The firelight danced across the practice yard at midnight, flickering over Izen's silent form. The courtyard benches had long since emptied, leaving only the soft crackle of embers in the large brazier at its center. Frost glinted on worn cobblestones, each one etched with years of blade work and ambition. Tonight, the night air carried promise rather than dread.
Izen stood in the center of a chalked circle he'd drawn earlier, a stopwatch in one hand and his dagger in the other. This was his ritual—a half-step beyond practice. The stopwatch's face gleamed in the orange light, its hands dormant until summoned. Around him, the courtyard walls formed a protective cage, insulating him from the academy's sleep.
He took a slow breath, feeling the metal press into his palm. The blade felt heavier in his other hand. This wasn't a test set by instructors—it was his own reckoning. The night whispered that time could be claimed; he intended to claim it.
He pressed the top of the stopwatch.
Time stiffened.
Every glowing ember in the brazier paused mid-flare. The fog over the stones hung motionless, and even the world in the walls seemed to hush. Only Izen moved, every footfall deliberate as he paced the circle.
The stopwatch vibrated faintly, as though alive. The power wasn't perfect yet, but it was control. Not the accidents of reflex anymore, but deliberate manipulation—more potent edge in his growing arsenal.
He clicked again.
Time moved forward. The embers danced back to life. Frost shivered in the mist.
Izen exhaled, sweat beading at his temples. He felt its echo in the bone of his chest—proof of the gap he'd opened. He'd marked seconds as his own.
The next morning's dawn was a dull haze. Izen, pale-eyed and restless, returned to the training hall still wearing last night's chill. Every breath felt measured, every movement conscious. Small slippages of time, once unnoticed, now tormented him with silence between beats. He moved through the day's drills with a mechanical calm.
Silas approached during lunchtime. His sleeve was clean, but the wound still showed. He sat beside Izen, the knife hidden in his pack.
"Took control last night?" Silas asked without preamble.
Izen nodded slowly. "I used it."
Silas stared. No mockery, just calculation. "That's one boundary crossed."
Lunch ended, but the tension lingered. A group of students whispered by the entrance as Izen left. Some looked impressed. Others wary. Victor was nowhere to be seen—probably recovering his pride. Izen felt the balance shift. They'd seen the pulse of his power now.
By afternoon, Caerel stood before the relic relics box once more. Izen watched from the back, eyes flicking between the box and Victor's empty chair. A new challenge arrived, delivered in the lead instructor's clipped tone.
"This week, you will train not physically, but mentally," Caerel announced. "You will each present a strategy for using your relic in a real-world scenario—the espionage of it, the moral compromise—and demonstrate it in simulation."
He swept his gaze across the students. "Use care. Use intelligence. Use intent. We are not training soldiers. We are training shadows."
Izen's mind clicked through possibilities. Victor would choose aggression, showmanship, maybe assassination. He could outperform him with finesse and hesitation broken by intent.
Late afternoon sun glazed the hall windows. Izen sat with Mira and Dalen at a long table. Scrolls, notes, and relic manuals spread before them. Victor's absence was conspicuous. He'd chosen silence over preparation—not from fear, but from arrogance, they suspected.
Mira tapped at her parchment. "What are you going to propose?"
Izen glanced at the stopwatch nestled beneath his sleeve. "A retrieval mission," he said quietly. "The team has to recover a key document from a guarded estate without detection. We'll use timing, distraction, and fast withdrawal."
Dalen frowned slightly. "Sounds risky."
"But clean," Izen replied. "Minimal violence, maximum impact."
Mira leaned forward. "That's smart. Also... clean. Just don't—"
"Yes," Izen interrupted softly. "I won't use the stopwatch on stage."
Confidence flickered in Mira's eyes. "Then they won't forget what they saw last night."
That evening, Izen practiced pacing and mental drills. He counted heartbeats, watched the stopwatch face, measured every breath. He needed control without hesitation, precision without arrogance. The stopwatch was his tool, but only when others couldn't anticipate him. Today, he practiced controlling himself first.
When he slept, it was light, fitful. Dreams threaded through fractured seconds—visions of mirrored halls, clicking watch hands, Victor pointing a blade.
He woke before dawn, haunted by a promise in his mind: Be ready when he confronts you again.
The next morning, the practice ground glimmered with frost and expectancy. Students assembled into pairs for oral presentations. Caerel stood at the front, silent and severe. Papers were handed out, lights shifted.
Izen's turn came. He stepped forward, stopwatch concealed but echoing in his mind. He outlined the scenario—broken locks, silent traversal, timed diversions. He walked them through his plan: a three-phase approach, each beat choreographed. No violence unless necessary, no exposure, plausible deniability.
Victor spoke next. He proposed a direct strike—a single, swift kill on a weak guard, escape through the sewers. He spoke with authority, tone confident.
The difference was clear. Izen's approach drew nods from instructors. Victor's earned smirks from students. But aza sharp exchange flickered in Caerel's gaze—intent beyond approval.
Testing time came that afternoon. The instructors set up the courtyard with wooden booths, guards in anticipation, observers hidden. Each team ran the scenario in timed rotation.
Izen watched from behind one booth. Mira passed by, whispering encouragement. Dalen stood beside him, nervous but hopeful.
Then Victor walked in—with an entourage, blunt weapon at his hip. He approached confidently.
His team faltered early; they stumbled through distractions, lost in bravado. The instructors halted their run.
Then Izen's turn.
He moved with quiet confidence. The stopwatch stayed tucked, unused. He bypassed guards with subtle distractions, slipped through lines, retrieved a hidden scroll—the objective—and vanished again in silence. Time: measured. Intent: clear.
They tried to stop him, only to find empty rooms. Izen emerged the other side, unhurried, calm.
Post-simulation, the instructors awarded points. Izen's team earned high marks; Victor's received a warning.
Izen met Victor's eye. The look said: you were beaten—not by violence, but by subtlety.
Later, Silas intercepted him in the corridor.
"That watch could win wars," he said quietly.
Izen let the words hang. "Maybe. But right now, it wins trust."
That night, Victor found him in the training yard. No weapon. Fresh frost glossed the stones.
"You think your little game makes you safe?" Victor spat, anger tight in every line of his face.
Izen met him. "I play the game better."
Victor lunged. The fight was swift: Victor's blade hacked wide—brutal force. Izen stepped inside the slash, using his dagger to redirect. Blades locked. Victor forced a heavy elbow into Izen's ribs.
Pain flared—but Izen didn't stagger. He waited, counted beats, and then twisted free, pressing the stopwatch top.
Time paused.
Victor's blade hung in mid-air. Frost fell frozen around them. The world clutched its breath.
Izen clicked again. He reversed direction. Victor stumbled forward awkwardly.
Time resumed.
Izen used the moment to push Victor back, draw him out. Victor cursed.
They fought again, more controlled now. Victor's movements were heavy, raw—but precise. Izen countered with calm efficiency, every beat measured.
In a final clash, Izen swept Victor's feet, disarming him. Victor fell, lips split, eyes burning.
Silence fell. Students looked on from shadows. The frost began to melt around Victor's fallen form.
Izen stood tall, blade at rest.
Silas stepped forward and pulled Izen aside. "That was clean," he said quietly. "But you used it again."
Izen sighed. "I had to."
Silas gave him a long look. "Just... choose carefully."
Izen nodded, with both relief and weight. Victor lay bleeding on the stone.
At dawn he found Victor being tended by nurses. He still glared.
"Why stop me if you're playing shadows?" Victor asked quietly. "Why warn me?"
Izen didn't answer.
Victor closed his eyes and whispered, "I'll remember this."
They paused—neither moving.
Then Izen turned and walked away.
In the silent dawn, Izen returned to the courtyard, dodged between columns, stopped at the stopwatch. He tapped the back.
It clicked.
The circle of frost beneath him glowed.
The countdown began.