The whispers began as the most delicate of rumors, the kind that curled through the Academy's halls like tendrils of smoke. You had to be listening for the specific silence, the hushed, envious tone, to catch them. I was listening.
It started in the advanced combat training pavilion. I was ostensibly studying a text on elemental theory in the observation gallery, a sanctioned, quiet activity that fit perfectly within the "low profile" my father's letter demanded. Below, pairs of students sparred, their movements a dance of controlled force. My gaze, however, wasn't on the flashy spells or elegant swordwork. It was the top-ranked duelist of our year, a viscount's son named Alaric. He was good—naturally gifted, tireless in training—but lately, his victories had taken on a… polished quality.
