The Southern Yard was quiet.
Not with silence—with breath held. With footfalls slowed. With eyes that lingered longer than usual.
Leon stood before the line of cadets, the same ones who had stepped through his trial when it bore no name, only purpose. Their shoulders had squared since then. Their gazes didn't wander.
"Again," he said.
Steel met steel.
This was not sparring. This was rhythm. Form. Control. Each motion a word in a language they were still learning.
Marien stood at the edge, arms folded, but not watching Leon. She watched the ripple he caused—how every nod or correction became gospel in the eyes of the cadets.
Kellen approached from the far archway, scrolls in hand. His pace quickened as he reached her side.
"We got word," he murmured. "The Glass Order didn't just send messages. They moved. East and West. Simultaneously."
Marien frowned. "You think they're testing something?"
"Or someone."
