The Lower Arena's dust still clung to Lost Voss's boots as he and the Edge Alliance trudged back to their dormitory, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across Vanguard Academy's stone paths. His muscles burned from the gauntlet of constructs they'd faced earlier, but his mind was sharper, honed by the weight of his purpose. Instructor Harlan Drake's low guard, seen during the lesson, matched the silhouette from that night ten years ago—the night his family was slaughtered. 'He's one of them,' Lost thought, fingers grazing his sword's hilt. 'But he's not alone. I need to dig deeper.'
The Edge Alliance moved as a unit, their bond tightening with each shared bruise. Joren Hale walked ahead, nursing the shallow cut on his arm with a grin, as if it were a badge of honor. Mira Sol adjusted her jacket, muttering about the arena's filth but flashing a rare smile at Garrick Thorne's bad joke about Finn Reed's dodging skills. Finn, still flushed from his unexpected agility, clutched his journal, scribbling notes. Athena Kade trailed slightly behind, her storm-cloud eyes scanning the surroundings, her sword sheathed but ready.
"You're quiet, Voss," Athena said, falling into step beside him. Her voice was low, meant only for him. "Thinking about that duel? Or something else?"
Lost met her gaze, her perceptiveness both a comfort and a threat. 'She's too sharp. Can I trust her yet?' "Just the constructs," he lied, forcing a half-smile. "Tougher than they looked."
She raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "You don't strike me as someone who sweats the small stuff."
Before he could respond, Joren turned back, waving them forward. "Come on, you two! Food's waiting, and I'm starving."
The dormitory's common room was alive with first-years, their chatter a mix of bravado and nerves. The Edge Alliance claimed a table, passing around plates of bread, cheese, and roasted meat. Garrick piled his plate high, earning a playful jab from Mira. "You'll eat the academy out of supplies, bear."
"Gotta keep my strength up," Garrick said through a mouthful, winking.
Finn pushed his glasses up. "I'm writing down that parry you did, Athena. It was… geometric perfection."
Athena smirked. "Keep studying, scholar. You're not half bad yourself."
Lost ate in silence, his thoughts elsewhere. Lira's letter, hidden in his pack, had named Harlan Drake as one of the ten espadachins who massacred the Voss family. But it also hinted at allies within Vanguard—students or staff loyal to the conspirators. 'If I can find one, I can trace the web back to Drake.' His eyes scanned the room, landing on a familiar figure: Royce Blackthorn, the smug upperclassman who'd taunted them since the trial. Royce sat with a group of older students, their laughter sharp, their postures predatory. One, a lean boy with cold eyes and a rapier at his hip, caught Lost's attention. His name, overheard yesterday, was Silas Varn—a second-year rumored to run errands for certain instructors.
'Silas. Too comfortable with Drake during the lesson,' Lost thought. 'If he's a link, I'll cut through him to get answers.'
As the group finished eating, Lost excused himself, claiming he needed air. Athena's eyes followed him, but she said nothing. Outside, the academy grounds were bathed in twilight, the spires casting jagged shadows. Lost moved toward the Armory Courtyard, where he'd seen Silas and Royce earlier. His plan was simple: provoke Silas, gauge his loyalty, and maybe extract a hint about Drake. 'No killing. Not yet. Just a spark to light the way.'
The courtyard was quieter now, the racks of practice blades glinting under torchlight. Silas leaned against a dummy, sharpening his rapier, alone. Perfect. Lost approached, his steps deliberate, his hand loose but ready.
"Varn, right?" Lost said, voice calm but edged. "You're close with Instructor Drake."
Silas looked up, his eyes narrowing. "Voss. The new blood with a big name. What's it to you?"
"I'm curious," Lost said, stepping closer. "Drake's got a reputation. So do his… friends. Care to share what you know?"
Silas laughed, cold and sharp. "You've got nerve, first-year. But you're fishing in dangerous waters. Walk away."
'He's hiding something,' Lost thought. He drew his sword slowly, the steel singing as it left the scabbard. "Let's make it a lesson, then. Spar with me. Unless you're scared."
Silas's smirk faded, replaced by a glint of malice. "You want a fight? Fine. But I don't play nice."
They circled, blades gleaming. A few upperclassmen passing by stopped to watch, their murmurs a low hum. Silas struck first, his rapier darting like a viper. Lost parried, his Echo Strike unfolding—a feint to the left, followed by three rapid thrusts that forced Silas back. The upperclassman's skill was undeniable, his movements precise, but Lost's training ran deeper, forged in years of vengeance-fueled practice.
"You're quick," Silas hissed, countering with a low thrust—Drake's signature move.
'Got you,' Lost thought. He sidestepped, his blade slashing in a controlled arc that nicked Silas's arm, drawing a thin line of blood. The upperclassman cursed, lunging wildly. Lost deflected, his footwork a blur, and disarmed Silas with a flick of his wrist, sending the rapier clattering.
"Enough!" a voice barked. Instructor Drake himself stepped into the torchlight, his presence chilling the air. "Varn, stand down. Voss, explain yourself."
Lost sheathed his blade, heart pounding but face calm. "Just a friendly spar, Instructor. Testing my limits."
Drake's eyes bored into him, unreadable. "You've got skill, Voss. But skill without discipline is a death sentence. Report to detention tomorrow."
Silas retrieved his sword, glaring. "This isn't over, first-year."
As Drake and Silas left, Lost felt a hand on his shoulder. Athena stood there, her expression a mix of concern and suspicion. "What was that about?" she asked, voice low. "You're not just picking fights for fun."
'She followed me.' Lost hesitated, the urge to confide battling his caution. "Just settling a score," he said, meeting her gaze. "You ever feel like you're carrying something too heavy?"
Her eyes softened, just a fraction. "All the time. But you don't have to carry it alone."
The words hit harder than he expected. 'Trust her? Maybe… soon.' "Thanks," he said, his voice quieter. "Let's get back."
They rejoined the Edge Alliance in the dorm, where Joren was recounting their gauntlet victory to a small crowd of first-years. Mira rolled her eyes but joined in, while Finn and Garrick laughed, their ease a stark contrast to Lost's tension. As they settled in, Athena sat close, her presence grounding.
"You're reckless," she whispered, half-teasing. "But I like it."
Lost allowed a small smile. 'She's dangerous in her own way.' But as he lay in his bunk, Silas's low thrust replayed in his mind, a mirror of Drake's style. 'They're connected. I'm on the right path.' The flicker of Athena's trust, though, warmed the edges of his cold resolve.