The room emptied after a while.
Seraphina had left with a nod. Not a goodbye. Just a quiet understanding that he needed the rest of the silence to himself.
Merlin sat on the floor long after she was gone. Back against the wall. Keryx resting against his shoulder.
The blade had lost none of its weight. But something about holding it now felt strange. Like it didn't quite belong to him anymore.
The ache was still there. Bone-deep. But duller now. Less like fire, more like a bruise left behind by something larger than it should have been.
No flicker. No current. No draw of mana humming beneath his skin like it used to. Just silence.
He tilted his head back, letting it rest against the wall. His eyes closed.
'I don't know who I'm supposed to be without it.'
'All my decisions were built around power. My speed, my strategy. I survived on certainty, on calculation. I knew how strong I was at any moment of a fight.'
'Now I'm guessing. Now I'm guessing every step I take.'
'And every second I wait to get stronger is another second I can't protect them and change the story this way..'
His hand twitched. He looked down at it.
He didn't deserve that.
Outside the training room, he could hear the low hum of the academy coming back to life. The halls were beginning to stir again.
It was almost noon. The rest of the students were probably filing into combat theory or magical reinforcement seminars.
'While I'm here. Sitting on the floor like I'm a ghost in my own life.'
A sharp pain bloomed behind his ribs.
Not from the training.
He reached for Keryx. Pulled it into his lap. Rested both hands on the hilt.
'If I can't channel mana, then I'll fight without it. If I can't bend the world around me anymore, then I'll drag myself through it. If my body breaks again—'
'Then I'll just get up.'
The silence inside him didn't break.
He stood. Carefully. Slowly.
But because it reminded him how far he still had to go.
He didn't expect them to.
Outside, the light had shifted. Afternoon now. Shadows a little longer. Heat curling faintly along the edges of the stone pathways.
He walked toward the south wing. Toward the old sparring garden.
He wasn't planning to train.
He just needed to breathe.
The south sparring garden had always been quieter than the central one. Less traffic. Fewer eyes. It was where students went when they wanted to be overlooked.
Merlin sat near the edge of the circular stone ring, back to a sun-warmed wall. He didn't draw attention.
He didn't need to. The second-years occupying the space didn't even glance in his direction. Just a few duelists practicing footwork drills, another group running formation sweeps with wooden blades.
Nothing flashy. Just repetition. Form. Discipline.
'It's almost boring…'
He let his eyes drift half-closed.
The scent of chalk dust and dried sweat lingered faintly in the air. The rhythmic slap of boots against stone kept time with their breathing. No shouting. No mana. Just motion.
He watched one of them trip on a pivot. Another barked a correction. They reset.
Merlin's fingers curled faintly against the ground.
'I used to think watching meant weakness. Standing still while others fought. But now…'
Now he felt every movement. Every slip in balance. Every breath mistimed. He could see the angles of failure before they played out, like the rhythm of a story half-finished.
His body couldn't follow. Not yet.
But his mind still could.
One of the duelists, a tall girl with short copper hair struck too wide on her lunge. Her partner clipped her ankle and sent her tumbling with a hard thud. She cursed. Laughed it off. Got back up.
Merlin watched her shake out her arms and reset her stance without being told.
He watched her land the next strike cleanly.
'I can't fight strong like them. Not right now. But I can still watch. Learn. Steal the pieces until I'm whole again.'
His breathing slowed. Not from exhaustion, but from something quieter. More deliberate.
But the rage had cooled.
He would get it back. His strength. His control. The shape of the weapon he'd made himself into.
He watched the extras spar.
And let the rhythm of their steps remind him what waiting was for.
The dull clang of training swords rang out across the gravel yard. Students circled in pairs, their footwork sloppy, grips too tight, shoulders too tense. It was sparring hour again.
Everyone trying too hard to prove something. Or maybe just trying not to be last.
Merlin stood at the edge of the ring, one hand resting loosely on Keryx's hilt.
The sword sat sheathed at his hip. Thin. Pale. Opalescent like a splinter of frozen starlight. It didn't hum, not today. No mana to feed it. No pressure in the air. Just silence.
He watched a younger student trip during a swing. His partner overcorrected and whacked him in the ribs.
Both of them laughed.
He stepped back from the shade of the column and walked toward the weapons rack.
They looked at him—some of the first-years. Some of the ones who knew who he was. What he had done. What he'd lost.
He stopped in front of the rack. Rows of swords, dull from use. Axes, pitted from blunt edge drills. A staff or two leaned crooked near the back. Practice weapons, worn thin. Nothing like Keryx.
And that was the point.
He reached for a longsword.
The balance was wrong. Too heavy in the pommel. He lifted it anyway. Let it rest across his palms.
'Reinhardt didn't say I was weak. Just wrong..or something like that.'
The thought coiled behind his eyes.
Keryx was still at his hip. But even the weight of it today felt… uncomfortable. Like it was watching him. Judging him. The sword didn't breathe like other weapons. It expected things. Precision. Will.
And right now, Merlin wasn't sure he could give it either.
He stepped onto an empty strip of sand and raised the longsword.
The first swing dragged wide.
He adjusted his footwork. The next cut came cleaner, but slower than it should've. The blade resisted his rhythm. Or maybe he just didn't have one anymore.
Another swing. A parry motion. Then again.
No lightning followed his steps. No wind in his lungs. Just him, and the weight.
A few students paused nearby, their sparring slowed. Watching.
He pushed through the second form. Adjusted the grip. His wrist protested. That was good. He needed resistance. Not speed. Not grace. Just the feel of motion again. Of consequence.
The sword clashed against the practice dummy.
This time the dummy jolted on its post. Dust kicked up.
'Keryx is cleaner. Faster. Easier to kill with. But that's not always better.'
His breath was short now. Muscles tight from disuse. But the ache was familiar. Grounded.
He returned the sword to the rack and pulled a heavier one next. A broadsword. Its edge was nicked, barely kept. It groaned in his grip like it knew it didn't belong.
A form. A cut. A stop.
The students had stopped watching. The ring was louder again. More sparring. More voices.
Merlin didn't look at them.
He went through every sword on the rack.
Each one pulled something different from him. A different rhythm. A different posture. None of them felt right. But none of them felt wrong either.
When he finally stepped away, sweat clung to the back of his neck. His shirt stuck to his spine. His legs ached from hours of stillness turned movement.
And still, he didn't touch Keryx.
It sat quiet at his side. Waiting.
He didn't draw it. Not yet.
Instead, he turned back toward the courtyard path. His chest rose with a slow inhale.
'If I can't master everything, I'll master this. Even without mana. Even with a broken soul. I'll keep moving. No matter how many times I have to start from nothing.'
He walked away from the ring. Keryx silent. The wind behind him soft.
And for the first time in days, it didn't feel like the sword was disappointed.
His grip on Keryx had loosened, the hilt still warm from his hands. There was no satisfaction in the weight. No clarity.
Just a hollow sort of ache in his wrist and the quiet drag of fatigue coiled under his ribs.
The walk back to the dorm was uneventful.
Evening had settled in. The halls were quieter now. Students whispered in pockets of light. None of them looked at him.
Maybe they knew better. Maybe they didn't recognize him without the pressure of mana clinging to his frame like armor.
The stairs felt longer than before. Every step scraped against his knees like someone had tied bricks to his legs.
The scarring inside hadn't healed, not really. The body moved, but it moved like it had forgotten why.
His door was unlocked.
The room was still too clean. The bed was made again, tucked with military precision. A cup sat on the nightstand. Steam had long since vanished. He didn't touch it.
He dropped Keryx on the desk with more care than he'd shown any of the practice weapons.
The blade didn't hum.
It didn't do anything at all.
He sat at the edge of the bed. Not lying down. Just sitting. Hands on his knees. Spine straight. Eyes fixed on the wall across from him.
There was no mana when he reached inward.
No spark. No current. Just cold.
Like the world had moved on without him.
'How long will I have to take it?'
The worst part wasn't the weakness.
He pressed the heel of his hand into his temple, trying to shove back the pressure building behind his eyes. Not quite pain. Not quite thought. Something heavier.
'I should've died in there.'
'I was supposed to die.'
He breathed out through his nose.
His body was still here. That was enough.