From the shaded platform above the dueling rings, Eleanor stood motionless, her arms loosely crossed, blue eyes narrowing with every exchange.
She had been present since early morning, the moment the internal message reached her:
"Victor Blackthorn had matched with Ethan Hartley. Match approved."
And she came. Not out of formality, not as an instructor obligated to supervise, but out of something else—intent. Curiosity, perhaps. Quiet concern. The kind only a teacher who had invested in her students understood.
And Ethan hadn't disappointed.
Yes, the result had been expected. Victor was, stronger, and cruelly precise. His style was less about dueling and more about dismantling. Yet Ethan, despite the pain, the disadvantage, and the weight of every blow—he endured. He resisted. Even adapted.
He was getting better.
It was rough, incomplete, a boy still trying to mold himself into something more.
But it was growth. And that was enough, for now.
Still, the match had ended.
