"Sometimes the enemy isn't the one smiling at you."
The note slipped into my hand during sword practice, as subtle as a pickpocket's touch.
I was concentrating on parrying Master Aldwin's strikes, my blade ringing against his in the rhythmic dance of steel on steel that echoed across the training yard. Sweat beaded on my forehead despite the cool morning air, and my muscles burned from the repetitive motions. The familiar weight of my sword felt good in my hands-honest, straightforward, nothing like the complex games being played in Academy corridors.
It happened during a brief respite, when Master Aldwin called for the students to switch partners. In the shuffle of moving bodies and clanking practice armor, someone brushed past me. Their touch was so brief I might have imagined it, but
