Three Sets of Watching Eyes

"All things are subject to interpretation; whichever interpretation prevails at a given time is a function of power and not truth."

— Friedrich Nietzsche

———

Rhys shifted his grip on the spear, bringing it up into an attack position. The movement was stripped of all unnecessary flourish—this was someone who'd learned to fight because his life depended on it, not to impress nobles at a tournament. His calloused fingers adjusted with the unconscious familiarity of a craftsman handling his most trusted tool. He stepped forward with deliberate weight, extending the spear in a textbook thrust aimed directly at my chest, the well-maintained tip catching the light as it cut through the air between us.

I moved to parry, allowing my injured ribs to guide my movements naturally. The pain radiating through my side wasn't feigned—my body's honest response to the healing fractures—but I deliberately exaggerated it, letting my guard sag as I hunched to 'protect' my injured flank. I threw in a small, pained gasp that was just theatrical enough without seeming forced. The end result was a defensive posture that appeared suitably incompetent to any observers while actually maintaining enough structural integrity that I could recover if I absolutely had to. It was a delicate balance—looking weak enough to be dismissed while retaining just enough hidden competence to survive.

"Adequate," Professor De Clare said, though her tone suggested she found it anything but. "You're clearly favoring the injury. But that tells me you understand your limitations, which is more than I expected from you."

I started to relax, thinking the test was over and I'd passed. That was my first mistake.

"Valois. Get over here."

My blood turned to ice water in my veins. Seraphina Valois had been so quiet I'd almost forgotten she was there, standing near the equipment racks with a leather-bound notebook clutched to her chest. Her silver hair caught the morning light as she looked up, grey eyes wide behind wire-rimmed spectacles, a strand of hair falling across her face.

"Professor?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried clearly across the suddenly silent yard.

"You're a healer, aren't you? Or at least studying to be one." Professor De Clare's smile was predatory, like a cat that had just cornered a particularly interesting mouse. "Use your diagnostic abilities. I want a full assessment of Leone's condition. Aloud."

Seraphina's face went pale, but she approached with the careful steps of someone walking into a minefield. Her grey eyes darted between Professor De Clare and me, clearly understanding that this was about more than simple medical assessment. There was a subtle tension in her shoulders, a hesitation in her steps.

"I... Professor, I'm only a first-year. My diagnostic abilities are quite limited—"

"Then this will be excellent practice." Professor De Clare's tone brooked no argument, hard as iron. "Use your [Vital Sight]. Tell me what you see."

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

My mind raced through options faster than I'd ever thought possible. Seraphina's [Vital Sight] would show her my actual physical condition—the genuinely broken ribs, the extensive bruising, the way my body was healing. But it might also reveal other things. My stolen skills, my true magical capacity, the fact that my 'weakness' was at least partially fabricated. The layers of my deception were about to be peeled back by someone who could literally see through me.

I activated [Master of Disguise], pouring mana into the ability and hoping it would be enough to fool magical detection. The skill wrapped around me like a second skin, adjusting my magical signature to match my projected image of weakness and incompetence. I felt it settle into place, a thin veil between my true self and the world's perception.

Seraphina closed her eyes, her brow furrowing in concentration. I felt something wash over me—not quite physical, but not entirely magical either. It was like being examined by invisible hands that could see through flesh and bone to the truth beneath. A gentle probing that felt far more invasive than any physical touch.

Her grey eyes snapped open, and for just a moment, I saw something that made my blood freeze. Confusion. Recognition. Fear. Something that shouldn't be there—understanding.

She stared at me for several heartbeats, her lips slightly parted as if she wanted to speak but couldn't find the words. Whatever she was seeing, it wasn't what she'd expected. It wasn't what anyone would expect.

"Well?" Professor De Clare's voice cut through the moment like a whip crack. "What's your diagnosis, Valois? We don't have all day."

Seraphina blinked, seeming to remember where she was. When she spoke, her voice was steady, professional—but her eyes never left my face, searching, questioning.

"Two fractured ribs on the lower left side. Severe bruising across the torso. The breaks are... fresh, but beginning to knit properly. There's significant inflammation and muscle damage consistent with blunt force trauma." She paused, her grey eyes searching my face for something I couldn't identify. "He should not be training, Professor. Any significant physical stress could displace the fractures and cause internal damage."

Professor De Clare nodded slowly, but I caught the way her amber eyes narrowed, the subtle tightening of her jaw. "Interesting. And his magical capacity?"

"Depleted," Seraphina replied without hesitation. "Consistent with someone whose body is directing most of its energy toward healing."

Good girl. She's covering for me, but why? What did she actually see?

"Very well." Professor De Clare took another swig from her flask, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Leone, you're excused from physical training until further notice. Blackwood, Valois—with me. The rest of you, partner up for spear work."

As the group began to disperse, I caught Seraphina's eye one more time. She was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read—part curiosity, part wariness, and something else that might have been recognition. Her fingers tightened around her notebook until her knuckles went white.

She knew something. Maybe not everything, but enough to be dangerous. Enough to unravel everything I'd worked for.

Even as I walked away, I could feel eyes on my back. Professor De Clare's amber gaze, sharp and calculating. Rhys's grey eyes, thoughtful and suspicious. And Seraphina's pale grey stare, filled with questions I wasn't sure I wanted answered.

The disguise worked, but barely. And now I have three different people asking three different questions about what I really am.