Chapter 5: The Shadow

The side corridor finally began to clear, students dispersing toward their next classes or common rooms. Killian stood there for another few seconds, letting the flow of bodies move around him. He needed to think, and he couldn’t do that with people bumping into his shoulders. He spotted a narrow alcove a few paces ahead, a recess holding a statue of some robed figure holding an unlit torch. He stepped into it, putting his back against the cold stone wall.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Elian appeared at the mouth of the alcove less than a minute later, looking like he’d been running. His face was a pale, sweaty mask of pure dread. He skidded to a halt, his eyes wide as they fixed on Killian.

“You’re here,” Elian gasped, his voice thin with relief that immediately twisted back into anxiety. “I saw him stop you. Lysander. What did he say? What did he want?” The words tumbled out in a rush. “And Morvath—he marked you as passing, but the way he looked at you—and the schedule, dawn bell tomorrow, we need to plan for that, but first we have to understand what just—”

“Breathe,” Killian said, his own voice quiet and flat.

Elian stopped mid-sentence. He took a shaky, obedient breath that did little to calm him. He glanced over his shoulder down the corridor, then back. “He saw something, didn’t he? Lysander. That’s why he stopped you.”

Killian gave a single nod. “He saw the table wobble.”

The color, what little was left, drained completely from Elian’s face. “Oh, stars.” He leaned against the opposite side of the alcove, looking like he might slide down to the floor. “He knows. He’s going to expose you. We’re finished. It’s over. They’ll charge you with impersonation, they’ll send you to the spectral cells, and they’ll expel me for conspiracy and—”

“He’s not going to expose me,” Killian cut in. “Not yet.”

Elian blinked. “What? Why not?”

“He made me an offer.” Killian kept his tone matter-of-fact, laying out the facts as he understood them. “His protection. His patronage. In exchange for future favors. A debt.”

For a second, Elian just stared, his mind visibly scrambling to process this. When he spoke again, his voice was a horrified whisper. “A noble’s debt? Killian, that’s worse. That’s so much worse than just getting caught now. You don’t understand how these families work. Their favors aren’t for carrying books. They’re for things that disappear people. Or evidence. You’d be his tool, forever. And when you’re no longer useful, or when you become a liability…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

“I know,” Killian said.

Elian gaped at him. “Then why are you so calm?”

Killian pushed off the wall. The cool logic he’d been turning over since Lysander walked away was now fully formed. It wasn’t about panic; it was about geometry. About angles of attack and points of failure.

“A noble’s debt is a bad thing,” he said, looking past Elian at the stream of students still trickling by. “Obviously. It’s a leash. But it’s a slow poison. It gives us time to move.” He shifted his gaze back to his roommate. “A noble’s exposure is a catastrophe. It’s immediate. It ends everything right now. So the exposure is the primary threat. The debt is just the method he wants to use.”

Elian shook his head slowly, not following. “So… what? We just accept the debt? Try to manage it?”

“No.” Killian’s voice was final. “We neutralize the threat.”

“How?” Elian’s whisper was desperate. “You can’t pay him off. You can’t reason with someone like that. He has all the power here.”

“He thinks he does,” Killian corrected quietly. “He made one mistake.”

“What mistake?”

“He confronted me alone.” Killian let that hang in the air for a moment before continuing. “He wanted to deliver his terms privately, with no witnesses. To make it feel like my secret was safe with him. But it also means his move against me is private. Contained.” He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice even though the corridor was nearly empty now. “He holds leverage over me because he saw something nobody else did. But I now hold information about him: that he knows my secret and is choosing to exploit it instead of reporting it. That’s conspiracy too, if you frame it right.”

Elian’s eyes widened slightly as he started to see the shape of Killian’s thinking. “You can’t report him without exposing yourself.”

“Exactly,” Killian said. “So it’s a stalemate. But stalemates only work if both sides respect the board. He doesn’t respect me. He sees a gutter-rat he can control.” He paused, his expression unchanging. “So I need to redefine the board.”

“How?” Elian asked again, but this time with a flicker of morbid curiosity cutting through his fear.

“I find him when he’s alone again,” Killian said simply. “I make the terms of our stalemate… physically clear.”

Elian stared at him for a long moment, his academic mind clearly trying to compute the variables of violence into an equation he understood. “You’re going to confront him? Threaten him? Killian, he’s a Thorne-Kaelin! He’s probably been training in defensive dueling since he could walk!”

“Probably,” Killian agreed without concern.

“And you want to just… walk up to him?”

“Not yet,” Killian said, already turning his thoughts to the next step. “First, I watch him.”

Over the next three days, Killian settled into a routine that had nothing to do with classes.

He attended his mandatory lectures—Arcane Theory, Intro to Alchemical Principles—mostly as a way to stay visible and normal. He sat in the back, kept his head down, and let the torrent of unfamiliar terms wash over him without sticking. Elian provided frantic whispers of context when they sat together, but Killian’s focus was elsewhere.

His real work began afternoons and evenings.

Lysander Thorne-Kaelin was not hard to find; he was usually at the center of some social event or study group in the more opulent common rooms of the Argent Spire. Killian started from a distance. He would linger near doorways or pretend to study a tapestry on a wall, keeping Lysander in his peripheral vision.

He learned patterns quickly.

Lysander took breakfast in the Hall of Echoes with the same group of well-dressed friends every morning at seventh bell exactly. He attended his practical workshops in the East Wing. He spent afternoons in the Grand Library, though not in the dusty stacks where Elian burrowed—he commandeered one of the private reading carrels on the balcony level. His movements were predictable, confident in their privilege.

But Killian was looking for something else: the unobserved moments. The cracks in the public schedule.

On the second day, he found one.

As dusk began to stain the sky purple and grey, most students headed for dinner or their dorms. Lysander broke from his usual path toward the refectory. Instead, he turned down a lesser-used corridor that led toward the academy’s older outer walls. Killian hung back by a pillar, watching as Lysander pushed open a heavy oak door reinforced with black iron bands. The door led outside. Lysander slipped through and let it swing shut behind him with a solid thud.

Killian waited a full minute before moving. He approached the door slowly. It wasn’t locked; apparently, security here relied more on wards than bolts. He eased it open just enough to peer through.

Beyond lay a small, secluded courtyard. High walls of ancient grey stone enclosed a space about twenty feet square. The ground was covered in neat flagstones with patches of moss growing between them. A single stone bench sat against one wall. There were no doors leading out except the one he was using. The only other opening was the rectangle of darkening sky overhead.

Lysander stood in the center of the courtyard. He had removed his outer robe, leaving him in a dark tunic and trousers. In his hand, he held a polished focus crystal about the length of his palm. His other hand was tracing precise shapes in the air.

Killian watched silently from the crack in the door. Lysander wasn't practicing basic cantrips. His movements were sharp and controlled, each gesture ending with a slight snap of his wrist. A thin ribbon of crimson light would streak from his crystal, slicing through the twilight air before dissipating against the far wall with a faint sizzle. Sometimes he'd conjure a shimmering disc of pale energy that hovered for a moment before shattering into harmless sparks. This was advanced stuff—combat magic.

Lysander practiced with a focused intensity Killian hadn't seen from him in public. His usual smug amusement was gone. His face was set in lines of serious concentration as he worked through sequences, repeating a complex series of gestures until they flowed smoothly. He muttered verbal components under his breath, too low for Killian to catch from this distance.

Killian watched for ten minutes before carefully letting the door close without a sound. He now had what he needed: a location and a habit.

The next evening at dusk, Killian returned earlier. He positioned himself not at the courtyard door, but in an empty classroom on the floor above it whose window overlooked part of the enclosed space. From this angle, partly obscured by leaded glass, he could verify Lysander's routine without risk of being spotted.

Right on schedule, as the last light bled from the sky and floating campus orbs began to glow along distant pathways, Lysander entered the courtyard alone. He began his practice again.

This time, Killian paid closer attention to details. How long did each session last? About forty-five minutes. What were Lysander's tells when he was concentrating fully? A slight tilt of his head and stillness in his non-casting hand. Did he ever check his surroundings? Only once at the very beginning when entering; after that, his focus was entirely inward.

This was Lysander's private space. His sanctuary for honing power away from prying eyes and admiring sycophants. A place where he felt secure enough to let his guard down while performing magic that could seriously injure someone.

Perfect.

Killian leaned back from the classroom window as darkness fully settled outside. The plan was solidifying in his mind. The confrontation couldn't happen here tonight; preparation mattered more than impulse. He needed to understand Lysander's rhythms completely before making his move.

He had found his opportunity: a secluded place where they would be truly alone. Now all he needed was the right moment within that space—a moment when Lysander would be mid-spell and vulnerable.

He left the classroom and headed back toward his dorm. Elian would be there already, likely buried in books and vibrating with anxiety about tomorrow's dawn bell meeting with Morvath. Killian would listen to whatever last-minute theories Elian had concocted about faking magical sensitivity. But part of his mind would remain on that walled courtyard and on Lysander's precise, lethal gestures under the dusk sky.

One problem at a time seemed impossible when stacked together. So you didn't stack them. You lined them up and dealt with each one directly.

First silence Lysander's threat. Then survive Morvath's scrutiny.

As he walked through dimly lit corridors back toward Argent Spire, Killian flexed his hands slowly at his sides, the muscles corded and ready, already calculating angles, distances, and how fast he could cross fifteen feet of flagstone before a spell could form

The dawn bell session with Morvath came and went in a haze of tense, theoretical questioning. Killian sat in a small, bare room in the North Peak Observatory while Morvath asked him to describe the "resonant qualities" of various inert objects placed on a table between them. Killian had spent the previous night listening to Elian's frantic coaching on magical terminology and sensory metaphors. He parroted back phrases about "harmonic dissonance" and "ambient energy textures," keeping his answers vague enough to be plausible, specific enough to not sound like pure nonsense. Morvath listened, his pale eyes noting every hesitation, but he made no comment. He dismissed Killian after an hour with instructions to "meditate on passive perception." The scrutiny remained, a constant pressure, but it hadn't tightened yet.

That pressure, however, was a distant throb compared to the immediate, ticking problem of Lysander. The noble’s debt was a blade suspended over his neck by a thread. Killian had no intention of waiting for it to fall.

Two evenings after the Morvath session, conditions aligned. The sky was clear, the air cool and still—perfect for outdoor practice. Killian positioned himself in the shadowed archway across from the courtyard door an hour before dusk. He watched students pass by in twos and threes, their conversations fading as they moved toward warmth and dinner. The corridor grew quiet.

Right on time, the familiar figure in tailored robes appeared. Lysander walked with his usual confident stride, not looking left or right. He reached the heavy oak door, pushed it open, and disappeared inside. The door swung shut behind him.

Killian counted to one hundred in his head, a slow, steady rhythm. Then he moved.

He crossed the empty corridor and placed his hand on the iron banding of the door. He didn’t push immediately. He listened. From beyond the thick wood came the faint, sizzling crackle of discharged energy and the low murmur of an incantation. Lysander was already warming up.

Killian took a slow breath, centering himself. He thought of loading crates onto wagons at the docks—the need for momentum, for committing to a lift at exactly the right moment. This was no different.

He pushed the door open just enough to slip through, moving sideways into the gap. He didn’t let it slam. He guided it shut behind him with a soft press of his palm until the latch clicked home with a noise so faint it vanished under the next sizzle from across the courtyard.

He stood with his back to the door, taking in the scene.

Lysander stood in the center of the flagstones, fifteen feet away. His back was partially turned, his attention on a shimmering, coin-sized disc of cobalt energy hovering at eye level before him. His focus crystal gleamed in his raised hand. His lips were moving silently, shaping the next syllable of whatever complex spell he was building. The disc pulsed with light.

Killian took one step forward onto the moss-edged flagstone. He made no other sound.

Lysander’s shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly a half-second before he whirled around. It wasn’t the startled jump of someone caught unaware; it was the controlled pivot of a duelist sensing a presence at his flank. His eyes locked onto Killian, and for a split second, they held only sharp surprise. Then recognition clicked into place, and his expression smoothed over into cold amusement.

The cobalt energy disc winked out of existence with a soft pop.

“Thorne,” Lysander said, lowering his crystal but not putting it away. His gaze swept over Killian from head to toe, assessing, finding nothing threatening in the plain robes and still posture. A thin smile touched his lips. “I must say, I didn’t expect you to seek me out so soon. Eager to discuss our arrangement?”

Killian didn’t answer. He just watched him.

Lysander’s smile widened slightly at the silence. He took a casual step to the side, beginning a slow, circling movement as if sizing up an opponent in a ring. “Or perhaps you’ve come to plead your case? To explain how a first-year with no notable family and a reported ‘dormant’ affinity managed such a… physical solution to Morvath’s resonance problem?” He tilted his head, his grey eyes glinting in the twilight. “The table wobble was inspired, honestly. I’ve never seen anyone try to brute-force a telekinetic dampener before.”

He stopped circling, facing Killian directly again. His tone lost its playful edge, turning conversational but pointed. “It’s all right. You can drop the act now. We’re alone. No one can hear us through these walls.” He spread his free hand in a magnanimous gesture. “I know what you are.”

Killian finally spoke, his voice calm and even, carrying clearly in the enclosed space. “Do you.”

“A fraud,” Lysander stated plainly, no longer bothering with implication. “A mundane who somehow slipped through the gates. The table wobble proved it. No one with any real sensitivity would solve a resonant lift with kinetic vibration. It’s like using a hammer to perform surgery.” He took another step closer, reducing the distance between them to about twelve feet. His expression was one of confident discovery. “You have no magic at all, do you?”

Killian held his gaze steadily. He didn’t blink.

Lysander misinterpreted the silence as confirmation and defeat. His smile returned, colder now. “I thought so. Which puts you in a very precarious position, Thorne. Magical impersonation is a serious crime. Expulsion would be the kindest outcome. The spectral cells are notoriously… draining for those without an aura to protect them.” He let that threat hang for effect before continuing smoothly. “But like I said, I’m offering you a path out. My protection in exchange for your service. It’s more than you deserve.”

He raised his crystal hand slightly, a subtle reminder of the power he held—both magical and social. “So. Have you come to accept my terms?”

Killian took a slow breath in through his nose and let it out through his mouth. This was the moment.

“No,” he said simply.

Lysander’s eyebrows lifted slightly in polite inquiry.

“I haven’t come to accept your terms,” Killian clarified, his voice still devoid of panic or anger. It was just a statement of fact. “I’ve come to point out your mistake.”

“My mistake?” Lysander repeated, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his face before it settled back into amused condescension.

“You confronted me alone,” Killian said. He took one small step forward himself now, not aggressive, just adjusting his stance on the flagstones. His boots made almost no sound. “You wanted privacy for your blackmail. You got it.” He looked around at the high stone walls, at the single door at his back, at the empty sky above. “No witnesses here. Just you and me.”

Lysander’s smile tightened at the corners. He seemed to realize the conversation was not following his script. “And that’s supposed to frighten me? You’re an unarmed fraud in a courtyard with a trained duelist.” He gave a short, derisive laugh. “What are you going to do, Thorne? Talk me to death?”

“No,” Killian said again.

He saw Lysander’s free hand begin to twitch, fingers starting to curl into the opening gesture of a defensive binding spell—something fast and debilitating meant to end confrontations before they began.

Killian didn't wait for the spell to form.

He moved.

It wasn't a run; running would have given Lysander a clear trajectory to aim at. It was an explosive forward lunge from a standing start, all the power driving from his legs and core. Twelve feet vanished in less than two heartbeats. His movement was straight and brutally efficient, honed not by dueling masters but by years of darting through crowded docks and narrow alleyways where hesitation meant getting caught or crushed.

Lysander’s eyes widened in genuine shock this time. His mind had categorized Killian as a problem to be manipulated or reported—not as a physical threat that needed immediate neutralization. The speed was all wrong. It bypassed the magical calculus of engagement ranges and casting times entirely. His brain screamed at his hands to react, to finish the shaping of the binding spell. His fingers flew up, his lips already parting to voice the command syllable.

He was far too slow.

Killian was already inside his guard. As Lysander’s crystal hand came up, Killian’s own left hand shot out and clamped around Lysander’s wrist. His grip wasn't delicate; it was like an iron shackle closing, the bones and tendons of Lysander's forearm grinding together under the pressure.

Lysander gasped, more from surprise than pain. His spell shattered on his lips, the half-formed energy dissipating into harmless sparks that stung their hands. With his other hand, Killian reached for the focus crystal. He didn't try to pry it from clenched fingers. He simply took hold of Lysander's index finger, the one curled around the base of the crystal, and bent it backwards with sharp, uncompromising force.

A pained cry tore from Lysander's throat as his grip involuntarily spasmed open. The polished crystal, the source of his power and control, dropped from his hand. It clattered onto the flagstones between their feet, rolling a few inches away, its inner light flickering.

For a second, Lysander stared at his own empty hand in disbelief. Then fury flooded his features. He tried to wrench his captured arm free, throwing his weight back, his other hand coming up in a fist aimed at Killian's face— a purely physical, panicked response.

Killian didn't block it. He used Lysander's own backward momentum. Still gripping the wrist, he stepped forward and to the side, pulling Lysander off-balance. At the same time, he brought his right forearm up in a short, hard arc that caught Lysander squarely in the center of his chest, right below the sternum.

The air left Lysander's lungs in a shocked whoosh. All fight went out of him for that instant, replaced by pure, debilitating lack of oxygen. His eyes bulged. His swing faltered and fell limp.

Killian didn't stop there. Maintaining his hold, he drove forward two more steps, using Lysander's stumbling body as leverage. He slammed him back against the rough stone wall of the courtyard. The impact wasn't thunderous, but it was solid enough to rattle teeth and send a cloud of ancient dust puffing from the mortar.

He pinned him there, his forearm now pressed horizontally across Lysander's collarbones, pressing just enough to keep him immobilized against the wall. Lysander wheezed desperately, trying to suck air back into his crushed lungs, his face mottled with shock and rage.

Killian leaned in close, his face only inches from Lysander's. He could smell expensive soap and ozone from the failed spells. He kept his voice low and calm, a stark contrast to Lysander's ragged breathing.

"You made another mistake," Killian said quietly into the space between them. "You assumed that because I have no magic, I have no power."

He glanced down at where the focus crystal lay on the ground, then back up at Lysander's furious, struggling eyes. "You have one spell left. You can try to shout for help." He increased the pressure on Lysander's chest slightly, just enough to remind him of its presence. "But we both know how fast I can move."

Lysander’s wheezing breaths began to even out into shallow, furious gasps. His eyes, wide with a mixture of pain and utter disbelief, darted from Killian’s impassive face to the iron grip on his wrist, then to the crystal lying uselessly on the flagstones. The reality of his position was sinking in, cold and undeniable. He was pinned against a wall by someone he’d considered beneath his notice, disarmed not by a superior spell but by a dockside brawler’s trick. The humiliation burned hotter than the ache in his chest.

“You…” he managed to choke out, his voice strained. “You animal. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“I’ve clarified the situation,” Killian said, his tone still that infuriatingly calm monotone. He didn’t relax the pressure. “Your blackmail relied on secrecy. So does this.”

He leaned in a fraction closer, his gaze holding Lysander’s. “Here’s the new deal. You keep my secret. I keep yours.”

Lysander barked out a ragged, humorless laugh that turned into a cough. “My secret? I have nothing to hide!”

“You do now,” Killian countered flatly. “The secret that Lysander Thorne-Kaelin, heir to a ducal house and trained duelist, got disarmed and shoved against a wall by a gutter-rat with no magic. In his own private practice yard.” He let that image settle in the silence between them. “How do you think that story plays in the dining hall? In the dueling society? To your father?”

Lysander’s furious expression flickered. The raw, social terror behind the pride was suddenly visible—a crack in the noble facade. His reputation was his currency, his armor. This scene, if described, would make him a laughingstock. It would undermine every ounce of respect and fear he’d cultivated. A noble could explain away a magical defeat to a skilled opponent. There was no explaining this.

“It’s your word against mine,” Lysander spat, though the defiance sounded hollow even to him.

“Is it?” Killian asked, not raising his voice. “Who will they believe? The promising first-year from a great house? Or the charity case from the slums who already has Valerius and Morvath watching him?” He shook his head slightly. “They won’t believe me. They’ll investigate. They’ll bring in truth-seers, aura readers. They’ll pick apart every moment of our interaction since the workshop. And when they do, they’ll find your attempt at blackmail first. They’ll find you knowingly harboring the secret of a fraud for personal gain. That’s conspiracy. That tarnishes your name just as much as losing a fight, maybe more.”

He paused, letting the logical trap snap shut in Lysander’s mind. “Or, they find out what I am because you expose me. And then I make sure everyone knows exactly how I found out you knew. I describe this.” He gestured minutely with his chin at their current position—Lysander pinned, disarmed, helpless. “Which version do you think hurts your prospects more? Expelling me, or becoming the noble who got manhandled by the fraud?”

Lysander said nothing. His jaw worked silently, teeth clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek. The fury in his eyes was still there, white-hot, but beneath it now swam a cold, calculating pragmatism. He was weighing the costs, the angles of damage control. His pride was screaming for vengeance, but his training—the deep-seated instinct to preserve status and power—was forcing him to assess.

Killian saw the shift. The blind rage was receding, replaced by a sharper, more dangerous kind of anger. He slowly eased the pressure of his forearm from Lysander’s chest, though he kept his grip on the wrist for another moment.

“Mutual silence,” Killian repeated, stating it as the only viable conclusion. “You leave me alone. I leave you alone. Your debt is cancelled. My secret stays buried. So does yours.”

He finally released Lysander’s wrist and took a full step back, putting three feet of space between them. He didn’t look down at the focus crystal. He kept his eyes on Lysander, watching for any sudden movement.

Lysander sagged for a second against the wall before pushing himself upright with a grimace. He straightened his tunic with sharp, jerky motions, his eyes never leaving Killian’s face. The humiliation was a living thing in the room now, thick and sour in the twilight air.

“You think this is over?” Lysander’s voice was low, scraped raw, but it had lost its bluster. It was deadly quiet.

“I think it’s a stalemate,” Killian corrected. “It’s over if we both walk away and keep walking.”

Lysander’s gaze dropped to his crystal on the ground. He seemed to consider bending to pick it up, then decided against it, as if touching it now would be an admission of weakness. He looked back at Killian, and in that look, something solidified. The manipulative opportunist was gone, burned away by the fire of personal humiliation. What remained was colder, harder.

“Fine,” Lysander said finally, spitting the word out like poison. “A stalemate.” He didn’t agree to anything else—not to the terms, not to the deal. He just acknowledged the current state of play.

It was enough for now.

Killian gave one last slow nod. He didn’t offer a threat or a warning. The demonstration had been warning enough. He simply turned his back on Lysander—a calculated risk, but a necessary one to show he considered the confrontation ended—and walked back toward the oak door.

Every nerve was taut, waiting for the sizzle of a spell aimed at his back, for the rush of movement. He kept his pace even, neither hurried nor slow. The flagstones were cool under his boots.

He reached the door, pulled it open, and stepped through into the dim corridor without looking back.

He closed it behind him.

Inside the courtyard, Lysander remained frozen against the wall for another ten seconds after the door clicked shut. Then he pushed himself fully upright. A tremor ran through his hands—part residual shock, part unspent rage. He stared at the closed door as if he could burn through it with his eyes.

Slowly, stiffly, he bent down and retrieved his focus crystal. He brushed a speck of dirt from its surface with his thumb, his movements precise and controlled. He held it up, studying its dormant light. It was just a tool. And today, it had failed him utterly.

The cold, seething fury began to crystallize into something else: a pure, unadulterated hatred. It wasn't about leverage or usefulness anymore. It wasn't about adding a strange tool to his collection. The gutter-rat hadn't just refused him; he had stripped him bare. He had reduced him to a body against a wall, powerless and gasping. He had forced him to choose between two kinds of ruin and then walked away as if he were nothing.

Lysander Thorne-Kaelin was not nothing. He was heir to a legacy of power. He had been bested, but he would not be beaten.

He slipped the crystal into a pocket inside his tunic. He smoothed his hair back with both hands, a gesture of restoring order. His breathing was finally even, icy calm settling over him like a shroud.

This wasn't over. It was just beginning. Killian Thorne had made an even greater error than confronting him alone. He had made an enemy. A patient one. A resourceful one. An enemy who would now dedicate himself not to blackmail, but to annihilation.

Lysander turned and looked up at the rectangle of darkening sky above the courtyard walls. His mind was already working, discarding subtle manipulation, planning for a more direct form of destruction. The annual Grand Gauntlet was months away, but there were other ways. Social ostracization. Academic sabotage. An "accident" during a practical that could be blamed on unstable magic. So many possibilities, now fueled by a personal vendetta rather than mere opportunism.

He would watch. He would wait. He would find the perfect moment. And when he did, he would ensure Killian Thorne's exposure was so spectacular, so utterly devastating, that no one would even remember the minor detail of how Lysander had come by the knowledge. The fraud would be destroyed, and Lysander would emerge unscathed, perhaps even praised for his vigilance.

A thin, cold smile touched his lips—a ghost of his former amusement, but empty of all warmth. It was a promise to himself.

Then he turned and walked to the courtyard door, opening it with a steady hand. He stepped into the corridor and headed toward the bright lights and murmured conversations of the main spire, his posture once again that of the confident noble heir. No trace of the struggle remained on his face or robes. Only in his eyes, now hard as grey flint, was the new truth visible.

The game had changed entirely.

In his dorm room later that night, Killian listened as Elian fretted over their next theory assignment. He gave short answers when needed, but part of his mind remained in that shadowed courtyard. He had neutralized an immediate threat. He had turned a blackmailer into a grudging non-combatant, at least for now.

But he wasn't foolish enough to believe it was truly over. Men like Lysander didn't accept stalemates; they stored grievances like treasure, letting them compound interest until they could be spent on revenge. The scrutiny from above—from Valerius and Morvath—was a storm cloud on the horizon. The scrutiny from beside him—from a humiliated noble with resources and pride to reclaim—was a knife waiting in the shadows.

He flexed his hand, the one that had gripped Lysander's wrist. Strength had solved one problem today. It wouldn't solve them all. But for now, it had bought him time.

And time, in this place of magic and lies, was the only currency that mattered