If the lecture hall taught humiliation gently, the training yard preferred honesty.

  And honesty hurt.

  Ayla stood with Group C on a packed dirt field beneath a sky too bright for comfort. Weight racks, rope towers, sand pits, balance beams—everything here seemed designed to reveal weakness.

  Instructor Hale paced in front of them—broad-shouldered, hair tied back, expression like a disappointed hammer.

  "Physical Conditioning," he announced, "is not optional. You cannot wield power if your body folds like wet cloth."

  Ren muttered, "Starting strong."

  Hale continued. "Some of you come from farms, mines, boats. Good. You know labor." He turned, gaze sharpening. "Some of you come from cushioned bedrooms. My condolences."

  Several students straightened defensively.

  "You will run," Hale said. "You will fall. You will choke on air and wonder why you were ever born. That feeling is necessary. It means you are learning."

  Someone groaned. Hale smiled—unpleasantly.

  "Five laps around the full yard. No time limit. But do not stop. Walking counts. Collapsing does not."

  Ren cracked her knuckles. Ayla rolled her shoulders. The yard stretched farther than it looked—wide, uneven, sloping slightly downhill before rising again.

  "Begin," Hale said.

  The group surged forward—some sprinting, others pacing, a few already gasping.

  Ren took off like she was racing a storm. Ayla didn't try to keep up—she found a steady rhythm, not slow, not fast, something her lungs could survive.

  Stonehollow mornings came back to her—carrying buckets from the well, chasing stray chickens, climbing hills for herbs. Survival training, unofficial but effective.

  Students began dropping pace halfway through the first lap, shoulders sagging, steps uneven.

  Cael Darion jogged past Group C on the outer track—smooth, practiced, barely winded. He didn't look at anyone.

  Ren lapped Ayla on the second turn, breath rough but determined. "You—" inhale "—run like you're thinking."

  "I am," Ayla managed. "If I trip, I want time to plan my fall."

  Ren barked a laugh, then pulled ahead again.

  Around them, complaining swelled—burning calves, dry throats, regret. But Ayla stayed quiet, breathing in counted patterns Seris had taught.

  Four in.

  Hold.

  Six out.

  Run long, not fast.

  By lap three, sweat slicked her temples, and her legs buzzed. But she could still move.

  A boy near her stumbled and dropped to his knees.

  Hale's voice cut through the yard. "Get up. The ground does not want you."

  The boy pushed himself upright, face red with humiliation.

  Ayla kept running.

  On the fourth lap, whispers began.

  "That's the five-root girl—"

  "She's still moving?"

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "She should've been last."

  Ayla pretended wind carried the words away. Ren shot glares over her shoulder like knives.

  Lap five arrived slowly, but it arrived—and Ayla crossed the invisible finish line still upright, still breathing.

  Hale nodded once in her direction—not praise, just acknowledgment she hadn't died.

  "Water," he ordered.

  They staggered toward clay jugs lined along the fence. Ayla cupped her hands under the spout, letting cool liquid wash dust from her throat.

  Ren flopped onto the ground, limbs spread like a fallen star. "Next time I say running is fun, punch me."

  "You said running keeps you alive," Ayla reminded her.

  "Same thing," Ren groaned.

  Some students lay flat, eyes closed, bargaining with unseen spirits. Others paced, pretending not to be exhausted. Cael wiped his face with a towel, barely sweating.

  Ayla watched him—not enviously, just curiously. He didn't look gifted. He looked trained.

  Which was different.

  Hale clapped his hands. "Recover later. Balance drills now."

  Ren cursed under her breath.

  Wooden poles rose from the yard—narrow, uneven, spaced at irregular distances. The task looked simple: step across without falling.

  It wasn't.

  Students wobbled immediately—arms pinwheeling, bodies tilting. One fell into the sand with a shriek.

  "Balance is Earth," Hale said, walking the line with infuriating ease. "Root yourself, or you will break."

  Ayla inhaled, stepped onto the first pole—and paused.

  It felt... familiar. Like climbing the broken fence behind her house, or tiptoeing across river stones to avoid muddy boots.

  Slowly, she crossed three poles—light feet, steady breath.

  Halfway through, a voice behind her drawled, "Careful. If you fall, we'll call it a landslide."

  Snickers followed.

  Ayla didn't turn. Didn't answer. Didn't rush.

  She just kept moving.

  She reached the last pole and stepped down gently, like finishing was inevitable.

  Ren arrived seconds later, triumphant. "I didn't fall once. Witness my greatness."

  Ayla nodded seriously. "I am witnessing."

  A laugh burst out of Ren—loud, bright, real.

  A few students turned—not with disgust, but curiosity.

  Progress.

  Hale marked something on his clipboard. "Good. Now the hard part."

  Everyone groaned again.

  He pointed to the rope tower—three stories of knotted lines swaying slightly in the breeze.

  "Climb," Hale said. "Touch the top. Come down safely. Anyone who jumps will regret it."

  Ren cracked her neck. "I like him and hate him equally."

  Ayla stepped forward. The rope scratched her palms—not painful, just textured. She pulled upward, muscles protesting more from fatigue than fear. Her braid swayed behind her like a tail.

  Someone below muttered, "She won't make it."

  Alya didn't speed up. She just climbed.

  Halfway up, she paused—not to rest, but to breathe. To feel the wind, the rope, the weight of her own body. To remember she belonged in motion.

  She reached the top—not first, not last—and touched the wooden beam lightly, almost reverently.

  The view was startling—training grounds stretching wide, mountains slicing the horizon, the Academy towers rising like carved commandments.

  Bigger than Stonehollow. Bigger than everything she'd imagined.

  And somehow, she was part of it.

  She climbed down carefully, boots finding rope without panic.

  Ren dropped beside her seconds later, panting. "If ranking week involves climbing, I might live."

  Ayla smiled. "Then I hope it does."

  Hale raised his voice. "Enough. Group C dismissed. Stretch, hydrate, do not faint in the courtyard. It attracts hawks."

  Ren blinked. "Was that a metaphor?"

  Ayla considered. "I hope so."

  They walked toward the edge of the grounds. Muscles ached, clothes stuck to skin, lungs still warming.

  But Ayla didn't feel broken.

  She felt... awake.

  Before they reached the gate, a shadow stepped into their path.

  Cael.

  He studied Ayla—not mocking this time. Just observing, as if she'd failed to fit into the box he'd built for her.

  "You lasted," he said.

  Ayla tilted her head. "Were you waiting to see if I wouldn't?"

  "No," Cael replied. "I was waiting to see if you'd try too hard and burn out."

  Ren crossed her arms. "Why do you care?"

  "I don't," Cael said simply. "But other people will."

  Ayla frowned. "Why?"

  "Because you're an anomaly," Cael said. "Five elements should be chaotic. But you move like someone who already found balance."

  Alya blinked—caught off guard.

  Before she could answer, Cael stepped aside. "Ranking week will be... unpleasant. Don't die."

  Ren rolled her eyes. "You say that like it's a greeting."

  "For some of us, it is," Cael said—and walked away.

  Ren watched him leave. "He's weird."

  "He's paying attention," Ayla murmured. "That worries me more."

  They continued toward the dorms, slower this time—body heavy, mind full.

  Students whispered about ranking week as they passed:

  "Heard last year someone broke their arm—"

  "Teams are random, I think—"

  "No, they're assigned—"

  "Ground level never survives—"

  Ayla didn't know which rumor was true.

  But she knew this:

  She couldn't control the test.

  She couldn't control the rankings.

  She couldn't control what others thought she deserved.

  But she could control the next step.

  And the one after.

  Ren bumped her shoulder lightly. "Tomorrow will hurt worse."

  Ayla nodded. "Then I'll be ready tomorrow."

  They reached Room 19, shoes heavy with dirt, stomachs already protesting future hunger.

  Ayla washed her hands, sat on her small bed, and watched sunlight slide across the stone floor.

  She didn't feel proud. She didn't feel scared.

  She felt steady.

  Sometimes, that was enough.

  ??