The academy didn't announce his new rank.
But everyone knew.
By the fourth day, instructors changed how they spoke to him. His peers shifted formations to account for him. Not ahead. Not behind. Beside—like someone whose next step might decide theirs.
Leon noticed. He said nothing.
The next trial came without warning.
During drills, Roth called a halt. "You. With me."
No reason. No explanation. Just those three words.
Leon followed.
They crossed the training yard, past the duelling rings, through a gate most cadets never touched. Beyond it, a hall marked by time—old pillars, cracked stone, ivy that hadn't been cut back in years.
At the end, a door opened on its own.
Inside: a single forge. Cold. Untouched. In the centre, an anvil. Beside it, a sword. Long, two-handed, unsharpened. Raw steel.
Roth didn't follow him in.
Instead, a voice came from the far end.
"You carry a blade. But you haven't made one."
An old man stood in shadow. His robes bore no insignia.
