Seraphina Seraphel found me in the combat hall because Liora Ashveil was angry.
This was becoming a pattern.
The academy's fourth training chamber had been reserved for remedial forms, which was a polite phrase meaning wounded pride, weak cores, and students important enough to be hidden while failing. White stone walls reflected movement too clearly. Aether lamps burned overhead without warmth. Practice blades lined the far rack in neat rows, as if order could make humiliation educational.
I stood alone in the center circle with my left glove removed.
Bad decision.
Necessary decision.
The burns across my palm had faded from black to deep violet. That sounded like improvement until one remembered human skin was not supposed to contain colors seen near collapsing spells. Null Touch did not heal. It retreated. Like a predator satisfied for now.
I flexed my fingers.
Pain answered late.
That was new.
A worse kind of new.
