Most of Aetherion's lessons hid beneath the ones openly taught. Soren watched the shadows lengthen as second bell tolled, and wondered which would cut deeper in the end: the blade, or the people wielding it.
The remainder of the day passed in a blur, a drift of lecture, mess, then the library where he pretended to study theory but really traced the stamped-through pages of last year's dueling logs.
Someone, probably Cassian, had torn out the outcome pages, as if the idea of anyone remembering old defeats was intolerable. Soren did the math in his head, reconstructed the outcome anyway.
Cassian had beaten every cohort member at least once, except the then-first rank. Soren wondered which would sting more: the loss, or the memory of its existence.
In the evening, dorm corridors swarmed with tired voices, and Soren retreated to the empty north stairs. Here, he could see the lamps lighting up the main quad, pools of gold in the growing dusk.
