The blade cut through the air with a dry whistle, too precise for someone who, officially, shouldn't be there.
Morgana turned her body, took a step forward, two steps back, shifted the weight of her back foot, and finished the movement with a short thrust against the wooden target already marked by dozens—hundreds—of previous blows. The impact echoed through the academy's inner courtyard, solitary, almost defiant.
She was breathing heavily.
Not from physical exhaustion. Not yet.
It was something trapped in her chest.
Arven's Academy was silent in that wing. It always was. Not because there weren't students, but because that specific space was… inconvenient. A forgotten training field, away from the main routes, used by those who shouldn't be there or by those who made a point of not being seen.
Like her.
