Edmund Blackthorn exhaled slowly as he stepped into the second-year section of the Academy's training hall. The private area was less crowded than the first-year gathering spaces, with only a handful of students sprawled across cushioned benches or leaning against enchanted pillars that absorbed residual magic from the previous fights. The air was thick with the smell of singed fabric and the lingering buzz of magic still dissipating into the room. His uniform, slightly torn and stained from the battle, clung to his skin, but he ignored the discomfort. His thoughts were still on Victoria Drake.
He had won, but not easily.