The training hall echoed with the sharp clang of steel as Drake barely managed to deflect Mr. Leo's strike. His arms trembled from exertion, sweat dripping into his eyes and blurring his vision. The wooden practice sword felt heavier with each exchange, his muscles burning from hours of relentless drills.
"Again," Mr. Leo commanded, his voice calm but unyielding. He stood poised, his own blade held loosely at his side—a silent challenge.
Drake gritted his teeth, adjusted his stance, and lunged. His attack was sharper this time, his form cleaner, but Leo's parry came effortlessly. A sharp twist of the instructor's wrist sent Drake's sword clattering to the ground, the impact reverberating through the empty hall.
"Your technique is improving," Leo remarked, stepping back and lowering his blade. "But you're still hesitating."
Drake wiped his brow with the back of his hand, frustration bubbling beneath his skin. "I'm not hesitating. I just—"
"You're thinking too much," Leo interrupted. He tapped Drake's chest with the flat of his blade, the touch light but deliberate. "Aether or no Aether, a true warrior doesn't think in battle. He acts." His dark eyes bore into Drake's. "You lack conviction."
Drake's grip tightened on the hilt of his fallen sword. Something hot and unfamiliar flared in his gut—a flicker of crimson danced at the edges of his vision, so brief he might have imagined it.
Mr. Leo's eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing.
---
That night, Drake knelt beside his bed, the wooden floor cold against his knees. The storm outside had worsened, rain lashing against the windowpanes in erratic bursts. He reached beneath the bed, fingers brushing against the hidden blade.
The moment his skin met the hilt, he waited—for the pulse of energy, the hum of recognition that had surged through him before.
Nothing.
The sword lay inert in his hands, its surface dull in the dim light.
Drake exhaled slowly, turning it over. The last time he'd wielded it, something inside him had awoken—something violent, something hungry. The memory sent a shiver down his spine.
Thunder rumbled outside, shaking the glass. Drake tightened his grip.
"Show me," he muttered.
Silence.
The sword remained cold. Unresponsive.
---
Vice-Captain Kael lingered in the upper balcony of the training hall, cloaked in shadows. His gloved fingers drummed against the railing, his gaze fixed on the spot where Drake and Mr. Leo had sparred earlier as the rain fell.
Something beneath his skin rippled—a subtle, unnatural shift, like water disturbed by a stone.
A voice cut through the silence behind him.
"You were watching."
Kael didn't turn. "Nothing gets past you, Mr. Sonic." His words were smooth, practiced—but something in his tone was off, like a recording played just slightly out of sync.
Mr. Leo stepped into the dim light, his arms crossed over his chest. The faint glow of the academy's lanterns caught the sharp angles of his face, casting shadows under his eyes. "You've been absent from drills. Vanessa's noticed."
Kael chuckled, but the sound was hollow. "Tell Vanessa to worry about her own investigations."
Leo's gaze dropped to Kael's wrist—where the faintest trace of a bruise lingered, shaped like fingernails.
"Torin's grip must be slipping," Leo said coolly.
Kael's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Must be."
They stood in silence for a beat too long, the air thick with unspoken tension. Then, with a final glance, Kael turned to leave.
Leo let him go—but the moment Kael disappeared around the corner, he pressed two fingers to his temple and activated;
[Sound Art: Echo Pulse]
Sound waves rippled outward, mapping the academy's halls in his mind. Kael's footsteps echoed back—but the reverberations were wrong. Distorted.
Like the man walking away wasn't entirely human.
Leo's jaw tightened.
Then, on instinct, he redirected his focus—toward Duron's office.
The moment his pulse reached the door, it bounced back, repelled by an unseen barrier. A soundproofing ward.
Blocked.
Leo's suspicion deepened.
First Kael acting strange. Now Duron sealing his office?
And Winston had been unusually interested in both.
---
The door to Duron's office clicked shut behind the figure who had once been Kael.
Then, with a sickening shiver, the disguise melted away.
Skin sloughed off like wet parchment, peeling back to reveal a grinning mouth full of jagged, shark-like teeth. The transformation was grotesque—muscles and sinew rearranging beneath the surface, bones cracking as they reshaped.
Duron didn't look up from his desk. "I told you to stop coming here in that form."
The Watcher licked his lips, relishing the disgust on Duron's face. "What's wrong? Don't like wearing dead men's faces?"
"Your ability is repulsive."
"And effective," the Watcher countered. He stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders as if testing the limits of his true body. "You think i would have infiltrated Arachis so easily without it?"
Duron's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
The Watcher smirked. "Vanessa is already suspicious. Winston is watching. And now Leo—"
"The walls have ears," the Watcher interrupted, tilting his head. "But I have more."
He reached into his coat and tossed a small, bloodstained notebook onto the desk.
"Next target's details. The Hands move soon."
Duron didn't touch it. "Get out."
The Watcher turned to leave—but paused at the door.
"Oh, and Duron?" He glanced back, teeth glinting in the dim light. "Try not to look so guilty."
---
Drake's sleep was anything but restful.
Rain lashed against the windows as he tossed in his cot, trapped in the grip of a familiar nightmare.
A battlefield. Three attackers—no, four. The fourth lurked in the shadows, waiting.
The silver-haired warrior stood alone, his back against the ruins of a shattered fortress. Blood streaked his face, his breathing ragged, but his grip on his sword never wavered.
The first attacker struck—a blast of ice, sharp as knives.
The warrior didn't dodge.
Instead, his skin darkened, heat-resistant scales erupting across his arms in seconds. The ice shattered harmlessly against him.
The second attacker lunged—lightning crackling from his fingertips.
The warrior's pupils dilated, his reflexes sharpening. He sidestepped, the bolt missing him by inches.
The third attacker raised a hand—gravity itself warping, crushing downward.
The warrior's bones hollowed, his muscles redistributing to withstand the pressure. He barely flinched.
And through it all, his sword glowed crimson—just like Drake's.
Drake woke with a gasp, his hand already clutching the sword beneath his pillow.
The blade hummed softly in the storm-lit dark.
Waiting.