The training grounds were slick with morning frost, the grass glazed silver beneath the footfalls of fifty cadets. Breath misted in the cold air, joining the veil of fog that clung to the earth like a second skin. Instructors walked the lines, eyes scanning for posture, stance, and weakness. The silence was brittle—ready to crack at the sound of a missed step.
Izen stood among them, spine straight, arms relaxed at his sides. The cold didn't reach him. His uniform clung stiff against his frame, dried sweat from yesterday's match still laced into the fibers. Silas had been quiet since their duel—nursing wounds to both pride and body. That silence, too, had a weight.
Izen's knuckles were still faintly bruised from that fight. He hadn't wrapped them since. A reminder. He flexed his fingers slightly, watching as the cadet across from him shifted his feet nervously. Dalen. Young, eager, not stupid—just too fast to speak and too slow to listen.
"Pairs, form up." Instructor Vareen's voice cut through the stillness, sharp and sudden.
The cadets obeyed with mechanical precision. Izen didn't move. Dalen stepped forward, offering a nod that was somewhere between hopeful and resigned. Izen returned it, wordlessly.
Dalen attacked first, a wide hook—sloppy, too much arm. Izen slipped beneath it, planted his shoulder into Dalen's sternum, and sent him sprawling. No flair. No wasted motion. Just timing.
"You alright?" Izen asked, offering a hand.
"Yeah," Dalen coughed. "I thought I was faster."
"You are. But you think in straight lines."
They reset. Again, Dalen charged. Again, he fell. By the third takedown, the other pairs had slowed their movements, glancing sideways. Whispers started to crawl between students. Izen kept his face neutral, but in his chest, he could feel the pressure building. Too much exposure.
He was starting to slip.
Back in the dormitories, Mira caught him near the stairs, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"You really don't care if people start noticing?" she asked.
Izen met her gaze. "Care? No. I'd prefer not to explain anything, though."
She followed him up the steps, boots echoing against stone. The academy had the chill of old places—dust in the corners, lamps with soot-stained glass, ceilings that seemed higher than necessary. Even now, months into his stay, Izen hadn't decided if it was built to impress or to intimidate.
Mira stopped halfway up the stairs. "You know, Ford said you used to flinch in sparring. Pretend to lose."
Izen didn't answer right away. He reached the top and turned toward their wing.
"People underestimate what they can't see," he said finally. "And overestimate what they think they understand."
"You're not like the others," Mira said, quietly. "Not even close."
He paused outside his room. "Good."
That night, Izen couldn't sleep.
He lay still, eyes open, staring at the ceiling where faint cracks formed constellations only he could trace. His thoughts weren't on Silas or the class. They were on the box under his bed.
It was small—wrapped in thick black cloth, edges softened with time. He'd hidden it well, deep within a false floorboard he'd carved himself the first week he arrived. No lock. Just dust, cloth, and hesitation.
He pulled it free and unwrapped it. The metal beneath gleamed faintly, catching the low light from the corridor lanterns. A pocketwatch—antique, silver-veined, with no chain. It looked broken. The hands didn't tick. The second hand hovered just before the mark, as if paused mid-movement.
He didn't remember when it had stopped. Only that it had once belonged to her.
Izen closed his fingers around it, feeling its weight in his palm. Not much. But enough to anchor.
Every few weeks, he checked. Not to wind it. Not to test it. Just to hold it and wonder if the next time he did, something would change. It never had.
Until tonight.
The second his thumb brushed the small dent near the crown, something pulsed through his fingertips. Faint. Like static under skin. The room didn't change. The world didn't shift. But Izen's breath caught.
He blinked. Then again.
The air in the room was...off. Still. Too still. The lantern flame in the hallway flickered once—and then didn't move again.
His heartbeat stuttered in his chest.
Then everything snapped back into motion, like a breath he didn't know he was holding being released all at once.
He stared at the watch.
Still broken.
The next day's lesson was less physical. Instructor Caerel stood before the class with a table of relics and tools. Each was supposedly a historical weapon used by assassins of old—poison rings, collapsible blades, garrote wires made from angel-silk.
"Today is about understanding how subtlety beats strength," Caerel said. "Each of these objects has a story. Some of them killed kings. Others failed to kill anyone at all."
He paced slowly.
"I want each of you to choose one. Then, in one week, use it in a live test against another student. It must be discreet. No staff intervention. No lethal damage. But make it count."
Mira raised her hand. "Define 'live test'?"
Caerel smiled thinly. "You'll know it when it happens."
As the cadets approached the table, Izen hung back. He watched the others—some picked elegant weapons, others oddities. Silas chose a crescent-shaped throwing knife with a smug grin. Mira took a spool of black thread, brow furrowed in thought.
Izen reached the table last. His eyes scanned the artifacts, but none held his attention. Instead, he picked up a small vial—empty.
Caerel raised an eyebrow. "Poison without poison?"
"I think best when I'm filling the gaps," Izen said.
The instructor didn't smile, but he didn't protest either.
Later, while walking through the lower corridors toward the practice wing, Izen's path was blocked by a student he hadn't spoken to before.
Tall. Lean. Copper-blond hair swept back, eyes too pale to read. He didn't wear the academy insignia properly—his collar was open, and he carried no weapon in sight.
"Izen," the boy said, voice smooth. "I'm Victor Helrow."
Izen said nothing.
Victor tilted his head. "You've made a few ripples. Silas bleeding. Dalen bruised. Mira speaking highly of you."
Izen's fingers curled slightly. "What do you want?"
Victor's smile didn't reach his eyes. "To know what you are."
"Then keep watching."
Victor laughed, soft and effortless. "I will. But you should know—there are people here who don't appreciate unpredictable pieces on the board. People with lineage. With legacy."
Izen's face remained neutral, but inside, something shifted.
So the academy had its politics already. Quiet strings pulled from behind smiling mouths.
And now he had a name.
Victor Helrow.
That night, Izen sat on his bed, the stopwatch in one hand, the empty vial in the other.
He felt it again—the pulse, barely there. Like something slumbering, just beneath skin and metal.
He spoke aloud, voice quiet enough to drown beneath the creak of dorm walls. "You want to test me, Victor? That's fine. I don't mind pressure."
He clicked the stopwatch shut.