The rumors followed her everywhere.

“She thinks she’s better than everyone.”

“She never talks, just fights. Acting like we’re all beneath her.”

“She’s a fairy, but she refuses to use magic—what’s she trying to prove?”

“She doesn’t belong here.”

They assumed it was arrogance. That she looked down on them. But the truth was simpler than that.

She didn’t want respect for something she was born with.

She wanted respect for something she earned.

Her magic was raw, powerful, unknown—but she didn’t want a reputation for that. She didn’t want to be another name attached to ancient abilities no one could understand. She wanted to be something real, something she had built with her own hands, her own sweat, her own discipline.

So she trained with the specialists.

Became the best fighter among them.

No shortcuts. No illusions. Just skill sharpened to an undeniable edge.

In spars, she won. In training, she surpassed expectations. She learned faster, adapted quicker, moved sharper than the rest. No one could touch her unless she allowed it. Even the instructors hesitated against her.

All except Silva.

He was the only one who didn’t second-guess sparring with her. The only one who knew her ability wasn’t luck, wasn’t raw talent—it was effort. Earned, sharpened, perfected. She matched him hit for hit, sometimes winning, sometimes losing, but never stopping.

After practice, they trained together.

On sleepless nights, if he was awake, she sparred with him again.

Because unlike the others, Silva never asked why.

Never treated her choice like it was something to question.

He just fought her.

And for that, she kept coming back.

The training hall was dimly lit, the lanterns casting long shadows against the polished floors. The rhythmic clash of steel on steel echoed through the space, sharp and measured.

She moved with precise control, matching Silva’s strikes without excess movement, her blade meeting his again and again in a battle of endurance rather than victory. There was no audience, no whispers of doubt—just discipline, repetition, the silent agreement that neither would stop until they had to.

Then—motion beyond their world.

Silva caught it first, his stance shifting, his blade lowering as his gaze flicked toward the window.

She didn’t turn.

Didn’t need to.

She felt the recklessness before she saw it—uncontrolled magic moving into the trees, footsteps too hurried, too desperate.

A mistake.

“Stay put,” Silva ordered, already sheathing his blade, already moving toward the door. “I’ll handle it.”

She nodded once.

Listened—for a few minutes.

Then stopped listening entirely.

The moment she slipped into the forest, silence met her like an old friend. Night curled around her movements, her steps weightless, unseen, unwatched.

Until she saw him fall.

The burned one moved fast—too fast. Claws raked across Silva’s side, a wound that wouldn’t kill immediately but would rot. A slow, festering transformation, the kind of injury that gave someone a week before they became something else.

The students froze.

She moved.

The burned one barely had time to react before steel met bone, her sword clashing against its claws in a brutal, grinding spark of impact. The force rattled through her arms, but she held steady, pushing forward, refusing to give it space to retaliate.

Magic surged through her blade, raw and untamed, strengthening her grip, sharpening the edge, pushing her past her own limits. It wasn’t controlled—it was instinct, a reaction, a force barely contained within the steel she wielded.

“Get him out of here,” she ordered, voice low, sharp, leaving no room for argument.