He stood at the edge of the training field, where observers rarely lingered.
An old man, wrapped in a travel-worn cape, its color muted by years rather than dust. He leaned on no staff, yet carried himself with the stillness of someone accustomed to being obeyed without asking. In his hands rested a book—thick, unadorned, closed as though its contents were irrelevant to the moment.
Our eyes met.
The instructors did not approach him.
They did not dismiss him either.
That alone told me he did not belong to the household.
He stepped forward after the others had dispersed, his gaze measuring not my posture, nor my blade, but the space around me—as if assessing what I didn't use as much as what I did.
"You've never studied magic," he said.
It was not a question.
I shook my head.
He regarded me for a moment longer, then nodded, as though confirming a calculation rather than expressing surprise.
"Interesting," he said quietly. "Very interesting."