The air shifted.
It wasn't like before—with cheering or noise. In fact, it was the opposite. A kind of hush settled over the arena, thick and heavy, like the atmosphere right before a storm breaks.
Leona—or Leon, as the roster read—stood tall. Unmoving.
She wore a standard combat uniform. No ornamentation. No flair. Her short, dark-hair was slicked back, and her gaze was… focused. Not cold, not arrogant. Just precise.
She wasn't trying to intimidate.
She didn't need to.
Across from her, standing at the far edge of the arena, was Professor Reddin—the same instructor who oversaw close-quarters training in second year.
Tall, lean, and deceptively laid-back… until he wasn't. Reddin was known for his brutal counterattacks and relentless pressure. A lot of cadets considered him sadistic. They weren't wrong.
But even he wasn't smiling.
Across from him, Leona gripped her sword—Frostveil.
She didn't look tense.
She didn't look fired up, either.
Just… calm.
Focused.
