"You're seriously letting him spar?"
Torran Durell's voice carried across the training grounds like an insult wrapped in velvet. He stood with his arms loosely crossed, flanked by two other noble heirs who didn't bother to hide their amusement. Their crests glinted proudly on tailored uniforms, their lineage etched into every polished inch of them.
Master Renna didn't respond. She simply called Kael forward with a flick of her hand.
He stepped into the ring.
The murmurs started immediately, quiet enough to be deniable, sharp enough to cut. Someone snorted behind a gauntlet. Another coughed the word "Zero" like it was a joke that never got old.
Kael didn't look at any of them. His gaze stayed fixed ahead.
Not far off, Naya Elreth stood beneath the shade of the colonnade, her two closest friends whispering by her side. One of them tilted her head toward Kael and smiled in that way noble girls sometimes did when they wanted to be cruel without admitting it.
Naya didn't join in, but she didn't say anything either.
She just watched.
"Pair him with Soren," Torran called lazily.
Soren Valcyr cracked his knuckles and stepped forward, the swagger in his stride unmistakable. "Try not to embarrass yourself, peasant," he muttered, just loud enough for Kael to hear.
Kael said nothing.
The match began.
He moved slowly, deliberately unremarkable. His blocks were off by a breath. His footing uncertain. He didn't dodge the first punch. Or the second.
The crowd responded just as expected—half-hearted laughter, a few groans of boredom.
But Kael wasn't paying attention to them.
He was listening to the hum beneath the soil. The flicker beneath his skin. The rune was awake again, not blazing, not roaring—just there. Waiting. Ready.
His palm scraped the dirt. The rune pulsed faintly under his skin.
He forced it back down.
Not yet.
Another hit. Another fall. The taste of blood.
Still, he stood.
He didn't swing. Didn't defend well. But he didn't break. And after the third round, the laughter began to die down.
Soren looked vaguely annoyed now. Not because Kael was a threat—because he refused to play the role properly.
"Enough," said Master Renna. "Winner: Valcyr."
No surprise.
Kael stepped out of the ring without a word.
The instructors offered him no scorn. No encouragement either. Just mild disinterest, like a tool that hadn't functioned but hadn't quite failed.
Except for one.
Professor Lioren stood beneath a stone archway near the edge of the field, his arms crossed inside deep gray sleeves. He said nothing. Made no move.
But as Kael passed him, their eyes met.
Lioren's gaze lingered—measured, thoughtful, almost detached. And then he turned and walked away without a sound.
That night, Kael sat in the far corner of the old library, lit by a single flickering candle.
He opened his notebook and drew the rune again, slowly, tracing each line with care.
It didn't burn this time.
It shimmered, faint and steady.
Kael leaned back in his chair, watching it glow.
No one noticed him today.
And that was good.
Let them keep underestimating him.
The storm would come. But not with noise.
It would come quiet, slow, and deliberate.
Just like him.