Azhriel walked through the stone corridors of the academy with quiet steps, the early morning light spilling through the tall windows beside him.
The soft sound of his shoes tapping against the polished floor echoed faintly as he headed toward the classroom.
His uniform was neat, the black coat buttoned to the top as always, and his silver-lined sword hung quietly at his side.
There was no rush in his pace, no emotion on his face—just calm.
He had mostly recovered from the injuries, thanks to the healing from the academy priests.
But even so, faint pain still lingered deep in his muscles — like a reminder of what they had faced.
As Azhriel walked down the hallway toward the class, a familiar voice called out from behind.
"Hey."
He glanced over his shoulder.
It was Samuel, his usual seriousness resting on his face, softening for a moment, though a little tiredness sat in the corners of his eyes.
"Hey," Azhriel greeted back.
Samuel jogged up beside him. "So, all healed up?"
