Winter mornings at the Imperial Academy of Valon had a way of sharpening the senses—but today, Noel's mind was anything but sharp.
He stood alone on the frost-covered training grounds, sword in hand, breath visible in the chilled air. His training uniform was heavier now, lined with subtle enchantments against the cold, but the extra warmth did nothing to steady his distracted mind.
He took a step forward, swung his sword—and nearly lost his footing.
'Focus, damn it.'
He reset his stance, exhaled slowly, then struck again.
His blade wavered, sluggish, imprecise. Frustration edged his movements. He knew exactly why:
Elyra.
Since that conversation, her words had echoed endlessly in his mind, a gentle but persistent question that never faded entirely away.
Noel paused, sword lowered, his breath misting into the morning air as he stared blankly at the frost-rimmed trees that bordered the grounds.
