The sky was still bleeding gold and orange when Marcus opened the window.
Cool morning air rolled in, brushing against his face like a wake-up slap from nature. He took a long breath, stretching both arms over his head until his back cracked in exactly the way he needed.
"Right. Let's get it."
He dressed fast—training uniform, boots laced tight, sword strapped across his back—and headed out, skipping breakfast for now. He preferred to earn it.
The training field was empty except for the wind.
Perfect.
He dropped his gear on the bench and started with stretches, followed by laps along the outer circle of the field. His pace was steady. Not fast. Just… consistent.
The kind of pace that didn't burn out.
The kind that lasted.
By the time the academy bells chimed first hour, he was already mid-swing with a wooden blade, sweat rolling down his neck.
A few students passed by and waved.
He waved back. Grinned. Kept swinging.
'Every day's a chance to grow. To push further.'
He finished with three heavy strikes that split the target dummy's padding clean down the middle.
Then exhaled.
The morning had officially begun.
The training hall was already filling when Marcus walked in, towel slung over his shoulder, his hair still damp from washing off the sweat.
Clara was there, near the mats, stretching out her shoulders. She looked up as he approached and smiled.
"Morning."
"Hey," Marcus replied, easy. "You ready?"
She rolled one arm and winced. "Not really. I'm still sore from yesterday's drills."
"Then we'll go slow," he said, already dropping his bag beside hers. "Not here to break ribs."
She gave him a look. "You say that like you haven't accidentally thrown me halfway across the mat before."
He scratched the back of his head. "Yeah… fair. I'll pull back more this time."
Their warm-up was smooth, comfortable. They'd done this a dozen times before, and it showed. He adjusted his grip based on how she moved. Matched her pace. Didn't push unless she wanted it.
Rauk walked past, watching them for a moment.
"You two should lead the next group round," the instructor said. "Keep it clean. Make the rookies watch."
Marcus just nodded. Clara flushed a little.
After the sparring rounds, they sat on the edge of the mat, breathing hard but smiling.
"You always go easy on me," Clara said, nudging him with her knee.
Marcus shook his head. "Nah. I just fight smart."
She arched a brow. "That so?"
He grinned. "Yeah. You think I wanna be the guy who floors his partner and then walks her to the infirmary? Not a good look."
She laughed, the sound light, easy.
'She's stronger than she thinks.'
'And I'm just glad I get to watch her grow into it.'
The courtyard outside the main tower was warm by midday, sunlight filtering through the tall trees and dappling the stone benches with gold.
Marcus sat near one of the fountains, lunch tray balanced on one knee, biting into a meat roll like it owed him money.
Across from him, sprawled out on the bench like a cat in the sun, was Laziel Varn, the green-haired mage.
Sharp-eyed, loose-limbed, and always two thoughts ahead of the conversation. His robes were half-wrinkled, and there was ink smudged across one of his fingers—probably from the spell notes he'd been scribbling since breakfast.
"I swear," Laziel said, biting into a boiled egg with the elegance of a raccoon, "if Professor Daemar assigns one more paper on mana flow theory, I'm gonna write mine in riddle form just to spite him."
"Pretty sure that's how you got a warning last time," Marcus said, chewing.
"Yeah, but it was a good riddle."
At that moment, Garron Bale—a walking slab of muscle with armor-like shoulders and the patience of a brick wall—walked up and dropped onto the bench beside Marcus, nearly tilting the whole thing.
"Training dummies are down again," Garron grunted. "I asked if I could replace them with first years. Instructor said no."
Marcus chuckled. "You're not supposed to threaten the students, man."
"I didn't threaten anyone," Garron said, biting into a chunk of bread the size of a book. "I just asked."
Laziel grinned. "See, this is why I hang out with you guys. One of you is a saint, the other's a wall. It balances me out."
Marcus raised his cup in mock salute. "Glad we could be your moral triangle."
They all laughed.
Afternoon classes moved fast—Enchantment Theory was next, and the room was already buzzing when Marcus arrived.
He took a seat near the front, rolling his shoulders and pulling out his notebook. His notes were already organized, diagrams sharp and underlined, half a page of revision jotted down before the instructor even walked in.
To his left sat Elena von Lestaria, already flipping through her own pages. She didn't look up, but she gave a tiny nod in acknowledgment.
"Afternoon," she murmured.
"Hey," Marcus replied, keeping his voice low.
No small talk. Just a quiet understanding. That's how it worked with Elena.
Behind them, Selene von Iskandar was seated alone, absorbed in a weathered spellbook, icy expression unchanged since morning. Marcus didn't bother her. She looked like she'd kill a question with a glance.
The lecture kicked off—core theory, mana anchors, rune layering.
It wasn't hard for Marcus, but a few classmates nearby started fidgeting the moment the diagrams went up. Someone whispered a confused "What the hell is this?" under their breath.
Marcus glanced sideways, saw the guy flipping his book upside down, totally lost.
Without saying anything, Marcus angled his notes a little to the side.
After a moment, the guy caught on and started copying.
Another student near him leaned over. Marcus pointed once—subtle—and whispered, "That's the anchor node. You're drawing it backwards."
The student blinked, then grinned. "Oh. Got it."
'If I can help, I will.'
When the bell rang, he packed up fast, gave Elena a nod, and walked out with quiet confidence.
Another class done.
he academy grounds were quieter now.
Most students had gone back to their dorms, their chatter fading into the stone halls and behind closed doors. But Marcus stayed out a little longer, sitting alone on a bench outside the training hall, boots planted firmly on the cobbled path, arms resting on his knees.
The sky above was a deep blue, the stars just starting to peek through the velvet dark.
He liked this time of day.
Just the cool breeze and the last warmth of the sun on stone.
His muscles ached in that good way—earned, not given. The kind of soreness that reminded him he'd done something today. Moved. Learned. Helped.
Footsteps approached from behind.
Clara.
She flopped onto the bench beside him with a soft huff, brushing back her hair.
"Tired?" he asked.
"Exhausted," she said. "But… happy."
"Good."
They sat there in comfortable silence for a while.
Clara eventually nudged him with her shoulder.
"You always take everything so seriously, y'know?"
He smirked. "Someone has to."
She laughed. "Well… don't burn out, alright?"
"I won't."
And he meant it.
Because he wasn't just doing this for him.
He was doing it for her. For everyone he cared about. For the version of himself he wanted to become.
As Clara stood and headed off toward the dorms, Marcus stayed behind for just a moment longer, watching the stars settle into place.