Elowen’s POV
The morning sun, a merciless, judgmental eye in the clear sky, beat down upon the ochre dust of the academy’s main training grounds, its harsh glare starkly illuminating the makeshift arena. A restless sea of students, their faces a mixture of apprehension and eager anticipation, swirled around the perimeter, their hushed whispers and nervous fidgeting creating a palpable hum of tension. The air itself felt thick and heavy, saturated with the mingled scents of sweat, tightly coiled nerves, and the barely perceptible undercurrent of latent magic that always permeated this place.
I stood alone just outside the designated sparring circle, the worn leather of my training gloves feeling strangely alien against my clammy palms.
Meticulously, I adjusted the straps, the familiar weight a small, tangible comfort against the frantic, erratic hammering of my heart. The tumultuous events of the past few days—the unsettling, intrusive encounter with Lysander, Alaric’s fiercely pos
