The training yard had emptied. Dust settled. Bruises ached.
Vael walked alone through the winding corridors of the dormitory wing, past stone archways and quiet torches.
He sat on the edge of the cot in his room and closed his eyes.
Silence.
Then— a sharp edge in the quiet.
"You're bleeding too easily."
The Voice.
"She saw too much. The Staff Bearer is not a fool."
Vael didn't reply. He leaned back, resting his head against the wall, still damp from the wash.
"You held the gate. That was right. Barely. But if you had shifted one thread more—"
"I know," Vael said aloud, voice low.
The Voice paused. Then softer, almost… amused.
"You're learning. Good. But what we need now isn't more brute training. What you need—what we need—is isolation. A forge, not a field."
"A private ground," Vael said.
"Ask Orin. He'll grant it. He knows what you are. He knows what sleeps in your bones."
Vael's eyes stayed closed.
"I don't want to draw more attention."
"You're already drowning in it.
"Do you think the Spear and the Staff haven't marked you? You need control before the others see what's beneath the surface."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Vael stood. Dressed. Pulled on the uniform tunic bearing the Division 1 crest. Every movement was methodical—measured.
His eyes, calm again. His voice, cold again.
"I'll ask."
The Voice said nothing more.
Vael stepped into the hall, breath steady.
The rest of the day would bring normal Academy sessions—lectures, tactics, flow theory. Most students found them dull. Vael found them necessary. Not for the knowledge—but for the mask.
Because the mask only worked if it never cracked.
And today, it had nearly shattered.
Not again.
The Division 1 classroom buzzed with quiet conversation and shifting boots. No instructor yet. Just anticipation and the low tension that never left the Academy's elite class.
Vael slipped in unnoticed. No fanfare. No weight to his steps.
He moved to the far corner—third row, back against stone—where shadows pooled and eyes rarely lingered. From here, he could see everything. And more importantly, no one could see too much of him.
He sat. Straight-backed. Composed. Like nothing happened.
The bruises from yesterday's "extra drills" were already gone—flesh mended clean, bones reset in silence, as if pain had never been allowed to settle. The fractures in the dirt, the flash of crimson, the echo of Mara's voice—gone. Locked behind calm eyes and steady breath.
He belonged here.
He didn't stand out.
At least, that was the illusion.
The first was light—Ryne. She settled into the seat beside him, silent as always, her presence more a blade's edge than a greeting. Still, there was no tension in her shoulders. No caution. Just quiet trust earned quickly.
Then came Joss, boots scraping stone, cloak half-thrown over one shoulder like he'd outrun time to be here.
"You always look like you're waiting for something to explode," he said, dropping into the seat beside Vael. "Or maybe hoping it does."
Vael's response was a glance. Neutral. Not dismissive.
Joss grinned. "I'll take that as a 'maybe.'"
He leaned back, scanning the rest of the slowly filling chamber. "Every time I sit in this room, I wonder which of us is going to disappear first. They say Division 1 loses someone every cycle. No warning. No name spoken after."
Vael's expression didn't shift.
"Don't worry," Joss added. "It probably won't be you."
Kainen arrived with the weight of a storm—broad, slow-moving, scarred. He took his seat next to Ryne, folding his arms and settling into stillness.
"Did you hear," he said quietly, "someone failed the pressure trial this morning. Fried his spine trying to cycle too fast."
Joss hissed through his teeth. "Damn. That's three failures in four days."
"Two dead," Ryne added.
"Same thing," Kainen said.
Vael didn't speak, but they didn't expect him to. That was already the rhythm—short sentences, long silences, and everything unspoken understood anyway.
They weren't friends by history.
But they were fast becoming something harder to break.
A pack.
Bound not by smiles, but by the shared certainty that this place wanted to eat them alive.
A hum rolled through the stone walls—sigil activation. The lights dimmed slightly as the classroom's main illusion rune lit the center floor with a golden projection. Tactical terrain, rotating slowly.
Instructor Kael Draven stepped in through the side door. Masked. Rune-marked. Wordless.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
Every student sat straighter. Focused.
Kael raised one hand, and the terrain shifted—positions appeared. Scenarios. Kill zones. Resource limits.
Then came the only words he offered.
"Build a winning plan. Or die in theory so you don't die in truth."
The room stilled.
Class had begun.
Instructor Kael's voice faded into motion—commands, countermeasures, probability sequences. Students engaged, adjusted, argued over tactics.
Vael remained quiet.
He answered when called. His plans were lean, efficient, unremarkable. No one questioned him. No one looked twice.
That was the goal.
The day passed in a rhythm of subtle exhaustion—tactical theory gave way to codex memorization, then group combat breakdowns, then mana flux math that only three students actually understood.
By the time the final bell rune sounded—a low, resonant chime from the tower above—the sun was sliding toward pre-evening. Golden light crept through the narrow high windows, casting long, sharp shadows across the stone floor.
Students stretched. Groaned. Gathered their things.
Some headed for the dormitories, already loosening collars and comparing bruises.
Others peeled off toward the after-class electives—chant work, flow enhancement, sparring clubs, even a rumoured psychic duelling circle that was definitely not sanctioned.
A few, more casual, headed into the Academy's outer rings—toward the market quarter, or the stonewalk promenade that led down into town.
Joss was already on his feet, slinging his satchel over one shoulder with the loose ease of someone who rarely stayed still for long.
"I need supplies," he said, rolling his shoulders with a faint crack. "Someone come with me before I forget food and walk back with soap and bandages I don't need."
Ryne raised a brow. "Didn't you do that yesterday?"
"It wasn't just soap," Joss muttered. "It was smoke-bark. Supposed to help focus. Smelled like burnt syrup and lies."
Kainen shook his head. "I'll pass. My pressure marks need re-etching. Last set nearly collapsed under strain."
"I'll go," Ryne said, pulling on her outer wrap. "I need new hand bindings. Forge quarter's cheaper after dusk."
Both turned toward Vael.
He hadn't moved. Still seated, arms resting across his knees, eyes half-lidded in thought.
"Not interested," he said.
Joss tilted his head. "Fresh air might do you some good."
"I'm fine."
"You always say that."
"I always mean it."
Joss let out a low breath. Not annoyed—just familiar. "Not dragging you to a market dance, you know. Just need someone with sense. Last time I bought soap it came with a blood-rune stitched into the label. That wasn't advertised."
Vael didn't move.
Ryne was already heading toward the archway. "We'll be at the south quarter. If you change your mind."
Kainen followed in silence.
Joss lingered. Half-out the doorway. One hand on the stone frame.
"You know," he said without turning, "you're not as far from the rest of us as you act."
Vael exhaled, slow and measured. The kind of breath that comes before a decision.
Then—he stood.
Joss blinked once, halfway to surprise. "Didn't think that'd work."
Vael adjusted his cuffs, eyes calm. "You'd get yourself hexed before sunset."
A grin crept across Joss's face. Smaller than usual. More real.
"Wouldn't be the first time."
They stepped into the corridor. The air was colder now—cut by mountain wind and fading light.
For now, Vael played the part.
He returned to the dormitory in silence.
The halls were empty now. Pale torchlight stretched long shadows across stone.
Each step echoed—not loudly, but sharply.
The Academy, in its bones, was a place of discipline built on blood. Even its quiet was surgical.
Inside his room, he stripped the training uniform and washed his face in cold water.
He dressed in dark layers—unmarked, utilitarian. Nothing soft. Nothing loose.
The Voice stirred as Vael adjusted his cuffs.
"That's enough pretending."
Not harsh. Not cruel. Just… tired. Like someone repeating a truth they've spoken too many times, in too many broken futures.
Vael didn't respond.
"You lower your stance. Dull your breath. Bury the weight in your bones like it's a sin."
A pause.
"It isn't shame. It's inheritance."
Vael sat at the center of the cot, hands resting on his knees. The quiet between thoughts felt brittle, like old glass underfoot.
"I know," he said.
The Voice remained steady.
"No. You believe you know. There's a difference."
"I remember what it felt like—when the sky broke. When you reached past fear and into something else. You cracked a god's skull open. Not with power. With certainty."
Another silence, heavier now.
"And now you walk in corridors. Sit in classrooms. Follow the others like it matters."
And the Voice said nothing more.
That ended it.
Not with argument.
With recognition.
But it stayed with him—watching.
Waiting.
And then he left.
The market hung beneath the Academy's eastern slope, half-choked in mist and torchlight. Stone streets. Iron scaffolds. Venders' voices like flies around a carcass. The air was thick with coal smoke, rot-fruit, and dried blood.
This wasn't a place for joy. It was a place for preparation.
He moved through the crowd like a shadow.
They were already there—Ryne, Joss, Kainen. Waiting beneath the crumbling arch of a watchtower ruin.
They'd changed.
Ryne's usual grey uniform replaced with dark fieldwear—hood back, gloves tight. She nodded at him once. No words.
Joss was less smug now. Still carried his usual smirk, but it didn't reach the eyes. The robes he wore were worn through in places—salt stains, stitch patches.
Kainen was still Kainen. A wall in human form. No armor now, just a black tunic over scarred flesh.
They looked at Vael—at the stiff lines of his clothes, too formal, too guarded.
"You didn't change," Joss muttered.
"I did," Vael replied. "Just not like you."
That was the end of it.
They walked.
No small talk. No forced ease. Just movement through fog and flickering torchlight as the market shifted around them. They bought what they needed—rations, wraps, repair tags, amp-vials, burn kits.
Vael purchased nothing.
Then—
Movement.
Subtle at first. A ripple near the edge of the market—just beyond the old execution square, where rust still stained the stones and no stall ever stayed long.
A shape emerged through the crowd. Cloaked. Hooded. Slow.
The chatter died without warning. Voices choked mid-word. Feet stilled.
Not fear. Not awe.
Recognition—but without understanding.
No one met the figure's gaze.
Eyes averted, breaths held.
Ryne stopped mid-step.
Kainen shifted his weight, fingers brushing the grip of the blade he wasn't supposed to carry.
Joss stared, frowning. "That... doesn't feel right."
Vael didn't answer.
The Voice stirred.
"That's not a stranger."
The figure moved through the parting crowd without speaking. No one approached. No one dared. Something about the way the air bent around them—like sound refused to cling, like the world didn't quite know how to hold their presence.
The cloak swayed. Bare feet on stone. A thin silver chain at their wrist.
No face visible.
Only the sense of something old.
Something watching.
Light bent away from them—not cast by shadow, but pulled by instinct.
Vael took one step forward, eyes locked.
The Voice hushed. Barely a whisper
"Whatever that is... it knows what you are."
And far ahead, as the crowd shifted and scattered like dust, the figure stopped.
Turned.
Faced him.
No words.
No gesture.
Just... stillness.
And in that stillness, something began.