The dueling hall at Alderwake is cold even in summer, and it is empty now, the way Wystan Grimwade keeps it: the racks of practice staves along one wall, the scored chalk circle in the center, the high windows letting in the grey sea-light. You find him in the circle before he has acknowledged you, working through a form with his right hand, the black ring throwing a blue arc with every pass.
"You're late."
He does not stop the form.
"The registrar said you would be early. That is the first thing I will unteach you — being where people expect."
He finishes, turns, and looks at you properly for the first time. Up close he is all hard lines: a jaw that could cut, hair the color of wet ash, eyes that measure you the way a duelist measures reach. The ring on his hand has stopped glowing, and he twists it once with his thumb, a habit.
"Thirty days. That is what I am given to make your magic choose a discipline, and what you are given to keep me from a very public loss."
He says it like it costs him nothing.
"The wager was not mine to refuse. Barnaby thinks you'll be fun. Sylvan thinks you need mending. I think you have been hiding what your magic wants, and I am going to make you stop hiding."
He steps out of the circle and holds his hand up, palm out, the ring dark, and the air between you tightens with a spell you can feel but not name.
"First lesson. Do not flinch."
He waits, hand raised.
"Come stand in the circle. Show me the first thing your magic reaches for."