The academy grounds were still cloaked in night, only the faintest wash of silver brushing the edge of the eastern sky. Gravel crunched beneath Lucavion's boots, the cool bite of morning air brushing against the edges of his coat. Every breath he exhaled lingered in the air like a ghost reluctant to leave.
He approached the West Arena in measured strides.
The structure loomed ahead—half arena, half battlefield. Its stone walls rose high into the predawn gloom, spiked with defensive runes and lined with flickering mana lanterns. Most were still dim, as if even they refused to wake this early.
But someone already had.
Lucavion's steps slowed the moment he crossed the threshold into the outer ring. His eyes, sharp despite the hour, caught the silhouette standing in the open circle of the arena grounds.
