The days after the Rite passed like fragments caught in wind—quiet, scattered, and sharp at the edges.
Leon woke early. Not from duty or obligation. But instinct. The sun barely kissed the horizon when he rose from his bunk, dressed, and walked the length of the lower courts. Few cadets spoke to him. Fewer still met his eyes. Not from avoidance. From something bordering on awe.
The weight of titles did that.
He didn't wear one on his sleeve. Not Bearer. Not Binder. But every step marked it.
The old instructors had begun rotating classes again, slower, smaller, watchful. Leon sat through strategy sessions and sparring briefings, not as a cadet learning, but as one observed. Not being questioned. Not yet.
In the forge yard, a swordmaster asked to test him. A duel with no purpose. Ten strikes exchanged before Leon disarmed him. Not with speed. With precision. And skill.
"He moves like someone who's lived on the battlefield," one of the younger recruits whispered.
