The days after the Horror kill were deceptively calm.
Mornings began with drills in the outer fields—rows of students running formations, blades flashing in the sun, the steady rhythm of discipline hammering into their bones. Afternoons bled into lectures on affinity practice, where instructors traced diagrams of elemental flow across chalkboards, their voices dry but their warnings sharp: control your mana, or it will consume you before an enemy ever gets the chance.
Eryndor endured it all. He rose with the bell, trained until his muscles screamed, listened, studied, repeated. The monotony steadied him. It gave his body time to heal, his mind time to sharpen.
And yet, beneath that quiet routine, he felt it—the weight of eyes on his back.
When he sparred with classmates, their movements hesitated just a breath too long. Whispers followed him into the dining hall. Sometimes, when he turned a corner, conversations stopped abruptly, leaving silence that rang louder than words.
At first, he thought it was admiration. The kill, the whispers of his fight with the Horror—of course people would talk. But admiration didn't carry this sharpness. It didn't press against his skin like knives waiting for him to turn his head.
One evening, as the last light bled from the sky, he lingered in the courtyard. The air smelled of steel and sweat from the day's training, but the grounds were empty now. Or so they should have been.
Footsteps echoed faintly. Not approaching. Circling.
Eryndor's hand drifted unconsciously to the hilt of his practice blade. He didn't draw it. Instead, he stood still, eyes half-lidded, letting the rhythm of the steps tell him everything. There was no rush in them, no stumble. Whoever it was, they wanted him to know they were there.
"Cowards," he muttered under his breath.
The footsteps faded into silence, but the tension lingered, curling cold in his gut.
Later, over dinner, Lyanna noticed his quiet. She nudged him lightly, brows knit. "What's wrong with you? You've barely touched your food."
He smirked faintly, though his eyes stayed sharp. "You ever feel like wolves are watching you eat?"
She gave him a strange look but didn't press. She didn't need to. She trusted he'd tell her when the time was right.
But Eryndor didn't intend to. Not yet.
He'd seen it before—back on Earth, in boardrooms and back alleys, in the way men circled prey before striking. Ambition was the same everywhere. The more he grew, the more someone would want to cut him down.
The Horror had taught him monsters came in many shapes. Some wore molten hides. Others wore academy uniforms.
And sooner or later, they would step out of the shadows.