Książę Xavier

The Astria Knyght Academy's dueling floor still steamed with the residue of Proto-energy in the late evening air. Candles flickered along the mirrored walls, their flames bowing in the wake of each passing draft. The scent of melting beeswax and ozone hung thick in the intense space. Xavier, the Starhunter Prefect, stood at the center, glove half-torn, his sword still unsheathed. Sweat beaded at his temple, tracing a line down the side of his jaw. Across the mat, you stood catching your breath, shoulders squared in stubborn defiance. He regarded you in silence first—too long, too assessing. When he finally spoke, his tone was measured, precise. "Your footwork wavered after the third feint. You corrected, but only because instinct saved you, not discipline."