At the next training session, I was once again assigned a partner.

  When the name was announced, I looked at my opponent—Tara.

  And was surprised.

  Usually, when she stood across from me, she was calm, almost relaxed.

  Today, her face was focused, her eyes sharp.

  She had clearly prepared.

  Tara chose a completely different fighting style.

  She copied Elinia’s movements:

  short jumps left and right,

  sharp leaps up and down,

  air dashes that created temporary footing,

  and—at mid-range—series of icy icicles.

  I dodged the first two attacks without difficulty.

  On the third lunge, she put all her speed and strength into the strike—

  thinking she could break through.

  I met her attack with my sword.

  At the moment of contact, the metal shimmered—

  and my blade began to coat her sword in ice.

  Tara cried out and jumped back sharply, tearing free from the grasping frost.

  But I continued the process:

  crystallization around the blade, small growths increasing its weight and ruining its balance.

  She hesitated for a fraction of a second.

  That was all I needed.

  I created an icy floor—a thin layer, almost transparent.

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  Tara jumped upward to escape.

  That was exactly what I was waiting for.

  I hurled a massive snowball at her, created by rapidly compressing moist air.

  She lost her balance and fell onto her back.

  I said calmly:

  “You’re too easy to read.”

  She pressed her lips together—then nodded respectfully.

  Astra handled magic well, but had little real combat experience.

  Still, she formed a thick dome of water when I attacked her with a hail of icicles.

  The technique was correct.

  The power—sufficient.

  But the approach—too static.

  I accelerated with wind bursts and closed the distance while she maintained the dome.

  “House,” I muttered quietly.

  She didn’t hear.

  I placed my palm on the dome’s surface—

  and instantly began freezing it from the inside, forming an icy shell directly around her.

  The water seized into ice, the dome’s structure becoming heavy—and brittle.

  Astra shuddered as everything locked around her, and under the weight of the ice she dropped to her knees.

  “I didn’t expect that…” she breathed.

  “Because you don’t change position,” I replied. “Water is flexibility, not a house.”

  She listened carefully.

  Edgar had been watching all the fights from the very beginning.

  He attacked from a distance—

  with heavy ice spears, transformed from water compressed by wind.

  The tactic was clear:

  keep the distance.

  I accelerated—

  movement, dash, another dash—and I was already close.

  He reacted instantly.

  Iron gauntlets began forming around his hands,

  he fed an amplifying wind current into them—

  and struck with tremendous speed.

  The blow was excellent.

  Not weak.

  Well calculated.

  But—

  one wrong movement—

  and he lost his footing, throwing himself off balance with his own force.

  I stepped aside.

  He flew past me—and crashed to the ground.

  I leaned down.

  “They just need more training.”

  He nodded, embarrassed—but grateful.

  That evening, back in my room, I sat down to write.

  Today—geography.

  I wrote about what I knew:

  the structure of the earth’s crust,

  caves,

  layers of rock,

  minerals,

  and, of course, metals—the field I understood best.

  Every line—precise.

  Every diagram—neat, transferred through magical projection.

  And, as always,

  exactly twenty minutes later, the door opened quietly.

  Elinia entered without knocking, as if it were her room.

  Her footsteps had become familiar.

  She read everything I wrote.

  Every evening.

  I had already… gotten used to it.

  She didn’t interfere.

  She simply sat nearby, flipped through the pages, sometimes asked questions, sometimes just watched.

  And this quiet ritual became part of my day.