The morning light streamed through the windows, cutting the air into golden streaks. The smell of freshly baked bread and fresh coffee filled the still-silent house. Damon descended the stairs slowly, his heavy steps betraying his restless sleep. When he reached the kitchen, he found Ester at the table, placing the last slices of bread on a plate.

"Good morning," she said, without looking at him, adjusting the sleeves of her white shirt.

"Good morning," he replied, his voice hoarse. "Do you always wake up before everyone else?"

"Someone needs to keep the house running."

Damon pulled up a chair and sat down. He watched her for a few seconds—her calculated movements, her restrained gaze, her straight posture as if she were always on alert. A slight smile formed on his lips.

"It was a… noisy night," he commented, resting his chin on his hand.

Ester stopped what she was doing for a moment. The sound of the knife against the plate ceased. "Oh, really?"

"Aria isn't usually so… expressive," he said, with an amused tone.

Ester turned slowly, her gaze calm, but there was something dangerous behind the tranquility. "Are you trying to brag about something, Damon?"

He raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "Maybe just testing your patience."

"You're succeeding."

She placed the plate in front of him with a little more force than necessary. Damon chuckled softly, taking a piece of bread.

"You don't need to be jealous," he teased. "There's room for everyone in this house, isn't there?"

Ester crossed her arms, her gaze firm. "I'm not jealous. I just dislike those who confuse discipline with conquest."

"Discipline…" He chewed slowly, still smiling. "You talk as if you were an instructor of the Order." "And you talk too much for someone who should be preparing to go to the Academy."

"Are you always this cold so early in the morning?"

"Only with those who deserve it."

Damon leaned slightly over the table, the smile still present, but his tone now lower, almost a whisper. "Be careful, Ester. One day you might end up liking what you say you hate."

She held his gaze for a moment—long enough for the air between them to feel different. Then, she looked away, picking up the teapot. "Finish your coffee. The Academy instructor won't like seeing a knight late on the very first day."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, still with a half-smile.

When she turned her back, Damon watched her in silence. There was something about her—something that challenged him in a way that Aria never would. It was the kind of tension that didn't need words, only presences that refused to back down.

Aria appeared a few minutes later, still sleepy, her hair messy, dragging her feet. "Are you two already fighting before I even have my coffee?"

"We're not fighting," Ester replied dryly. "We're discussing priorities."

"And Damon is one of them?" Aria asked with a lazy smile.

Ester sighed and replied without hesitation: "He's a responsibility, not a priority."

Damon let out a low laugh. "That almost sounded like a compliment."

"Interpret it however you want," she replied, picking up her coat.

He watched her as she left, the sound of her footsteps echoing down the corridor. Aria sat down opposite him, picking up the bread that Ester had left.

"You really like to provoke her, don't you?"

"She's more fun when she's annoyed."

"You should be careful," Aria said, biting into the bread with a slight smile. "When Ester gets really serious, even the wind changes direction."

Damon laughed, standing up. "We'll see if the wind blows in my favor today."

He picked up his cloak, adjusted his sword at his waist, and looked one last time at the table. "Tell her I'll be back before sunset."

"I will," Aria replied, with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "But I doubt she'll care."

Damon simply smiled, walking out the door.

When it closed, Aria looked at the still steaming coffee in his cup and murmured to herself, smiling, "Oh, she does care. She just hasn't realized it yet."

The morning wind was cold and damp, blowing from the walls of Arven with the smell of iron and wet stone. The streets were beginning to awaken, with the first merchants opening their stalls and the bells of the towers marking the eighth hour of the day. Damon walked in silence, his hood pulled over his head and his gaze fixed on the ground.

The path to the Academy wasn't long, but it passed through the heart of the city—cobblestone streets, narrow bridges over shallow canals, and ancient buildings with banners of the Order fluttering in the windows. Each step reminded him that he was now a part of it, albeit a small and distrustful part.

When the walls of the Academy appeared on the horizon, Damon slowed his pace.

The gate was imposing: two large iron doors ornamented with symbols of a sword and a serpent. Guards in polished armor watched every person who approached. Even without saying a word, their gazes weighed like judgments.

"Identification," one of them said when Damon stopped in front of them.

Damon removed the initiate's emblem attached to his cloak. The knight observed him briefly and nodded. "Main hall, west wing. Instructor Harven will receive you."

Damon entered.

The first impression was the size. The central courtyard of the Academy was vast—training fields divided by low fences, statues of ancient heroes, and banners representing different orders. Young knights trained in groups, the metallic sound of blades echoing like a chaotic melody.

The smell of sweat and dust was familiar, almost comforting.

"Hey, you must be the new recruit from Mirath."

Damon turned around. A middle-aged man with a short beard and a dark uniform approached. He had the watchful gaze of someone who had seen too many battles and the hoarse voice of someone who had been shouting orders for years.

"Harven," he said, extending his hand. "Instructor of the third combat wing. And you must be Damon."

"Yes, sir."

Harven studied him for a moment. "Elizabeth gave good recommendations about you. She said you are... efficient."

Damon simply gave a slight nod.

"Good," Harven continued. "Here, efficiency isn't enough. The Arven Academy doesn't just train fighters. We train symbols. People who represent something greater than themselves. Understood?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. Follow me."

They walked across the courtyard, passing groups practicing duels and magical exercises. Harven spoke as he walked, without slowing his pace.

"Training is divided into three categories: body, mind, and mana. Tests are held weekly. If you fail two in a row, you're out. Simple as that."

"Straightforward."

"That's how it should be."

Harven led him to a space covered by columns, where some students were warming up. "This is the third wing's training ground. You'll train with me and them. Some will like you, others won't. What matters is that you don't break anyone in the first few days. We have few spare swords."

Damon let out a small smile. "I'll try."

The instructor observed him from the side. "Elizabeth said you learned under... unconventional methods. Is that true?"

"It depends on what she told you."

Harven raised an eyebrow. "Let's say she mentioned someone named Caerth."

The name hung in the air for a second, like a suspended blade.

"So it's true," the instructor murmured. "His apprentice survived."

Damon didn't answer. He simply adjusted the glove on his left hand, where a small scar marked his wrist.

Harven sighed. "I don't know what she intends by putting you here, but if it's half of what they say, it's going to be trouble."

"I tend to make that kind of impression."

"Great. You'll fit right in."

The two parted ways shortly after. Damon was introduced to the other students—young faces, curious eyes. Some greeted him respectfully, others with suspicion. He didn't care.

When the activities began, Damon followed the instructions without question. Running, stances, basic strikes. Movements that, to him, seemed like child's play. Still, he executed everything with precision, remaining discreet.

But it didn't take long for him to attract attention.

During a sparring exercise, one of the more senior students—a blond young man with an arrogant expression—decided to "test" him.

"I heard you came from Mirath," the young man said, spinning his training sword. "A cold place. You must have learned to defend yourself against wolves, not people."

Damon simply raised his blade. "Want to find out?"

The blow came quickly, but predictably. Damon dodged with a side step and, in an almost lazy movement, made his opponent lose his balance. The young man fell to his knees, and before he realized what had happened, the tip of Damon's sword was already resting on his shoulder.

Harven, who had been watching from a distance, crossed his arms and nodded slightly.

"Mirath, huh?" he said. "Cold, but lethal."

The suppressed laughter of the others filled the field. Damon, however, simply stepped back and sheathed his sword, returning to the line without saying a word.

The rest of the training proceeded in silence.

At the end of the morning, Harven approached again. "Good performance. Keep up this pace and you'll advance quickly."

"I'm not in a hurry."

"You should be. Here, those who advance slowly end up crushed by those who are hungry for power."

Damon looked at him for a moment. "And those who are too hungry often starve before they reach the top."

Harven gave a slight smile. "Caerth would say something like that."

Damon didn't reply. He simply gathered his cloak and began walking towards the exit of the courtyard. The sun was already high, and the heat reflected off the white stones.

As he passed through the gate, he heard some students murmuring about him—"the newcomer from Mirath," "Caerth's apprentice," "the man who never misses a blow."

Damon ignored them all.

Outside, the wind began to blow again, bringing the distant scent of the city. He pulled his hood back up and walked along the narrow streets, his thoughts far away.

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