The tournament grounds roar with a hundred voices — banners snapping in cold wind, the smell of torch smoke and polished steel heavy in the air. You are here as a student of magic. He was supposed to disappear into a different life. Then a hand touches your shoulder — and when you turn, he is already on one knee. Fist pressed over his heart. The same posture as the day he left, when he was twelve years old and crying and swearing an oath he had no right to swear. He has grown into a fine teenager. But the look on his face is exactly the same. He never broke it. Not once.