Damien paused at the threshold of the infirmary, his crutch planted firmly against the ground, the afternoon light casting a pale gold outline around his figure. He didn't look back—his voice came over his shoulder, smooth and cool, like an afterthought.
"Oh, and my grades for today's quizzes…"
Another pause.
"Let's not inform Father about them."
The words were light. Teasing, almost.
But Galen felt the weight in them.
Not the threat of power this time—but the quiet acknowledgment of failure.
Damien knew.
Knew exactly how he'd performed.
And he was asking—not demanding, not ordering—for discretion.
Galen's lips thinned. He stepped toward his desk, fingers brushing against the folder where the graded sheets had been collected just an hour earlier. The results had already been auto-compiled. Each score printed cleanly, precisely. There were students who had excelled—Celia, Isabelle, a few others in the upper percentile.
Damien Elford, on the other hand…
