"That is false," Abnet said gently. "I saw it the first day. You fight like someone counting down a clock only you can hear."
Lucian let out a rough breath. "I want to improve. There is nothing complicated about that."
"There always is," Abnet said. "Skill born from hunger grows crooked. Yours grows fast yet bends at the root."
Lucian stared at the floor. The stone's surface had faint scratches from past sessions. He imagined how many students had stood here, each with their own storms. His vision flickered at the edges again. A small warning from the pact.
"I do not have the patience to drag myself for years," he said. "I have too many enemies and too little time."
Abnet nodded once. "Better. A truth."
Lucian looked away. "I need to be strong enough that nothing can touch me. I want to end that constant feeling."
Abnet drank the last of his cup. "Fear."
Lucian tensed. "Call it something else."
