The name burned in Leon's skull.
Princess's guard.
Not a noble brat. Not a power-hungry heir with something to prove. This was different. Royal guard initiates didn't challenge others lightly—and certainly not first years. Which meant it wasn't about pride. It was a message.
He trained harder.
By dusk, his palms were torn. Every grip on the blade left blood on the hilt. But he didn't stop. Every breath he took was slower now. Sharper. He no longer thought about pain. Only precision.
By the third day, even Roth stopped joking.
"You're going to have to kill this one," Roth said quietly as they walked past the Southern courtyard. "Or he'll try to do it first."
Leon didn't respond. Just kept walking.
The night before the duel, he cleaned his gear in silence. Every stitch of his coat checked. Every edge of his blade polished. He didn't believe in luck—but he believed in preparation.
Fena showed up just before lights out. Tossed something small at him.
He caught it mid-air.
