Something about that perpetual grin—mocking and predatory. The greasy bronze hair plastered to his scalp like spoiled syrup. Yellowed teeth that spat disdain. A half-tattered vest hanging from his frame like a beggar's banner.
Maybe it was those corrupted hands, claw-like nails crusted in dried blood, hinting at tasks Alan didn't want to imagine.
Or the arrogance in every movement—the tilt of his chin, the way his chest swelled with each breath, as though the academy's air was beneath him.
No. It was everything. Everything about Connor made Alan's blood boil.
He didn't care about Gerral's constant complaints. He didn't care that Sylas had nearly been killed. But whenever that stained smirk turned his way, Alan felt the urge to rip it off. Now, he had the perfect opportunity.
"Is that so?" Alan's grip tightened on his sword hilt—truly tight for the first time.
"So what? What—"
WHOOSH—CLANG!
Alan didn't wait for him to finish. He lunged, a silver blur arcing through the air. His blade slammed down. Connor barely crossed his daggers in time, the impact driving him to one knee. Severed tips of greasy hair drifted to the floor where Alan's blade hovered.
Clark moved. His sword flashed toward Alan's exposed neck—a strike meant to kill.
CLANG!
The sword bit into steel instead of flesh. Ms. Silvermine's blade intercepted Clark's strike a heartbeat before it bit skin. The force rippled through the training ground. All eyes turned.
"Stop this at once! The academy rules are still in effect." Ms. Silvermine's voice thundered.
Clark's eyes narrowed. "Silvermine...impressive as ever. Who'd have thought a Silvermine would teach in this backwater?"
"Count yourself lucky that I'm the real deal," she countered, nodding toward the trident poised at his spine.
"When did—dark magic? Impossible!" Clark breathed. The weapon had traversed more than two wingspans unnoticed; its prongs hovered a hair from piercing his back. The speed of its approach left his instincts scrambling—from a child at that.
"Alan," Ms. Silvermine called, her tone brooking no argument.
Alan exhaled sharply, releasing the trident. It clattered lifelessly to the ground. He then withdrew his sword. Connor staggered free, rubbing his scalp where Alan's blade had trimmed his hair.
"Why are you here, Silvermine?" Clark demanded.
She spun her sword lazily, its tip scraping stone. "Must my movements be reported to the Dawn?"
Clark's jaw tightened. "No. But given recent events, we need to confirm it's all a coincidence. Especially this." He gestured to Alan.
"You dare question me when you caused this ruckus?"
"Us? Your reckless brat nearly injured the young mistress. And given that strike moments ago, this bastard deserves execution," Connor snapped, pointing at Alan.
Ms. Silvermine's expression didn't waver. "That brat is Sylas—"
"I don't care who he is! The Dawn will have him hanged!" Connor retorted. "And you!" He turned to Alan. "You ba—"
—BOOM!
An explosion detonated in his face.
"Alan!" Ms. Silvermine yelled.
Alan smirked. "Sorry—my hand slipped."
"BASTARD!" Connor screamed as he emerged from the smoke. His daggers gleamed in his hand. The explosion had painted his hair black. "For that, I'll grant you your execution myself."
Clark shifted, his sword already half-drawn, ready to back Connor. But Ms. Silvermine's blade intercepted his path. "Two against a child?" she said evenly. "I won't allow that. But if you insist on fighting, I won't stop you either. Let's see if you're as skilled as you are at barking."
Clark's jaw tightened, his hand reluctantly releasing the hilt. "Fine," he spat. "I won't move. That brat is dead either way."
Connor wasted no time. He dashed forward.
CLANG!
Alan parried the attack, but the momentum sent him stumbling backward. His feet found an anchor. He steadied himself. He raised his sword, eyes narrowed on Connor.
"STOP!" Nora's voice interrupted Connor's charge.
He hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder. "Don't worry, young mistress," he said with a soothing tone. "I'll clean this up quickly." He turned back to Alan, resuming his charge.
But, in mid-strive, he stopped. His legs locked in place, muscles straining against an invisible force. He stumbled, his body bucking as though caught in a snare.
"What—?" Connor snarled, his voice laced with confusion and rage. He struggled, but his limbs refused to obey. Then, his ankles twisted unnaturally with jerky and desperate motions.
Alan approached slowly with deliberate steps, his smirk widening.
"Bastard! What did you do to me?"
Alan tilted his head with a pitiful expression painted on his face. "Don't get distracted," he taunted. "Distraction makes you a cripple."
Connor's eyes darted wildly, searching for the source of his paralysis. Then he saw it—Emma, standing behind him, fingers twitching. His face contorted into a furious mess with the discovery.
"Wrrretch!" he growled.
Alan raised his sword. "Bye-bye." He swung.
"CONNOR!" Clark shouted, reaching for his sword.
"ENOUGH!"
Jareth materialized out of nowhere; his hand caught Alan's blade with ease. "Haven't you done enough to embarrass yourself?" He glared at Connor, then shifted his gaze to Alan and released the blade.
Alan stepped backward involuntarily when he caught Jareth's hunting glare. "Emma, let him go."
She did. Alan sighed in relief.
Jareth turned to Ms. Silvermine. "My apologies, Ms. Silvermine. My men acted rashly. To make amends…" His gaze swept the battered students. "…why don't I offer myself as a sparring partner for your class."
Ms. Silvermine's sword remained half-raised. Clark's grip remained on his hilt.
"Are you planning to take away my students, Jareth Swifton?" she asked.
"Yes. Do you object?"
"Tsk." She lowered her sword. "Take as many as you like if it settles this mess."
"Splendid," Jareth declared and turned to face Alan. "How about learning a few tricks from this old man?"
"I won't leave Emma and Milla."
"Naturally! Bring them along. Who else?"
"Him." Alan pointed to the unconscious Sylas—who muffled a soft giggle under his breath.
"You brat!" Ms. Silvermine snapped, her boot catching a loose rock. The stone sailed through the air and landed squarely on Sylas's temple.
He jolted upright, clutching his head. "Ow! That hurt, you old witch!" Sylas cried indignantly, rubbing the sore spot.
"Do you have any idea how much trouble you've caused?"
Sylas erupted into laughter, clutching his stomach and slapping his thighs as if the pain had already evaporated. The absurdity of his reaction left him gasping for breath, entirely unbothered by her reprimand.
Nora and Gerral blinked at each other—what just happened?