"Instructor," Elise greeted evenly.
"Status," Galen said immediately, his voice low, sharp. There was no small talk, no pleasantries—just clipped urgency. His gaze locked on Damien with the precision of a hawk.
"Sprain. Possibly a mild ligament strain," Elise replied, placing the brace down beside the bed. "No tear. Nothing permanent. He's walking, with weight management."
Galen didn't seem relieved. If anything, his expression darkened.
"Elise," he said, his tone turning quieter, more dangerous. "Was the injury natural?"
The nurse blinked, then frowned slightly. "The student assisting him—Isabelle Vale—said it was the result of a late foul. Mid-match. From the side."
"Deliberate?"
"She certainly thought so."
Galen turned back to Damien, who now leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. That relaxed posture was still there, but something in the sharp line of his gaze met Galen's intensity with quiet understanding.
So he already knew.
