The Professor's Scalpel

"Judge a man by his questions rather than by his answers."

— Voltaire

———

The western training yard felt like stepping into a gladiator's arena where I was scheduled to be the entertainment. Morning mist clung to the worn stone, and the familiar scent of leather and steel mixed with something else—the sharp tang of suspicion that seemed to follow me everywhere these days.

I hobbled across the courtyard, each step a carefully choreographed performance of pain. My left hand pressed against my ribs while my right gripped the stone wall for support. The limp wasn't entirely fabricated—Vance's [Power Strike] had left me genuinely battered—but I amplified every wince, every careful breath, every moment of hesitation to reinforce my pathetic persona.

The other House Onyx students parted before me like I carried some contagious disease. Marcus Vellum actually stepped sideways into a weapon rack to avoid getting too close, nearly knocking over a rack of training swords in his haste. Thomlin Ashworth suddenly developed an intense fascination with his boots, studying the worn leather as if it contained the secrets of the universe. Only Fen remained unmoved, her golden eyes tracking my progress with the same interest a wolf shows a wounded deer.

"Well, well. Look what crawled out of the infirmary."

Fen's voice carried across the yard with a predatory rumble that made several students instinctively step back. She stood near the sparring circles, arms crossed over her chest, her copper-red hair catching the morning light like living flame. Everything about her posture screamed barely contained violence, from the slight forward tilt of her shoulders to the way her tail lashed behind her.

"Surprised you showed up at all, Leone. Most people with any sense would've stayed in bed after getting their ribs rearranged."

I paused in my shuffle, letting my shoulders slump further, making myself smaller. "Had to come. Can't afford to miss more classes."

"Can't afford to miss classes?" Fen's laugh was sharp enough to cut glass, her canines flashing in the morning light. "You can barely stand upright, and you're worried about attendance? What's next, are you going to challenge Blackthorne to a rematch? Maybe ask him to hit you harder this time?"

Before I could stammer out a suitably pathetic response, the familiar sound of boots on stone announced Professor Isolde De Clare's arrival. She emerged from the equipment shed like a force of nature barely contained in human form. Her chestnut hair hung loose around her shoulders in wild disarray, and she carried her ever-present silver flask in one hand. But it was her amber eyes that made my skin crawl—they fixed on me the moment she appeared, tracking my movement with an intensity that set off every alarm bell in my head.

Shit. This is exactly what I didn't want. She's watching me too closely.

Professor De Clare leaned against a weapon rack, taking a long pull from her flask before speaking. "Leone. What are you doing here?"

I straightened as much as my 'injuries' would allow, putting on my best impression of a dutiful student. "Reporting for training, Professor. I know I'm not at full capacity, but I thought perhaps some light exercises—"

"Nonsense."

The word cut through my explanation like a blade through silk. Professor De Clare pushed off from the weapon rack, her movements containing a coiled energy that made every survival instinct I possessed start screaming warnings. There was something almost predatory in the way she approached, a battlefield commander sizing up a suspicious recruit.

"An injury teaches you what not to do. It shows you where your guard was weak, where your stance failed, where your enemy found purchase." She gestured toward the sparring area with a casual flick of her wrist. "Blackwood. Get over here."

Rhys emerged from behind a practice dummy, his father's spear held loosely in his grip. The morning light caught on the worn metal head, revealing countless small nicks and scratches from years of use. He moved toward us without hesitation, but I caught the way his grey eyes flicked between Professor De Clare and me, calculating, measuring. Whatever he was thinking, it wasn't simple obedience.

"Yes, Professor?" His voice carried the neutral tone of someone who'd learned not to volunteer information unless absolutely necessary.

"You're going to help me with a demonstration." Professor De Clare's smile was all teeth and no warmth, like a predator baring its fangs. "Leone here claims he's injured. I want to test that claim."

My stomach dropped toward my boots, but I kept my expression carefully blank, with just a hint of nervous sweat breaking out on my forehead. "Professor, I don't think—"

"Leone." Her voice carried enough authority to stop a charging bull in its tracks. "Show me a basic defensive stance against a spear thrust. If you're really injured, you'll know instinctively how to protect your weak side. If you're faking..." She let the implication hang in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre.

This is a trap. She knows something, or at least suspects it. But which way is she testing? Does she think I'm faking the injury, or does she suspect something else entirely? Either way, I need to play this perfectly.

I looked at Rhys, who held his spear in a relaxed grip, the worn wooden shaft resting comfortably against his callused palm. His grey eyes met mine for a moment, and I saw something there—not sympathy, but perhaps understanding. He knew what it was like to be tested, to have your worth questioned at every turn, to be the constant subject of someone else's judgment.

"I'll go easy," Rhys said quietly, his voice barely carrying beyond the two of us. "Just need to see your form."

I nodded, moving into position with exaggerated care. Every step was a performance of someone fighting through genuine pain. I let my left arm stay pressed against my ribs while raising my right in a basic guard position. The stance was deliberately weak, favoring my injured side in a way that would make any competent fighter wince in disgust.

"Pathetic," Fen muttered from the sidelines, her wolf ears twitching in irritation. "My grandmother could hold a better guard, and she's been dead for three years. At least she had the dignity to die standing up."

Professor De Clare ignored the commentary, her amber eyes fixed on my positioning with an intensity that made me wonder what she was really looking for. "Blackwood, show him a basic thrust. Slow and controlled."