The new lab cut her route.

  Not enough to make the day easy. Enough to give her a few moments to breathe.

  Lysara found the door at the edge of the Alchemy wing where the corridor narrowed and the traffic thinned. The plaque beside it was plain. The lock was not. She set her hand to it, waited for the click, and stepped inside.

  The room was small the floor inscribed—circles nested within circles, lines threaded into the stone like veins. A barrier frame had been erected along one wall, the metal posts sunk deep, the air between them faintly shimmering. Not decoration. Not optional.

  She set her satchel down, opened the ledger on the bench, and wrote her name, time, and intended work in steady ink.

  Then she moved.

  She didn’t have long. Not today.

  She transferred what she needed from her pack with the practiced care of someone tired of carrying the same things twice. Containers aligned. Labels faced outward. Tools placed where her hand would reach without searching. A small efficiency.

  When she finished, she wiped the bench, closed the ledger, and left the space as if it hadn’t been hers at all.

  Outside, the Academy was brighter, full of voices, with students moving.

  Students moved between rings in clusters, tightening straps, comparing notes, making promises they wouldn’t keep. The air carried a particular kind of nervous energy—excited, restless, performative. She recognized it.

  Field test day.

  The training grounds sat beyond the inner ring, where the artificial forest pressed up against stone walls and wards. Lysara crossed the courtyards on a diagonal, cutting between groups without slowing. Someone called her name once. She didn’t turn. Not because she hadn’t heard—because she didn’t have the time.

  At the equipment racks, she reached for the same set she always took: satchel, gloves, sample vials, blade she didn’t pretend was for show.

  A hand snatched the strap of her satchel an inch before she swung it over her shoulder.

  Lysara froze just long enough to avoid punching the wrong person.

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  Kayden grinned at her, too close, eyes bright with the kind of energy that meant he’d slept. Or at least rested.

  “Relax,” he said. “It’s just me.”

  “It was about to not be.”

  His grin widened. “Good. I’d hate to think you were predictable.”

  He let the strap go, but he didn’t step back. He scanned her gear like he was counting pieces that didn’t belong.

  “You’re actually using gloves,” he said, sounding personally offended.

  “They keep the resin off,” Lysara replied.

  “Tragic.” He leaned slightly, lowering his voice. “I heard you got a private lab.”

  “A combined workspace,” she corrected.

  Kayden’s eyebrows lifted.

  “You corrected that too fast. That means it’s already become a fight.”

  “It’s not a fight.”

  “That’s what people say right before it becomes one.”

  She adjusted the satchel strap and started walking. Kayden fell into step beside her without being invited.

  “Does it have wards?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Barriers?”

  “Yes.”

  His expression turned mock-serious. “So… they’re expecting you to explode.”

  “They’re just guarding against adverse outcomes,” she said with complete seriousness. “The room’s assigned for that. Not for the students to explode themselves as a normal occurrence.”

  Kayden laughed under his breath. “You say that like it’s normal.”

  “It is here.”

  He looked at her for a beat too long, then turned forward again, grin still there, but quieter at the edges.

  “Field test today,” he said, as if reminding her.

  “I know.”

  “You’re on the Apothecary team?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” he said. “Stay where I can see you.”

  Lysara didn’t look at him. “That defeats the point of stay out of sight and move only when needed.”

  Kayden made a sound like he was trying not to laugh. “You’re the only person I know who can turn safety into an argument.”

  They reached the gate together. The instructors stood in a loose line, faces unreadable, clipboards in hand. Professor Thorne was there—iron posture, eyes already counting heads like numbers.

  A few students shifted under her gaze.

  Lysara didn’t.

  Thorne’s eyes landed on Lysara’s satchel for half a second, then moved on.

  Kayden leaned closer. “See?” he whispered. “She approves.”

  “She didn’t blink,” Lysara said.

  “That’s approval.”

  The gate opened.

  The artificial forest waited beyond, too neat at the edges, the ground packed down by repetition. Wards hummed faintly in the air, the boundary lines invisible until the light caught them at the wrong angle.

  Students filed in, stepping quieter as soon as the trees surrounded them.

  Markers had been placed with deliberate precision. Routes flagged. Objectives stated without warmth.

  This was not a combat drill.

  It was a movement and integration trial—navigate unstable terrain, respond to shifting objectives, and do so without a designated leader. Communication windows were limited. Roles were implied, not assigned. The instructors weren’t measuring speed or output.

  Lysara took her position without ceremony, eyes already on the first indicator as the simulated forest resolved around them.

  Kayden hovered beside her for one more breath.

  “Try not to nap under anything important,” he said.

  “Define important.”

  His smile flashed. “That’s the worst answer you could’ve given.”

  He stepped away, moving to rejoin the other overseers as the instructors finished their signals—eyes already tracking the field, not just her.

  Then the instructors signaled the start.

  Lysara moved.

  So did everyone else.