadow fell over me. "Looks like it's you and me, Miss Mavis."
Ah. Perfect.
I nodded, gripping my sword.
He didn't wait.
His attack came fast and sharp, and I barely managed to intercept the blow before his foot swept my leg out from under me. I hit the ground with a solid thud.
"Up."
I scrambled to my feet.
He struck again.
And again.
And again.
Each time, I held my ground a little longer—but he always found the opening. A sloppy guard. A misplaced step. An overextension. When he finally knocked the sword from my hand entirely, he stepped back and lowered his blade.
"Good," he said simply. "You're decent."
"Decent?" I wheezed, bent over, trying to catch my breath.
"Decent for someone who learned to fight in the streets, I assume."
"Not… streets," I muttered.
He ignored that. "Your style is effective, but only in chaos. You lack structure. Balance. Intent." He pointed his sword at my feet. "Your footwork alone is going to get you killed. Fix that, and you might actually stand a chance in a real duel."
My cheeks burned—not with shame, but with determination.
I bowed my head slightly. "Yes, instructor."
The professor's eyes softened, just barely. "You have more potential than I expected. But potential means nothing without discipline. Come early tomorrow. I'll teach you properly."
Then he moved on, leaving me stunned.
Jerry whistled. "He likes you."
"That was him liking me?" I asked, rubbing my ribs.
"He didn't call you a disgrace to humanity," Sigurd pointed out. "Which, frankly, is the nicest thing anyone has said to you in swordsmanship so far."
Cassian, across the field, saw me looking and lifted his sword mockingly as if to say try not to embarrass yourself next time.
His smirk made something twist inside me—not rage exactly, but a promise. A quiet one.
I wasn't anywhere close to beating him.
Not yet.
But I would be.
Sigurd hopped onto my shoulder. "You'll surpass him soon enough. His arrogance is his weakness. Your humility is your strength."
"That," Jerry added, "and you won't hesitate to hit below the belt."
I smiled faintly. "Only when deserved."
"When is it not deserved?" Jerry countered.
Fair point.
The practice wrapped up shortly after—students leaving in pairs, laughing and chatting among themselves. Alya waved at me from across the field, mouthing, "You did great!" which made the ache in my ribs feel a little less awful.
Cassian shot one last snide look my way before disappearing with his crowd of sycophants.
But I barely noticed.
Because for the first time since joining the academy, I knew exactly what I needed to do.
The professor was right.
I was raw.
Untamed.
Unrefined.
But I wasn't weak.
Not anymore.
And tomorrow—at sunrise—I'd be here again.
Ready to learn properly.
Ready to become strong enough to reclaim everything I'd lost.
And to face everything waiting for me.
Even if the gods themselves stood in my way.