Stefan's face was no longer red. It was a terrifying, chalky white. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He was shaking, not from exertion, but from a humiliation so absolute it had bypassed rage and gone straight to system failure.
"Well," a lazy voice drawled from the window.
Lucien de Montaigne was sitting up straight now, his amber eyes wide with predatory delight. He was openly, slowly clapping.
"Bravo, Lady Briar," Lucien said, his voice carrying across the silent room. "A truly astounding defense. It seems your... clumsiness... is a far more potent weapon than the Prince's 'genius'."
That was the final blow.
Stefan made a sound—a choked, strangling noise in the back of his throat. He threw the F-rank training rapier to the ground with a clang, turned on his heel, and stalked out of the training hall without a word to the instructor, his immaculate uniform still dusted with the ice from his own shattered barrier.
