The training hall smelled different now—more tense, like sweat and oiled metal had seeped deeper into the walls during the first round. The dummies still stood in their neat line, but now they were no longer just targets. Orven had altered them.
The white cloths at their throats were replaced with thin red cords that swayed faintly in the cold air. The bells remained, but something about the setup had changed—small copper disks now hung from their shoulders, polished so bright that even the dim torchlight caught and flashed off them.
"Second round," Orven said, cane tapping twice against the floor. The sound was sharp enough to make a few cadets straighten instinctively. "You all think you've learned something. You haven't. A kill in still air is easy. A kill when the world is watching—that's where you die."
He gestured to the copper disks. "Those will catch the light. Your shadow, your movement, anything out of place will betray you. If the bell rings, you're dead. If a disk flashes, you're dead. If you so much as breathe loud enough for me to hear…" His one good eye swept over them like a blade. "…you're dead twice."
No one laughed.
The tall boy who had failed first in the previous round stepped forward again, jaw tight. His dagger glinted once before he tucked it close and slipped into the shadows. This time he moved slower, trying to control his weight.
But slow was its own kind of danger. The dummy's head began to turn before he was even halfway there, and in his rush to close the distance, his knee brushed the copper disk. A bright, betraying gleam flashed across the wall.
"Dead," Orven said instantly. The boy's face tightened, but he stepped aside without a word.
The dark-haired girl tried next, her movements more fluid than before. She kept her body angled so no light caught her, her steps measured, her breathing shallow. But at the final moment—her blade a hair's breadth from the cord—her boot scuffed the floor. The sound was small, but Orven's cane struck the ground with a decisive crack.
"Dead."
One after another, they failed. Some were betrayed by light, others by sound. The smallest mistakes—an exhale too sharp, a shoulder rising too high—were punished with cold finality.
When Orven's gaze landed on him, Eleres felt the weight of it, but he didn't move immediately. He watched the copper disks sway faintly with the draft, memorizing their rhythm. Every flicker of light, every creak of the wooden dummies, became part of the room's heartbeat.
He stepped forward into the shadows, letting his body settle into their depth. This time, it wasn't just about moving quietly—it was about not existing.
He kept his breathing shallow, only enough to feed the muscles that carried him forward. Each step landed in the space between sounds—the moment after a torch crackled, the instant before the dummy's mechanism shifted.
Halfway across, the copper disk on his target swayed. Light slid along its edge, searching for him like a hunter's eye. He dropped low, letting the beam pass overhead, his dagger held close to his wrist to avoid a stray gleam.
Three steps more, and he was in range.
The blade flashed once—not with speed, but with precision. The red cord parted, falling in a lazy spiral to the floor. The bell was silent. The disk remained still, untouched.
Eleres withdrew into the shadow before the dummy completed its turn.
The silence afterward was heavier than before. A few cadets shifted uncomfortably, as though trying to decide whether his success was luck or skill.
Orven, however, said nothing at first. He simply watched Eleres until the younger man met his gaze. Then the old master gave a single nod—not praise, not warmth, just acknowledgment.
"You lived," Orven said finally. "And so did your kill." His voice dropped a shade colder. "That makes you dangerous. Hold onto that."
When the last cadet failed for the second time, Orven tapped his cane against the floor once more. "You've learned nothing," he said, scanning the group. "One of you passed both rounds. The rest of you…" He let the silence hang until it felt like a weight pressing down on their chests. "…would already be rotting."
He turned toward the far wall and pulled a lever. The dummies slid back into the shadows, vanishing behind wooden panels. In their place, three tall screens rose, painted with jagged silhouettes of alleyways and rooftops.
"This," Orven said, "is your next lesson. Moving and striking when there is no path."
The drill was brutal. They had to cross uneven terrain—leaping from shadow to shadow, slipping past narrow slits of light, all while keeping their footfalls silent. The painted scenery might have been fake, but the hazards were real: buckets of gravel hung in precarious balance, ready to spill and betray them at the slightest touch; strings of bells dangled in unexpected corners, waiting to sing their death.
By the end, only Eleres and the dark-haired girl had made it through without a sound. Even then, Orven pointed out their errors—the girl's hesitation on a high step, Eleres's momentary imbalance on a landing.
When they finally regrouped, the cadets were sweating despite the chill. Orven stood before them, cane planted firmly, his gaze sweeping the line.
"Today was shadows and silence," he said. "Ropes and bells. Games played in the safety of a hall."
His voice hardened. "Next lesson, there will be no ropes. No dummies. No games."
He let the words sink in, his next breath slow and deliberate.
"Next lesson… we go to the field." His one good eye gleamed with something that might have been satisfaction—or a promise of danger. "Real targets. Real blood. If you fail there, you won't hear a bell. You won't hear anything again."
The hall was silent. Somewhere in the shadows, a torch crackled—and no one dared to move.