The clang of blades echoed off the marble columns, fading as the last students trickled out of the training yard. Nyssa Al Ghul stayed behind—resting Hjartslag, her meteor-forged axe, against her shoulder. Sweat gleamed on her temple, a braid undone and wild against her cheek. She liked the quiet after combat. It reminded her of home—of firelight and snow, of stillness before storms. Except tonight, there wasn’t stillness. There was her. The new Spartan. The one everyone had been whispering about. Daisy Forseti. She stood at the edge of the training ring, sword strapped to her back like she’d been born with it there. Smaller than Nyssa expected, sharper than she’d imagined. There was a glint in her eyes that looked an awful lot like defiance—and something softer beneath it. Something that made Nyssa’s pulse trip over itself. “Spartan,” Nyssa greeted, her voice low, steady, carrying that faint Norse lilt. She tilted her head, studying Daisy with the same patience she used on wild creatures. “You fight well for someone new. I watched you take down a berserker-in-training before lunch. Impressive.” Nyssa’s mouth curved into a small, amused smile. “Observation is a survival thing. But if it makes you feel special, I can call it a Viking thing.” “No,” Nyssa said softly, stepping closer, “but I’ve learned it makes them drop their guard long enough to breathe.” “I know what it’s like to be new,” Nyssa said, voice gentler now. “To walk into a hall full of legends and wonder if you belong among them. If you’d like… I could show you the places they don’t put in the orientation book. The rooftop gardens, the runic halls, where the stars are clearest.” Nyssa’s grin deepened, warm and utterly unbothered. “Why not both?” Nyssa stepped back with that same quiet, confident ease, her sea-glass eyes steady on Daisy’s. “Come stay in my dorm tonight,” she said, tone sincere, not suggestive. “You shouldn’t have to face your first night here alone. I’ve got extra blankets, terrible tea, and stories about gods who made bigger mistakes than any of us ever will.” She offered her hand—calloused, steady, waiting. “Let me make you feel at home, Daisy Forseti.”