The rest of the year flew by after my brief reunion with Asher.

  Days filled themselves with classes, drills, and long hours in the training halls. Weeks stacked on top of each other until I could mark the passing of time more by which monsters we were facing than by the dates on the Academy calendar. The second ended and before I fully realized it, I was no longer the new student trying to understand how everything worked.

  The seasons still shifted, even underground.

  I felt them most on the practice fields. In late winter, the stone held the cold longer. The air bit at my fingers when I gripped my knives and left a faint sting in my lungs when I ran. In spring, the light that filtered through the high vents changed color, softer and longer-lasting, as if the sky outside had decided to breathe a little easier. By the time summer neared, the fields were warmer, dust rising faster under boot and claw.

  Dusk and I changed with it.

  Our nightly routines evolved from simple drills into something closer to a language. At first, we had to speak constantly through the bond, brief flashes of intent, corrections, small warnings when I misjudged her path in the stone. I would dive too shallow or surface too early. She would misread where I wanted to emerge and come up a stride ahead of me. We collided more than once and ended up in a tangle of limbs and dust.

  Each mistake became a marker. A small point of adjustment.

  Soon I didn’t have to explain what I needed. I could picture a path — under, across, then up behind an imaginary opponent — and she would match it. When she felt danger through our shared tremor sense, she learned to tilt her own route to cut the angle, to arrive where I needed her most. There were moments when I would think about changing direction and find she had already done it, as if the decision had formed between us before it belonged to either of us alone.

  Practicing alone still mattered, but it felt incomplete now. My old drills— the ones I had built in training yard of the orphanage — remained useful, but they were no longer the whole of who I was. I had to relearn my own movements with the assumption that I was fighting with someone now. Every dodge, every strike, every retreat had to leave space for her.

  The instructors noticed the shift, even if they did not say much about it.

  After Asher’s visit and the news from Emberfall, Professor Roark was gone more often than he was present. Some weeks we only saw him at a distance, crossing the upper walkways with other commanders. A few times he vanished entirely for stretches long enough that other instructors took over his combat classes. They followed his patterns closely, still using his drills and phrases, but his absence was a weight I felt every time I entered the hall.

  When he was gone, they leaned harder on what we had already learned instead of introducing new forms. They ran more scenario work, mock missions built from fragments of real reports. We would be given limited information, then thrown into a shaped field and told to adapt. Sometimes we failed the objective completely but kept losses low. Other times we achieved the goal at a cost that left the instructors’ expressions tight and unreadable.

  They started grading us on both.

  The rest of our classes shifted in smaller ways.

  Advanced Dungeon Ecology moved away from diagrams and into case studies built out of fresh incidents. We were assigned living formations to track over the entire year, a nest here, a layered tunnel system there, and had to predict how they would respond if certain cores were stressed or removed.

  Every few weeks we would come back and adjust our projections based on updated reports. It was the first time I felt like our written work might matter to people outside these walls.

  Applied Aether Manipulation introduced more counterwork. Instead of simply learning how a spell should behave, we learned how to disrupt it from the outside.

  There were drills where three students would try to complete a weave while the rest of the class used nothing but movement and timing to make it fail—shifting angles, breaking lines of sight, jostling channels without ever landing a blow. I couldn’t cast, but I became very good at feeling when someone was about to succeed and stepping into the exact wrong place for them.

  Combat Movement and Spatial Awareness no longer focused on basics by the time the second year began. Those who could not keep up were quietly routed into different tracks. Those of us who remained had our habits broken down and rebuilt into patterns meant for larger conflicts.

  They taught us how to fight as if we were one piece in a much bigger shape, how to hold a lane so others could fall back through it, how to retreat without turning our backs, how to read where pressure was building in a field and move before it broke.

  The other courses grew sharper around the edges.

  Inter-Racial Politics and Diplomatic Realities began including more present tension in their examples. Treaties were no longer discussed as distant history, but as living agreements that could strain and snap if rifts and dungeon breaks continued to escalate.

  Rift Variants and Aberrant Formations pulled recent maps into the room often blurred for security, but close enough that we could see where lines were thinning.

  Strategic Operations and Mission Design started to include time limits on our planning sessions. We were told to make decisions with incomplete information because that was what commanders had to do now.

  Some of the changes were small. Some were not.

  I learned to pay attention to the little things.

  There were fewer jokes in certain staff conversations we overheard in passing. A few third-year and graduate students disappeared from the training rotations for weeks at a time, then returned with new scars and a different look in their eyes. Rumors passed through the dorms about “support assignments” and “reinforcement runs” that were not officially listed as part of the curriculum.

  The Academy did not name any of it directly, but everyone understood the same thing: the world outside was pressing closer.

  Inside that pressure, my life narrowed down to something very simple.

  I woke. I trained. I studied. I ate with friends. Repeat.

  There were nights when I stayed in the practice halls long after the official sessions had ended. Lanterns would burn low. Voices would fade. The floor would still hold the memory of a hundred footsteps, a hundred collisions, a hundred falls. Dusk would circle beneath me in wide arcs while I stood in the center and let my tremor sense stretch as far as it could reach.

  I learned the different ways people carried themselves when they were afraid, overconfident, exhausted, or bored. I learned how instructors walked when they came bearing news and how they walked when they came bearing orders. I learned what the stone felt like when a rift drill was running two halls away and when a real alarm sounded in the distance.

  Little by little, the Academy stopped feeling like a place I had been dropped into by accident and started feeling like home.

  By the end of that first full year and into the start of the next, I was no longer just trying to survive my time here. I was being shaped by it, pressed and folded and sharpened with every month that passed, alongside the others who had become more than just classmates.

  By the time autumn settled over my second year, the Academy had worn itself into me deep enough that I could feel its pattern in my bones.

  The heat of late summer training bled out of the fields. The stone cooled. Breath turned visible in the early drills. The light that slipped through the upper vents came in at a different angle now, thinner and more golden, like it had passed through a forest of turning leaves before reaching us.

  That was when the tournament banners appeared.

  They showed up overnight.

  One evening the upper rings were just open stone and scuffed chalk lines. The next morning, fabric hung from the railings in long strips, house colors, guild colors, even the blank silver-gray that belonged to students without a sponsor. Bracket boards stood along the walls with names etched in clean lines, some I knew well and others I had only heard whispered about.

  “They finally put us in,” Milo said, pipe unlit and forgotten between his fingers as we stood looking up at the boards. “It’s about time. Even if we are still like babies.”

  “We are not babies,” Grond rumbled.

  “Compared to third-years?” Milo said. “We absolutely are.”

  Zephyra’s eyes scanned the brackets, her expression thoughtful instead of tense. “These aren’t the grand tournaments. Just seasonal trials. They want to test us.”

  “A good way to see how students have improved,” Shine added quietly.

  She was right.

  The seasonal trials were mandatory for anyone in the higher tracks. Second-years were folded in now, placed in mixed brackets that tossed nobles, sponsored guild heirs and, anonymous prodigies into the same stone circles. Some matches were solo. Others were small teams pulled from class rosters and existing

  Our names were grouped together in one of the mixed-team brackets.

  “It tracks,” Zephyra said when she found us. “They already know we are a good team and wanted to place us with some who may challenge us.”

  I felt Dusk move beneath us, a slow circle in the stone that brushed the edge of my senses. She didn’t like the crowd. The stands were already filling with students reading the boards and taking bets on people they barely knew.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “When does it start?” I asked.

  Zephyra nodded to the time markers etched along the side of the board. “Three days. They’ll run the first wave this weekend.”

  “Good,” Grond said. “More time to train.”

  Milo squinted at our first opponents’ names. “Team ‘Kellan, Varas, Jun, Thera, Mira, Torin.’ I don’t see ‘Lost in the First Round,’ but that must be a misprint in their favor.”

  Malorn’s mouth twitched upward. “I think you’re right.”

  Zephyra let them talk, but her attention had shifted. I could see it in the set of her shoulders, in the way her eyes traced the order of matches, the placement of rest periods, the distribution of known strong teams.

  She wasn’t just thinking about one fight. She was mapping the entire competition.

  That night, training felt different.

  The hall we used for group practice had been marked with fresh rings, each one the same size as the tournament platforms. Instructors drifted between them, watching clusters of students run spar after spar. There was less shouting than usual. Fewer corrections. They were not teaching so much as taking stock.

  We stepped into one of the circles without being told.

  Zephyra stood in the center, blades at her hips, hair tied back. Grond rolled his shoulders. Milo checked the straps of his wristboard. Malorn tested his bowstring, fingers light but sure. Dusk surfaced beside me, her molten eyes catching the lamplight before she slid halfway back into the stone.

  “We know how to fight together,” I said.

  Zephyra shook her head. “We know how to fight when we can shape the field, take our time, and have room to maneuver. Tournament rings are tighter. Rules are stricter.”

  Milo sighed dramatically. “So little faith.”

  Grond ignored him. “What changes?”

  Zephyra glanced around the circle, then pointed to the boundary line. “This is the biggest difference. In missions, the field is everything. Here, they cut the world down to the size of a ring. No high ground unless it’s summoned. No long flanks. No disappearing into the distance.” Her eyes went to me and Dusk at that last one. “And in most matches, no going below the floor.”

  I felt my chest tighten. “What?”

  “They consider it leaving the field,” Zephyra said. “Or gaining terrain no one else can access. Unfair advantage. Dusk can use the stone for leverage and momentum, but not disappear into it for more than a breath at a time. They won’t let you fight like you normally do.”

  Dusk rumbled low in her chest, the sound humming against my legs.

  “It doesn’t remove your strength,” Zephyra added quickly. “It just shifts it. You are still faster than most. Your tremor sense is still an edge. Your accuracy and blade skills are top notch. We have to build a pattern that works inside the rules we have.”

  “I can work with that,” I said, though part of me hated the limitation. “We still have plenty of options.”

  “Exactly,” she said. “So we practice for what’s in front of us. Milo, traps will be limited. No pre-loading the entire field with explosives.”

  Milo clutched his chest. “You wound me.”

  “Most matches will only allow low-grade devices. Stuns. Binds. No lethal charges unless it’s a higher bracket with explicit permission.”

  “I have some very polite bombs,” Milo said. “They send their regards and only maim slightly.”

  “Milo,” Zephyra said.

  He sighed. “I will make do.”

  “Grond,” she continued, “you’ll anchor center. Ring fights favor people who can stand their ground and control space. That’s you.”

  He nodded once. “I can do that.”

  “Malorn, you’ll have less range, so we work angles instead. Focus on breaking rhythm. Eyes, joints, distractions. We don’t need kills from you in these matches as much as we need openings.”

  He met her gaze and dipped his head. “Understood.”

  She turned back to me. “Bryn, you and Dusk are our pivot. You pressure where the line is weakest and support where it’s close to breaking. We still treat you like a frontline, but we don’t lock you into one role. You’re our wildcard.”

  I exhaled slowly, shifting my mind to the changes.

  “Let’s start,” Zephyra said. “Assume the ring is neutral. No environmental advantage. Different opponents. Different problems.”

  The first night we trained against instructors who took it easy on us.

  The second night, they didn’t.

  They came at us in pairs and trios, using formations we hadn’t seen before. Some pressed hard with brute strength. Others tested our patience with long feints and sudden bursts. We lost more than we won at first, learning exactly how much room the ring did not give us.

  I learned to feel the edge with my heels, to sense when I was a half-step from disqualification without looking down. Dusk and I found ways to use the stone without vanishing into it. Short bursts of pressure that turned our movements sharper, leaps higher, landings softer.

  When I slipped and overcommitted, Grond covered the gap without a word. When someone slipped past our guard, Shine’s light would flare from the edge of the circle where she watched, mirroring what she would do in a real match if healers were allowed to intervene.

  By the third night, the ring felt less like a cage.

  The morning of our first trial match, I woke before the bells.

  The dorm was quiet. Most students hadn’t stirred yet. I dressed in my combat gear with practiced movements, checking every strap and buckle twice. Dusk waited by the door, eyes bright, tail flicking slow patterns against the stone.

  “You ready?” I asked.

  Warm affirmation pulsed through the bond.

  The hall outside buzzed with low conversation by the time we reached the arena level. Students clustered along the walls, some fully armored, others in lighter uniforms, all of them carrying the same tight focus around their eyes.

  We met the others near one of the side entrances.

  Milo had his wristboard strapped tight, pockets noticeably flatter than usual under his coat. Grond had polished his armor until the runes along his hammers caught the light in dull glows. Malorn adjusted his quiver, fingers steady. Zephyra stood with her hands folded loosely behind her back, but her posture gave her away. She was ready.

  “First match?” I asked.

  “Third ring, second rotation,” she said. “We’ll have time to watch one before we go in.”

  We filed into the stands for the opening bout.

  Two teams faced each other in the ring below, older students, third-years by the look of them. The first blow was called by a bell. The rest came in a blur.

  There was nothing friendly about it.

  Magic flared. Steel rang. One student went down with a scream when a hammer caught his shoulder. Another was dragged to the edge and thrown out of bounds. He hit the stone hard and didn’t rise until healers reached him.

  “They’re not pulling their hits,” I murmured.

  “They’re not supposed to,” Zephyra replied. “The wards will keep the damage from being permanent, but if you step into the ring, you accept the real injuries until healers can get to you.”

  Milo made a thoughtful sound. “On the other hand, think of the point gains if we do well.”

  Grond snorted. “You would think of that now.”

  We were called to the staging tunnel before the second match finished.

  The space beneath the stands was cooler, the ceiling low enough that Grond had to duck. A faint tremor ran through the stone every time the crowd reacted above us. Dusk pressed closer to my leg, head lifting as she listened to the muffled sounds.

  Across from us stood our opponents.

  Six of them, like us.

  Kellan—a broad-shouldered spear user with scars across his knuckles. Varas—a lean caster with thin tattoos climbing both arms. Jun—a shield fighter with a heavy tower shield. Thera—a quick-footed striker whose hands flexed restlessly at her sides. Mira—their robed healer. Lastly, was Torin—there beastkin ranger.

  They looked at us with the same measuring gaze we gave them.

  “Remember,” Zephyra said quietly. “We do not know them, but they don’t know us either. Use that.”

  Grond’s nostrils flared. “Plan?”

  “Same base as our last practice,” she replied. “Grond holds center with me on his off side. Bryn, you and Dusk take the right lane and threaten their flank. Milo, anchors behind us—stuns and binds. Malorn, you float. Hit whichever opening shows first, but don’t overcommit. If you go down, we lose our best chance to break casters.”

  Malorn nodded once. “Understood.”

  A bell rang somewhere above. The previous match had ended.

  An instructor stepped into the tunnel, voice carrying without needing to shout. “Teams Zephyra and Kellan. To the ring.”

  We walked out together.

  The light hit first—bright, focused, turning the stone of the arena floor into a pale disc. The stands rose around us in a wide circle, filled with students and a scattering of instructors along the upper rows. I picked out Professor Roark’s absence in the same breath I noticed several other commanders watching instead, arms folded, eyes intent.

  The announcer’s voice echoed from somewhere unseen, naming us and the bracket. Rules shimmered in the air around the ring.

  “Ready?” the instructor asked, looking from one side to the other.

  Kellan’s team signaled yes.

  Zephyra did the same.

  The bell rang.

  Jun moved first, tower shield coming up to cover their front line as Kellan slid into position behind it. Varas began to shape a weave at the back, fingers tracing light in careful arcs. Thera vanished around the left edge, fast and low. Torin began firing arrows while Mira readied herself for healing.

  “Right,” Zephyra called.

  I had already started moving.

  Dusk pushed against the stone just enough to send me forward like a released arrow. The boundary line brushed under my heel, then I was inside, knives flashing in my hands. I aimed not for the shield, but for its edges, the small exposed gaps where armor ended and flesh began.

  Jun shifted to meet me, shield turning to cut my angle. Kellan’s spear darted past the side of it in a quick thrust meant to test my reflexes.

  I twisted, let the tip graze my sleeve instead of my skin, and felt the tremor of it carry through the floor. Behind me, Grond stepped into the central lane, hammers up. Zephyra’s wind tightened along our side of the circle, shaving momentum from anything trying to push us back.

  Milo’s first stun orb arced overhead and burst in a crackle of light between Kellan and Jun. It didn’t take either of them down, but it forced Kellan to blink, his aim faltering for a heartbeat.

  That was all Malorn needed.

  His first arrow flew the same moment the orb burst, slipping through the edge of the flash. It struck Varas’ forearm, breaking his focus and scattering the light of his unfinished spell across the floor in harmless sparks.

  Thera appeared on our left, footwork quick and precise. She went for Milo, as I suspected she would, only to find Zephyra there instead. Wind wrapped her legs, not enough to stop her, but enough to shift her weight just a fraction. Zephyra’s blade met her with a clean, controlled cut slicing along Thera’s ribs which was quickly healed by Mira after she finished with Varas.

  The fight tightened, the ring shrinking around all of us.

  I learned quickly how little room there was for mistakes.

  Jun’s shield caught me once square in the chest, knocking the air from my lungs. Kellan’s spear grazed my thigh not long after, a line of hot pain that burned and cooled just as fast when my regeneration created a new white scar.

  Dusk never left the surface fully, but she used every inch of stone she was allowed to jump around the field of battle and make differences where needed.

  She caused a small swell at the edge of the ring which made Thera misjudge a step long enough for Zephyra to trap her wrist and drive her back.

  Varas managed to complete one weave.

  A net of crackling light sprang up around us, narrow and tall, pushing inward from the edges. It was meant to squeeze us toward the center where Kellan’s spear and Jun’s shield could pin us.

  “Down!” Zephyra called.

  We dropped almost together.

  The net passed where our heads had been. I felt its hum along my spine. Milo flung a second orb along the ground. It slid under Jun’s shield and detonated in a bloom of sticky force that rooted his front foot in place.

  Grond took that opening with a roar, slamming his right hammer into the side of the shield. The impact tore it free of Jun’s hands and sent it skidding across the ring.

  Kellan lunged to fill the gap. I met him halfway.

  The spear came in a direct thrust this time, fast and clean. I caught the shaft with my left hand, let it slide across my palm to redirect its path past my ribs, and stepped inside his range. My right knife stopped an inch from his throat, close enough that he could feel the aether hum along the edge.

  He froze.

  “Kellan out,” the instructor’s voice cut through.

  Kellan’s jaw clenched before leaving the field

  The net around us flickered and fell.

  Now outnumbered and outmatched we quickly drew the battle to a close.

  Varas lowered his hands, breathing hard, blood running from arrow wounds on both forearms. Thera straightened slowly, wincing as Zephyra blades were held above her heart and let go of her blade. Jun left leg was still stuck in place, shoulders heaving from his effort to get free. Mira was low on aetheric energy and Torin just had his bow staff broken after swapping to melee by Grond’s hammer.

  “Match to Zephyra’s team,” the instructor announced.

  The crowd’s reaction rolled over us like distant thunder.

  I stepped back and let the knife fade back into my bracers, Dusk’s warm presence steady at my side. Kellan gave me a short nod, respectful, not friendly, and retrieved his spear.

  We left the ring together, sweat cooling on our skin, lungs burning, adrenaline buzzing under the surface.

  It was only one match. One small bracket on one autumn day.

  But as we stepped back into the shadow of the tunnel, I felt confident about our chances.