The wind carried the distant sound of the bells from the towers and the salty smell coming from the canals. Damon walked in silence, his footsteps echoing between the wet stone alleys. The training was over, but his body still pulsed with the memory of the movements—each blow, each dodge, each suspicious glance.

He felt the eyes on him, not only from the students, but from the instructors as well. The fame of Mirath, of Caerth, and especially the name of Elizabeth preceded him like a shadow that never left him.

Arriving at the main square, he stopped in front of a small fountain where children were playing. For a moment, he watched his reflection in the water—his own tired face, his eyes still marked by sleepless nights.

"Six months…", he murmured, remembering the conversation with Ester and Aria.

To him, it seemed like an eternity. But what Elizabeth intended required patience. And he owed that to her—or perhaps to himself.

The sound of footsteps pulled him from his thoughts.

"You don't seem happy to be at the best academy in the kingdom."

It was a feminine voice, light but firm. Damon turned and saw a young woman with light brown hair and a gray Academy cloak. She carried a grimoire under her arm and a gaze that was too curious for his liking.

"It depends on what you call 'best'," he replied.

She smiled slightly. "I'm Lyra. Mana and Strategy Wing. And you're the newcomer from Mirath… the so-called 'disciple of the ghost'."

"Ghost?"

"Caerth," she said, raising an eyebrow. "That's what they call him here. They say he disappeared in the middle of a war and was never seen again. You were his apprentice, right?"

Damon stared at her for a moment before answering: "I was."

Lyra studied him, as if trying to decipher something in his features. "Interesting. Most of the students here are afraid to even mention that name. But you seem too calm for someone carrying that burden."

"Maybe I've just gotten used to the weight."

She gave a small, somewhat enigmatic smile. "Then you'll do well here. The Academy likes those who know how to feign lightness while sinking."

Before he could answer, she gave a slight nod and walked away, disappearing among the students. Damon watched her go, intrigued.

"Feigning lightness…" he murmured, repeating her words as if tasting the phrase.

As the sun began to set, he returned home. The air was colder, and the streets were covered in a thin mist rising from the canals. As he opened the door, he smelled the aroma of dinner and heard voices in the living room.

Aria was sitting on the sofa, laughing at something Ester was saying while sewing a hem. As soon as they saw him, the laughter subsided, but the atmosphere between the three seemed strangely natural.

"Back in one piece," Aria commented, resting her chin on her hand. "I thought the Academy would break you on the first day."

"They came close," he replied, taking off his cloak and hanging it up. "But I'm still breathing."

Ester looked up for just a moment. "Did Harven speak to you?"

"He did. He said Elizabeth sent good recommendations."

"That's true." Ester made a small stitch in her sewing before continuing. "She believes you'll attract attention—which isn't necessarily good."

"I've already started attracting it. Some idiot thought he could challenge me."

Aria laughed. "And did you leave him conscious?"

"For now."

Ester sighed, but a slight trace of satisfaction crossed her face. "As long as you don't overdo it, it's fine. The last thing we need is you attracting orders before the time is right."

Damon walked to the table and served himself some of the stew. The silence that followed was comfortable, broken only by the clinking of cutlery and the soft sound of the fire.

"And Elizabeth?" he asked suddenly. "Any news?"

Ester and Aria exchanged a quick glance, the kind of look that says more than words.

"Nothing official," Ester replied. "But her shadows are moving."

"Shadows?"

"Messengers, spies, agents. Call them what you will. Elizabeth is preparing something big."

"And you know what?"

"Not yet," Aria said, leaning forward. "But we've heard she's gathering ancient manuals, lost techniques… things that no one should have access to."

Damon chewed in silence. "She's always been like that. When she wants something, she spares no expense."

"Nor morality," Ester added coldly.

He smiled wryly. "That's why she's dangerous."

"And that's why she chose you," Ester replied.

Damon looked up at her. For a brief moment, the air seemed thicker, charged with something unspoken. Aria watched in silence, a half-smile on her face—the kind of smile of someone who knows there's something burning beneath the surface.

"Perhaps," he said, standing up. "But even someone dangerous needs allies."

"Or weapons," Ester replied.

"It depends on who holds the blade."

He turned away, going to the window. Night had already fallen, and the moon was rising between the clouds, reflecting in the dark waters of the canal.

Behind him, the two women remained silent. Ester returned to her sewing, although her gaze was fixed on Damon. Aria, on the other hand, leaned back and murmured softly:

"If you keep this up, Ester, you'll end up dreaming about him."

Ester didn't answer, but the thread in her hands snapped at that very moment.

Damon turned, intrigued by the sound, but Aria only smiled. "Nothing much. The tension of the thread."

He nodded and went up the stairs, unaware of the gaze that followed him until he disappeared upstairs.

When the sound of his footsteps faded, Aria commented, with the lazy tone of someone who teases for fun:

"You could disguise it better."

"Disguise what?"

"The fact that you're starting to care."

Ester slowly exhaled, resuming her sewing. "He's a mission. Nothing more."

Aria gave a short laugh. "Sure. And I believe in politicians' promises too."

From upstairs, the sound of a window opening let the wind in.

The morning light filtered through the curtains, revealing particles of dust dancing in the air like tiny golden fragments. The distant sound of bells and hurried footsteps in the streets indicated the beginning of another day in Arven. Damon slowly opened his eyes, his body still heavy, his muscles aching from the previous day's training. He lay there for a few seconds, staring at the wooden ceiling. The memory of Lyra's voice echoed in his mind—"The Academy likes those who know how to feign lightness while sinking."

A weary smile appeared on his lips. "Feigning lightness, huh?" he murmured. "I learned that a long time ago."

He got up, putting on his dark shirt and adjusting the strap that held his sword to his back. The cold air coming through the window carried the smell of the canals and the murmur of the waking city. As he went down the stairs, he found Aria leaning against the window, watching the street.

"You woke up early today," he commented.

She turned, smiling. "And you woke up late. Ester left half an hour ago. She went to the market to buy some things."

Damon raised an eyebrow. "Alone?"

"She said she needed some air. I think last night left her... thoughtful."

He took an apple from the fruit bowl and bit into it slowly. "Thoughtful, or irritated?"

"Maybe a little of both." Aria watched him for a moment, then added: "You like to provoke reactions, don't you?"

Damon shrugged. "It's better than silence."

"Be careful what you awaken, Damon," she said in a playful tone, but her eyes had a glint that bordered on a warning. "Ester isn't easy to deal with when she decides to feel something."

"Neither am I."

Aria chuckled softly. "Yes, I noticed."

The sound of the door opening interrupted the conversation. Ester entered, her hair tied back and a light coat over her shoulders. She carried a basket with fruit and some rolled-up scrolls. When she saw Damon, she simply nodded in greeting.

"I see you survived your first night at the Academy," she said, placing the basket on the table.

"Barely."

"Then I hope you have enough energy to repeat the feat today."

"More orders, Captain?" Esther gave him a quick glance, but her lips betrayed a hint of a smile. "Just a word of advice. Harven likes to test the newcomers. And I heard there's going to be an endurance test today."

"Endurance?"

"Three laps around the main field, non-stop duels, and mana meditation for a whole hour. It's a method he uses to see who gives up first."

"And what happens to those who don't give up?"

"They earn respect."

Aria approached and took a fruit from the basket. "Or they gain enemies. Here, respect and envy go hand in hand."

Damon nodded, finishing his apple and throwing the core out the window. "Then I'd better prepare for both."

The Academy field was buzzing with energy when Damon arrived. Students were running, swords clashed, and dust rose under the late morning sun. Harven was already at the front of the class, arms crossed, observing everything with that stern gaze that seemed to see beyond appearances.

"Ah, the newcomer from Mirath." Harven raised his voice when he saw him. "I hope you slept well, because today we'll see what you're made of."

"It depends on what you're looking for."

"Endurance. And a little common sense—although I don't expect much of the latter."

Some laughter echoed among the students, but Damon simply maintained a neutral expression.

"Three laps around the field, without using mana. Then, direct training. I want to see who's still standing when we're finished."

The sound of feet hitting the ground began almost immediately. The field was extensive—and soon the students' breathing became a symphony of effort and pain. Damon maintained a steady pace, his body moving like a machine. When many began to slow down, he still ran as if time couldn't catch him.

At the end of the laps, Harven watched, his arms still crossed. "Interesting," he murmured. "Not even sweating."

"Habit," Damon replied, his breathing steady.

"Habit can be a blessing... or a prison. We'll see."

The training continued. Duels, maneuvers, defensive spellcasting. Damon faced each challenge with methodical coolness. His body seemed to respond even before his mind commanded—reflexes shaped by survival, not technique.

When he faced the blond young man from the previous day again, the entire field fell silent. The young man attacked him with evident anger, and Damon dodged each blow as if he already knew his rhythm. In a quick movement, he disarmed him and placed the wooden sword against his throat.

"You still lose your balance when you get angry," he said calmly.

The other bit his lip, humiliated. Harven watched from a distance, without interfering. He simply wrote something on a parchment and continued evaluating the others.

At the end of the day, when the sun was already setting, Damon remained sitting at the edge of the field, watching the students leave the training. Sweat dripped down his face, but his gaze was serene. Harven approached, offering him a canteen. "It's not common to see someone maintain focus for so long," he commented. "You're not just here to learn, are you?"

Damon glanced at him sideways. "Nobody comes here just to learn."

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