Part 2: Growth

  Chapter 14: So, It Begins

  The first two weeks of class flew by. We had been divided into sets of classes based on our tournament results and interviews with different members of the academy staff.

  Noble houses and high-ranking officials from nations across Solinar were allowed to provide input on the classes for their children. Students like me were just handed a schedule for this first semester.

  The classes I had were Dungeon and Rift Exploration, Introduction to Aetheric Magic, Solo and Group Combat, Tactics and Strategies of War, History of Thalyros and Solinar, Survival and Fieldcraft, Monsters and Bestiaries, Shard Theory and Application, and the Ethics of Power.

  The classes alternated each day between the four classes, apart from Solo and Group Combat, which took place at the start of each morning.

  The first week of combat class focused on solo fighting, where a series of instructors observed us as we sparred. After each bout, they gave suggestions, corrected mistakes, and asked about our preferred styles. By the end of the week, we were handed specific regimens tailored to us, warm-ups and drills designed to shape both strengths and weaknesses. At the start of every class, we went through these.

  The second week turned everything on its head. Group combat, which started after our solo training. Each day, we were thrown into new teams. These were randomly selected and filled with students of different skillsets, races, and abilities. The instructors gave us challenges that changed constantly.

  One day it was defending a marked point against waves of attackers. Another, we had to capture a flag from a fortified position. Some days, we were forced to escort a “target” across the field while the opposing team tried to cut us down. Others required us to survive as long as possible against enemies with superior numbers and equipment.

  The point was never just to win. It was to test us. To see how quickly we adapted, who stepped forward to lead, and who crumbled when orders conflicted. They wanted to expose cracks in our teamwork as much as polish our strengths.

  I quickly learned that some students couldn’t work with anyone outside their own race or nation. Others were so desperate to prove themselves that they sabotaged their own side. At the same time, there were moments of brilliance—where someone’s unique ability turned the tide, or where a group of strangers moved in perfect rhythm as if they had trained together for years.

  This third week was supposed to be different. No more drills and rehearsals. Our first true team combat was ahead of us. The last two weeks had been practice, sharpening us through exposure and trial. Now we would be tested as units, and the academy would be watching closely to see who rose to the surface and who sank.

  They would bring in various monsters for us to fight in preparation for dungeon runs and rift exploration. The combat grounds had been reshaped and stocked with controlled creatures to simulate what we would face beyond the academy walls.

  This tied directly into the next class, which focused on studying dungeons and rifts. I quickly learned that much of the reason the Academy of Ascension had been created was because dungeons and rifts were becoming more powerful and erratic.

  For centuries, they had been predictable, their levels of danger measured and controlled. That balance had begun to shift in the last hundred years, and fear spread that if those living on Solinar did not grow stronger, dungeon breaks and rift tears might overwhelm us.

  A dungeon break occurred when a dungeon became overfilled with monsters until the creatures spilled out through the gate. A rift tear was even more dangerous. This happened when a rift suddenly jumped to a higher tier, changing the strength of the enemies allowed through without warning. Both events left devastation in their wake.

  Dungeons were born when veins of aether from Solinar’s planet core reached the surface and condensed into stationary rift gates. These gates formed around specific locations that drew creatures to them, and the first being to pass through determined the nature of the dungeon. A single wolf could turn a dungeon into a den of predators, just as a wandering elemental could twist it into a labyrinth of storms.

  Rifts were different. They were portals to other worlds, appearing seemingly at random, though often in places where one or more kinds of aetheric elements condensed in power. The worlds they connected to reflected those elements, and through them, creatures of both realms could pass. Many rifts were seized long ago by ruling houses, factions, or guilds who built fortresses around them, defending both the dangers within and the wealth that poured out.

  Some rift worlds had even forged alliances. Many of the known races came to be here this way. Civilizations had crossed over from the other side and planted colonies on Solinar. Others continued to trade across the divide, bringing goods and knowledge from places no one here could have imagined. Yet many rifts opened only into wilderness, spilling out beasts with no civilization behind them.

  This was what made rift tears so feared. When a rift suddenly shifted into a higher tier, it not only unleashed stronger enemies but also sent a surge of aetheric energy through the region, drawing hordes of creatures toward the gate. Entire towns and two known kingdoms had been wiped out when they were unprepared in recent years.

  These events were becoming increasingly common across the continents, and the academy had been established with this looming threat in mind. The hope was simple but desperate. By raising stronger generations now, we might yet survive the battles the wider world was losing.

  Every nation needed stronger future generations to survive, and that was what they were all putting their hope in to maintain peace during the transition.

  The Tactics and Strategies of War, History of Thalyros and Solinar, Monsters and Bestiaries, Shard Theory and Application so far have not taught me anything I did not know from my own reading or conversations with Sirius. I could tell that I would quickly reach the limits of my understanding in them, though.

  Introduction to Aetheric Magic, Survival and Fieldcraft, and the Ethics of Power had all been eye-opening.

  I had no magical ability that I could use myself so everything I was learning about Aetheric Magic was helpful. It was still ground level, but I was beginning to learn functions of certain magics and I was looking forward to discovering how some of my abilities may work or other uses for the spatial aether attached to my bracers.

  Survival and Fieldcraft showed me that I knew little about the world. I had knowledge of animals and plant life, but I never considered the ability to actually survive in the wild, away from a city, for any significant period of time.

  Even more so when it comes to surviving in Dungeons or Rifts. This felt like a class I needed to take extremely seriously. The combination of all that I was learning was shocking me to my senses about how dangerous and vast the world was.

  I was starting to feel smaller and smaller as my grand view of all I would accomplish on my adventures hit the wall of reality. I had a long way to go before I could take on higher tier monsters without being obliteration regardless of my regeneration ability.

  This led into the final class — Ethics of Power. I wasn’t really sure what this class would be about when I first got assigned it. It was to my surprise that Headmistress Aurelia was teaching the class.

  I let my mind wander back to that first class:

  The chamber pulsed with the low hum of restless students. Crests of noble houses gleamed against polished uniforms, aetheric magic shimmered faintly in the air to my senses, and companions shifted at their masters’ feet. A hawk ruffled its wings, a scaled hound let out a soft growl, a serpent coiled with jeweled patience.

  Aurelia did not need to call for silence. She simply stood. Her white braid caught the torchlight, and her eyes, clear as mountain water, swept across the room. Conversation thinned until even the animals stilled.

  “Some of you,” she began, her voice quiet but commanding, “will be more powerful at thirty than your grandparents were at sixty.”

  Smiles flickered among the benches. A few even tried to hide their pride.

  She allowed the moment to stretch, then cut it short. “That is not a compliment. It is a warning.”

  A ripple moved through the chamber.

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  A boy with silver-etched horns raised his hand, bold enough to break the quiet. His scaled skin gleamed faintly in the torchlight. “If that strength is a warning, Headmistress, then why do we seek it?”

  “Because,” Aurelia replied, “Strength is survival. But survival alone is a small ambition. The question is not if you will gain power at this point. You will. The question is how you will use it.”

  An elf girl lifted her chin, her cloak clasp marked with Elderbough’s crest. “Our families send us to protect our people. To use power otherwise would dishonor them.”

  Aurelia regarded her steadily. “And when your family’s good and your neighbor’s good stand opposed, which will you choose?”

  The elf faltered.

  A human noble laughed, sharp and careless. “Easy. You choose your own.”

  Aurelia’s gaze turned to him, not in a harsh manner. “If everyone chose themselves, who would guard the roads between them? Who would defend the villages and farmers who provide your means of food?”

  The boy’s laugh died. His face flushed, and he dropped his eyes.

  She moved closer, hands folded behind her back. “Each time you reach for your strength, you must weigh its cost. Who pays for your strike? Who bleeds so that you may boast?”

  The horned boy frowned. “But isn’t that true of everything? Even food costs something.”

  “Exactly,” Aurelia said. Her voice sharpened like sunlight through glass. “That is why you must measure it carefully. A meal may cost a deer or a sheaf of wheat. That is a cost the world can bear. But if your use of shards drains the mind of your companion, or your magic demands blood, then you are not feeding strength. You are feeding rot. And rot always spreads.”

  A dwarf girl crossed her arms, copper rings woven through her braids. “Some rot can still give fruit. They say the orphan’s bracers drank his blood so he could stand in the tournament. Should he have cast them aside?”

  A few heads turned toward me. Heat rose to my neck. Aurelia did not glance at me. Rumors had started spreading about me, and it was only the second day. The way I saw Luceran stare and smirk at me when she spoke made it obvious where they were coming from.

  “I would not throw away any gift outright,” she answered. “But I would test it. Not every burden stays with the one who accepts it. A weapon that grows keener when justice is done may be a tool. Armor that strengthens when it shields the weak may be a blessing. But if your blade cuts deepest only when cruelty is indulged, if your shard or magic swells only when others suffer, then it is not strengthening you. It is hollowing you. And you must learn to know the difference.”

  The chamber quieted. Students shifted uncomfortably; their pride pricked.

  “What do you think will shape you more?” she asked at last. “The victories you win or the habits you practice while winning them?”

  The elf girl spoke again, her voice softer. “The habits. Once a cruel strike is taken, it will be easier to do again.”

  Aurelia inclined her head. “Yes. Every decision forms us. That is why this class exists. Not to teach you how to win, but to keep you from losing yourselves. Who you become is determined by the actions you choose to commit yourself to.”

  Her eyes swept the room. Each student felt her gaze as if she had spoken to them alone.

  “You are all sixteen or your race’s equivalent. The world will soon be yours to shape. Will you make yourself the center of the story? Or will you fight for things larger than yourself? You must now decide what you will do. If not, someone or something else will for you.”

  She turned to go, her gown whispering across the floor, then paused at the doorway.

  “Before our next meeting,” she said, “write a single rule. A rule you are willing for others to judge you by. Share it with someone you trust. If you find the courage, let them hold you to it. Strength without judgment is nothing but efficient ruin. And I will not train ruin.”

  She left them in silence, with most of the time for class remaining. Even whispers did not rise for some time.

  This moment had been etched into my mind over the last couple of weeks. I was still struggling to come up with a rule that I felt was worth committing myself to.

  Part of this class involved conducting case studies of individuals, examining the decisions they made, and analyzing the consequences of those decisions. At the next class, she told us she didn’t expect our rules to be formed so quickly, but wanted to get thinking seriously about it.

  This felt important, and I wanted to reflect deeply on the kind of person I wanted to become. The academy was already shaping me, forcing me to see what I was and what I lacked.

  Coming back to the present, I sat down next to Zephyra in the cafeteria. Around us gathered the rest of her group, the “party” she had formed for combat class. Parties were what they called the teams in our lessons, and they were more than just random groups of students thrown together.

  We had been taught about the different types of parties that achieved the most success: balanced groups built around versatility, specialized strike teams tailored to a single goal, and hybrid formations meant to adapt on the fly. The instructors drilled into us that understanding our teammates was as vital as mastering our weapons.

  Zephyra’s group was an eclectic mix of talent. Closest to her sat a halfling named Milo, who seemed to wear mischief like a cloak. He was lighthearted and sarcastic, always quick with a quip or a smirk. His jet-black hair curled in loose ringlets around his head, and his ever-present pipe sent tendrils of smoke drifting lazily upward, veiling his hazel eyes.

  He was the group’s rogue, focused on stealth-based combat and skilled in alchemy. Small blades lined his belt, and a collapsible staff rested against his chair. At his side sat a slingshot with a pouch of crafted ammunition—tiny vials filled with powders and liquids that could explode, poison, or blind on impact. He gave the impression of someone who could vanish into the shadows at will and leave chaos behind.

  Next was Malorn, a male elf from Elderbough whose silver eyes gleamed beneath a fall of golden-brown hair woven into intricate braids. He was the group’s ranger, fighting in a style reminiscent of Asher’s. His bow and shortsword rested close at hand, ready for either distance or close quarters.

  At his feet lounged his companion, a multi-tailed fox named Fern. The creature’s fur shimmered faintly with aetheric energy, and I had already seen it hover over the floor for short distances and turn nearly invisible, slipping away like a ghost.

  Malorn carried himself with the relaxed confidence of someone who had seen real danger before. He and Milo shared a bond born of long friendship, constantly trying to outdo one another with jokes and feats, their rivalry like a spark that lit the whole table.

  Beside them sat Grond, a stout dwarf whose presence anchored the group like bedrock. His long red beard was braided with beads etched with dwarven runes, and tattoos curled across his shaved scalp. He carried twin hammers and fought like a storm, his berserking style smashing through defenses with relentless force. Yet despite his ferocity in battle, he acted as the party’s pillar, steady and serious. He was always the one trying to rein in Milo and Malorn’s antics or settle disputes before they boiled over.

  The last member was a golden-scaled lizard-kin, the healer. Most struggled to pronounce her name, so she went by Shine. She had a rare affinity for light and life aether, and from what I had been told, she owed her life to Zephyra’s family. She had chosen to join their house in service, though she carried herself with quiet dignity.

  She rarely spoke, often reading even when the others were together. Yet when she did speak, the group listened, because her words were usually important or unexpectedly wise. Her hands bore faint glowing markings from the magic she wielded, and there was a calmness about her that felt almost sacred.

  At the center of them all was Zephyra herself. She was the group’s primary magical damage dealer and lead our group, weaving wind into chaos and destruction or, when needed, flowing seamlessly into melee with her twin blades. She carried herself with the composure of someone born to command, though she never flaunted it.

  And then there was me. She had asked me to join as the group’s dodge-tank, the one meant to draw the aggression of whatever we faced and hold it, buying time for the others to do their work. Typically, this role was filled with a large stationary fighter who could hold off large attacks with a towering shield and heavy armor.

  Due to my abilities with regeneration and tremor sense, I was suited for the role in a rare agility-based form. In truth, I did not have many options, but I trusted her and Elorian more than anyone else here. For now, that was enough.

  The cafeteria buzzed with the usual mix of clattering trays and half-shouted conversations, but at our table the noise seemed to fade.

  The others were trading jabs about the day’s drills, Milo sending curls of smoke into the sunbeam, when I finally set my fork aside. The words came before I could swallow them back.

  “I can’t think of a rule,” I said.

  Zephyra turned toward me, the light catching in her golden hair. “You’ve been brooding on it since that first class, haven’t you?”

  I gave a short nod. “Every idea I come up with feels wrong. Too small, too proud… or like I’d fail it before the week was out.”

  Milo grinned through the haze of his pipe. “That’s because rules are snares, my friend. Write one down, and you’ll only spend your life wriggling out of it. Far better to keep it vague and mysterious. Like me.”

  Grond gave a gravelly snort. “It is meant to bind you. To keep you from making a stupid choice. It is not meant to be wriggled out of.”

  My hands curled against the table. “And what if I choose wrong? What if I make a promise that looks noble now, but later turns out to ruin me?”

  Malorn looked up from his bread and cheese, silver eyes steady. “Every path begins with a single step. Waiting for the perfect wind will only keep you stranded. You walk. You learn. You change.”

  The soft snap of a book closing pulled my eyes to Shine. Her voice was quiet but cutting through the air. “A rule is not a chain, Bryn. It is a mirror. When you break it, you see yourself more clearly.”

  The table stilled. Even Milo didn’t have a quip ready. That resonated with me.

  Zephyra leaned her chin into her hands, studying me with that calm, unshakable gaze. “Maybe it’s not about perfection. Maybe it’s about naming the kind of person you want to be, even if you stumble along the way. What do you want others to say about you when you’re not there?”

  I stared down at the lines of the wood grain, the words almost catching in my throat. “That I protected others, maybe… I don’t know.”

  Grond nodded slowly. “Maybe make your rule about what you will stand for, rather than what you’ll stand against.”

  “Or keep it simple,” Milo chimed, grin creeping back. “‘Don’t be a jerk.’ That one’s never steered me wrong.”

  Malorn raised a brow. “You live by that?”

  “On my better days,” Milo said, smoke curling from his lips.

  Shine’s voice followed, softer than all the rest. “What about: ‘I will use my strength to protect others.’”

  Her words struck deeper than I expected. My chest tightened, as if they’d landed on a truth I’d been circling without seeing. I looked at her. “That’s… close. Closer than anything I’ve thought of.”

  Shine dipped her head and reopened her book. “Then hold it. If it still feels true after it’s tested, make it yours.”

  Milo raised his tin like a toast. “To rules we’ll break and hopefully feel bad about.”

  Grond chuckled, Fern yawned, and Zephyra reached out, her hand warm against my wrist. “You’ll find your rule, Bryn. Or it’ll find you, when the moment comes.”

  For the first time since Aurelia had given that assignment, the ache in my chest eased. Maybe I wasn’t meant to have the answer yet. Maybe the answer would be found in the trials to come.