If you ever want to hate magic, let a wind mage make you dodge for three hours straight.

  That’s how our day started.

  “Move!” Callen shouted, unleashing a sharp burst of slicing wind bdes across the field. “No casting! Just evasion!”

  We scattered—me diving to the left, Eren sliding behind a growing crystal shield, and Iris leaping with all the poise of a noble-bred gymnast.

  Another gust tore through the sand where I’d been standing.

  “FASTER!” Callen roared.

  The man was relentless.

  We’d been running drills since sunrise, and not the fun kind. This wasn’t magic theory. This was movement, reflex, team response. No fshy spells. Just pain, sweat, and Callen's boot nearly in our faces if we stumbled.

  “This,” he barked, “isn’t about who has the prettiest spell. This is about not dying when a real mage tries to turn your lungs into ash.”

  After the third round, I slumped to one knee, panting.

  Iris, of course, stood tall, barely winded.

  Eren looked like a bunny who’d just escaped a thunderstorm, but to his credit, he hadn’t been hit once. His crystalline reflex barriers were fast and tight—nothing fancy, just functional.

  Callen noticed.

  “Eren.”

  He blinked, surprised to be addressed directly.

  “You’re quiet. But your shield timing is tight. Good mana yering. You ck offense, but your defensive control is excellent.”

  Eren flushed red and mumbled something close to “thank you, sir,” without making eye contact.

  I tilted my head. ‘The quiet one has the best defenses. Go figure.’

  Callen turned to us again. “Now we train in combinations.”

  My stomach dropped. I already saw where this was going.

  We started with basics.

  I’d cast Rootce to bind a moving dummy, and Iris would follow with Sor Ray to strike through the gaps.

  It should’ve worked.

  It didn’t.

  Because she kept burning the damn roots before her beam ever nded.

  “Too slow,” she said ftly, flipping her grimoire page with a snap. “Your spells don’t keep up with mine.”

  “They’re not supposed to match your speed,” I muttered. “They’re meant to control and guide—you’re supposed to follow my lead, not steamroll it.”

  “If you want to lead,” she said, “grow something faster than a twig.”

  Callen’s brow twitched.

  “Again!” he barked.

  We tried a second sequence. I id a field of Whisperfield Bloom, meant to daze enemy targets, and Eren followed with Crystal Snare—a cage of gleaming spears.

  Iris unched Petal Dance before either of us triggered our spells—nearly destroying both traps before they activated.

  Callen actually stomped the ground.

  “You’re not solo mages!” he shouted. “You are a squad! You move like a squad! You hit like a squad! Or you die alone while your teammates get torn apart beside you!”

  Iris crossed her arms. “It’s not my fault the others can’t keep up.”

  I raised a brow. “You mean me.”

  “If the boot fits, bastard.”

  Callen exhaled, slow and sharp. “Again.”

  Hours passed. Sweating. Resetting. Failing.

  I adapted my spell timing, used Hollow Branch to alert them of triggers. Eren adjusted formation spacing to avoid overps. Iris... didn’t change much.

  She kept charging ahead, spell after spell, treating us like tools rather than teammates.

  After a long silence, during our midday break, she said it.

  Loudly. Clearly.

  “Low-magic users should know their pce.”

  I set my tea down.

  Callen froze mid-step.

  Eren blinked, eyes flicking between us.

  I didn’t flinch.

  I just smiled. Dry. Razor-thin.

  “And nobles should know the difference between power and reliability,” I said. “I may not have enough mana to light a bonfire, but at least I don’t need to blow up half the field just to hit a rabbit.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “Oh? I didn’t realize sarcasm counted as contribution.”

  “And I didn’t realize ego could qualify as tactics.”

  Callen opened his mouth.

  Too te.

  Iris stepped forward.

  “Say that again.”

  “I’d rather not waste oxygen.”

  She snapped her hand out—and a ball of compressed fme exploded from her palm.

  I dodged left, rolled across the dirt, and snapped my grimoire open with a single motion.

  “Rootce: Interlock.”

  Vines shot upward, aiming for her knees.

  She burned them—again.

  But this time, I expected it.

  As the smoke burst, I used the momentary blind spot to cast Seedstep, unching myself behind her, nding in a crouch.

  She turned—too slow.

  I summoned Blight Barrage.

  She raised a shield—fme wreathing her hand.

  But I didn’t aim for her.

  I hit the ground beneath her.

  Thud thud thud.

  Vines erupted—thorned, twisting, sap-slicked—grabbing her ankle, her wrist, even her waist.

  “Yield,” I said.

  She ignited one hand.

  I ignited my grin.

  “Your fme touches me, the roots explode. I seeded them with sap compound twelve. It combusts under too much heat.”

  She paused.

  Callen stepped between us, finally moving.

  “Enough.”

  I let the roots fall.

  Iris stood there, eyes bzing hotter than her magic. Humiliated. Furious.

  But not speaking.

  Not yet.

  Callen looked at me.

  “You just outmaneuvered a noble who’s been casting since she could walk.”

  I shrugged, panting. “Science. And spite.”

  He nodded slowly.

  Then turned to Iris.

  “And you just got outmatched by the ‘low-power weakling.’”

  She didn’t respond.

  But her silence was the loudest thing I’d heard all day.

  That night, I sat on the roof of the barracks, the Crimson Lion insignia glinting in the moonlight on my cloak.

  Below, the city flickered with nterns and mana-lights.

  Footsteps approached. Not loud. Not angry. Just measured.

  Iris sat beside me without a word.

  For a long time, we didn’t speak.

  Then she said, “Your trap almost burned me.”

  I sipped my tea. “Your fireball almost scorched me bald.”

  Silence.

  Then, quietly, “You’re annoying.”

  I smiled. “Likewise.”

  “But... effective.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “That acknowledgment?”

  “It’s grudging, and it doesn’t mean I like you.”

  “Works for me.”

  Another pause.

  “You fight ugly,” she said.

  “Ugly wins.”

  And with that, we sat in silence again.

  No friendship. No forgiveness.

  But maybe—

  Maybe—

  The start of respect.