Page 27 of The Witch They Fear

Kage. The scarred one’s name is Kage.

He doesn't answer. Doesn't flinch from the strike, either—his body absorbs it the way stone absorbs rain, like it's happened so many times the nerve endings have stopped reporting.

But something behind his face changes. The smirk disappears. The storm-blue eyes go flat and hard and far away, and I watch the person behind them retreat to some interior room and close the door.

I know that look. I've worn that look. The expression of someone whose body is public property and whose mind is the only private space they have left.

Something soft cracks in my chest. My throat tightens. My fingers ache in tight fists, knuckles white, and I have to look away because if I keep watching him stand there with that dead-eyed compliance while Midus walks away swinging his staff like nothing happened, I'm going to do something stupid.

Something that involves fire and a combat instructor and the kind of consequences I can't afford on day two.

"Back on the rack," Midus says. Casual. Already turning away. The staff in his hand swings loosely at his side like he's already forgotten he used it.

Kage's jaw tightens. But his body obeys. He steps back, returns the staff to the rack, and resumes his lean against the post. Same posture. Arms crossed.

Watching.

But his eyes are different now. Whatever was alive in them a minute ago—the challenge, the smirk, the see?—has been replaced by something I recognize with a sick, lurching certainty.

He–

He's not choosing to be here.

He must not be a student…

He's definitely not staff if Midus checked him like that in front of all of us.

I know the walk. I've done the walk. The body complying while the mind screams.

I file him somewhere deeper than surface-level data points. Somewhere that matters. And I file Midus too—in a different folder. The kind with sharp edges.

"Pair up!" Midus barks. "Staves. Go."

Students scramble. Partners form. I stand at the edge of the field, staffless and partnerless—nobody wants to spar with the girl who, rumor has it, trips like a live wire.

"Hey."

I turn. The boy from Magic Theory—kind eyes, olive skin, the one who nodded—is standing two feet away, holding two staffs. He extends one toward me.

"I'm Emric," he says. "Emric Vane. You looked like you could use a partner."

I take the staff. It's heavier than I expected. I have no idea how to hold it.

"I've never done this before," I say. "Full disclosure. I’m Calypso."

"That's fine." His voice matches his eyes—warm, steady, unhurried. "I'll walk you through the basics. Just follow my lead and try not to hit me in the face."

"No promises."

He laughs. Quiet, genuine. And we begin.

He's patient. That's the first thing—patient without being patronizing, correcting my grip and my stance with gentle adjustments instead of lectures. He shows me the basic block, the basic strike, the footwork that goes with both. I'm terrible at it. My arms are shaking, my core is weak from twelve years of facility stillness, and every time I swing the staff, my magic lurches in my chest like it wants to help and doesn't know how.

But Emric doesn't rush me. He matches my speed, lets me set the pace, and when I manage a passable block on my fifth try, he nods like I just did something worth noting.

"Better," he says. "You're picking this up faster than you think."

"I'm picking it up faster than I should. I think my magic is compensating."