"Knowing I am in direct disagreement with General Melgren's orders, I am officially objecting to the plan set forth in today's briefing. It is not this general's opinion that the children of the rebellion's leaders should be forced to witness their parents' executions. No child should watch their parent put to death."

—The Tyrrish Rebellion, an official brief for King Tauri by General Lilith Sorrengail

♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡

Professor Devera's penetrating gaze swept across the sea of eager faces as she welcomed us to our first 'kampbrief' or combat briefing. With its daily descent, the auditorium transformed into an arena of ambitions, the heartbeat of the academy's pulsating excitement. Her stature was as commanding as the room itself, even from the recessed floor of this vast circle of learning.

The purple-hued Flame section patch adorned her shoulder was not merely a symbol of her rank but an echo of her charisma, its vibrancy a testament to the electric atmosphere she fostered. It complemented her short hair, which was not just purple but a shade that carried the stories of twilight skies, imbuing her with an almost ethereal presence.

This cavernous, circular room was a rare convergence space in the citadel, its curved tiers embracing the ends of the academy hall as if it were cradling the future in its confident, architectural arms. It stood as one of the only two chambers capable of gathering all cadets into its fold, an architectural feat that magnified both voices and aspirations.

With its history of creaks and sighs, every wooden seat was filled to the brim, the thrum of anticipation palpable in the air. The upper-level students lined the walls like silent sentinels of wisdom, their presence a reminder of the journey ahead. Yet, space bent to accommodate dreams, and we found room to take root.

The departure from our history lesson was acute. Whereas in that smaller space, time seemed to linger with each threaded narrative, here, in the combat briefing room, the future charged forward with the urgency of a beating drum. In history, we were divided into small groups, comfortable and intimate, but now the first-year teams were clustered together, a mosaic of novices poised to learn.

Within our cluster, I tried to anchor the names of my peers in memory, each a wave that threatened to slip away from the shores of my mind. Among the names, Ridoc's resonated quickly, his witty quips from history class carving a distinct impression. Yet there's a respectful stillness about him now, an unspoken understanding that Professor Devera's domain was no stage for frivolity. Her reputation for sternness was an invisible line drawn in the hallowed space, a boundary of respect few dared to cross.

As the silence stretched in anticipation, it was clear that we stood at the precipice of a profound experience, our collective breaths held tight in the embrace of this scholastic coliseum. Here, before the formidable Professor Devera, we were more than students; we were the nascent bearers of the citadel's legacy.

Tension permeated the space around Violet and Rhiannon, mirrored by my rigid posture. Each of us was a statue carved by the silent pressure of anticipatory reverence that this class commanded. This was no ordinary learning; this was the art of dragonlore — a subject that, for me, had stitched itself into the very fabric of my being since I could remember. Dragons, with their mythic grandeur and whispery fables, had always captivated my spirit, but studying them here felt like approaching hallowed ground.

The air seemed to crackle with potential as if it, too, awaited Professor Devera's unveiling of long-guarded secrets. And then came the intrusion of Sgaegyl's voice within the quiet sanctuary of my mind, a mischievous ripple in the still waters of my concentration. Her mental intrusion was both a comfort and a vexation, echoing like a clandestine murmur in the cathedral of my thoughts.

"I understand the excitement, and I believe you'll be thrilled with what awaits at Tresing," Sgaegyl's voice danced through my consciousness, a knowing tease threading through the mental link we shared.

I released a quiet, involuntary sigh — a breeze of relief and frustration mingling in a hush beside my disciplined peers. "Stop that; I've told you," I whispered back, a soft plea amidst the silent strength of the classroom. It was a dance we had perfected, her playful torment and my feigned annoyance, a secretive dialogue under the watchful eyes of academia.

Her laughter filtered through the bond, a cascade of gleeful chimes that didn't disturb the surrounding stillness. "And why should I stop? It's far too amusing to ruffle your feathers, Emberlyn."

In moments like these, cloaked in the gravity of learning but pierced by the intimate connection with my dragon, I was reminded of the dual worlds I inhabited — the austere halls of knowledge and the vibrant, unseen realm of Sgaegyl's lovely taunts. It was a balance that constantly shifted, as tricky and compelling as a dragon's flight through twilight skies.

 "In times past, riders were seldom summoned to serve before their graduation," she pronounced, her lips pulling into a line taut with the weight of unspoken histories as she paced deliberately in front of the towering six-meter map of the Continent. It dominated the back wall, a tapestry of knowledge meticulously scribed with delineating our defensive garrisons bordering the ever-encroaching wilds.

Dusky light from dozens of mage lights cast gentle illumination across the room. They floated with an ethereal stillness, rendering the absence of windows irrelevant, their glow rivaling that of the sun. The faint, shimmering reflection of the longsword strapped to her back sent ripples of light across our faces as symbols of protection and unreachable might.

Each cadet became the object of her piercing gaze, a gaze that seemed to weigh our worthiness—one by one—as she punctuated her silent stride with measured halts. In those moments, I felt a kinship with my fellow aspirants, all under the scrutiny of one who bore the full spectrum of courage and experience, betrayed only by the gleam of medals firmly affixed against her chest.

Her steely eyes, under the shadow of her authoritative brow, flicked across the room, intent on impressing the gravity of our path. "You must understand the politics of our foes, strategize the defenses of our outposts against ceaseless strife, and possess an intimate knowledge of recent and forthcoming battles. Should you fail to grasp these fundamentals, you have no business upon the back of a dragon." The brevity of her pause, as she lifted a black eyebrow—a few shades darker than her deep brown skin—left an echo of solemnity.

"No pressure," Rhiannon murmured beside me, her quill dancing fervently across the parchment in sync with her racing thoughts. Meanwhile, Violet's assurance was a soothing balm to my rising anxieties. "We'll manage," she pledged with a sincerity that seemed to bond our fates together. But even in the face of their words, a lurking shadow in my heart suggested a different, unspoken destiny. The journey ahead was ours to carve, fraught with challenges, where not all that is promised may come to be.

An exhale escaped my lips, a mist wavering with the ghosts of uncertainty. "I hope so too, Vi, truly," I confessed, my voice barely above a hush, a whispered pact with the uncertainty that danced around us like shadows at twilight.

Violet's smile was a sliver of daylight piercing through the doubt, her playful nudge a testament to the camaraderie that so often proved to be our anchor. "Don't dwell in worry, Ember," she chided gently. "Oh, and what about yesterday's deep blue dragon in the courtyard? It seemed transfixed by you," she mused, her curiosity alight like sparks from a flint.

A silent shake of the head was my shield, a quiet gesture bathed in the unspoken words. Not now; there are ears in the walls and eyes in the shadows. My fortress of silence held firm, yet Violet's intuitive gaze caught the urgency and understanding forged in my eyes—later, I promise.

She perceived the clandestine signal as though it was carried on a breeze meant only for her. With a subtle nod, she returned to her private sea of thoughts, granting me the solitude I needed to navigate the stormy reflections that churned within me, all centered on that enigmatic cerulean gaze from the day before—the gaze of a creature born from the very essence of legend and mystery.

"This is the solitary class you shall attend daily, for it is the sole fortress of knowledge that will bear significance should you be summoned early to the call of duty," declared Professor Devera, her voice as resonant as a clarion call. Her scrutiny swept the room with the precision of an albatross scanning the vast sea, coming to rest upon me. Her eyes widened just a fraction—a brief moment, like the swift passage of a shooting star—but within it laid a universe of recognition. An unspoken covenant of acknowledgment was forged with a hint of a smile and a subtle tilt of her head before she steered her attention onward.

"Owing to the ever-evolving nature of this course, you shall be under the guidance of Professor Markham as well," she continued, her tone imbuing his name with a gravity that seemed to pull at the very air around us. "He warrants nothing less than the utmost reverence from each of you."

She beckoned the scribe to her side with an air of regal command. He approached the parchment-colored hue of his uniform stark against the midnight of Devera's attire, embodying the contrast of knowledge awaiting inscription upon the blank slate of our minds. He inclined towards her, the intimacy of their hushed exchange a murmured secret amidst the stone and timber of our learning sanctum.

As she whispered her private counsel, the scribe's eyebrows arched high like the unfurling wings of a startled bird. His sudden pivot, piercing gaze finding mine once more, felt like the silent tolling of a distant bell. An unnamed current seemed to pass through the ; am, a whisper of warning enshrouded me in a cloak of anticipation and veiled foreboding.

A curious sensation unfurled within me—a strange effervescence like a bubble of whimsy rising amid tension. My gaze flickered to the scribe, meeting his eyes briefly before he startled, quickly averting his own as if seared by the contact. "Well, that was odd," Sgaegyl murmured in the sanctuary of my mind, her mental voice laced with a quiet, uncharacteristic concern that mirrored my internal disquiet.

Reluctantly, and yet with a peculiar certainty, I found myself nodding in silent accord with my dragon's sentiment. Her words lingered, echoing softly in the corners of my consciousness.

The classroom's ambient murmurs faded into obscurity as I detected the telltale prickle of someone's gaze etched into the back of my skull. A deliberate turn of my head revealed the source: Xaden's golden stare fixed on me, as intense and unwavering as the first rays of dawn piercing through the gloom. I, too, held his gaze, an eyebrow arching quizzically in silent, wordless communication — What?

He remained enigmatically silent, his response an indecipherable canvas. Then, with a deliberate motion as dusk gave way to the nocturne, Xaden shifted his focus back to the professors, his expression a veiled problem, as though he were a sentinel of secrets contemplating the grand chessboard of our fates.

With an air of undeniable gravitas, the scribe stepped forward as if he were about to impart a sacred truth. "It falls upon the shoulders of scribes not just to study and master the chronicles of yore but to articulate and record the unfolding spectacle of the present," he declared. His fingers absentmindedly massaged the bridge of his nose, a gesture betraying a momentary retreat from the weary gulf that, gazing upon my face, seemed to have opened within him.

His voice carried an urgency that resonated through the charged classroom atmosphere. "Absent precise depictions of our battlefronts, reliable intelligence upon which to base strategic maneuvers, and—above all—the truthful account of our history for the enrichment of generations yet unborn, we stand threatened," he paused, allowing the implications of his words to steep in the minds of all who bore witness. "Doomed, we would be. Not merely as a monarchy, but as a civilization."

The finality of his statement hung heavily, an invisible shroud that momentarily stifled the room's breath. It was a dire prophecy, a forewarning that reached beyond the battlements of our present thoughts and into the very heart of what it meant to endure as a people. His eyes, having once darted away, now found a renewed strength as he implored us to understand the magnitude of the task ahead, which transcended the pages of history to touch the essence of our collective legacy.

I sighed, a gentle exhalation that seemed to carry the weight of the impending year. Still, a tendril of hope twisted through the sigh — a silent wish that the months ahead would unfold with promise and adventure.

"Yah, do not voice it. I know you will revel in the experiences Tresing promises. As for me, the anticipation of our reunion already sets my spirit alight," Sgaegyl's voice rippled through the bond, its timbre rich with an affectionate warmth that teased the edges of my consciousness, nearly tangible in its vividness. I could envision her smile as if she were beside me, a shared secret smile that brightened even the darkest of our thoughts.

I surrendered to another sigh, a mix of exasperation and quiet amusement at my companion's idiosyncrasies. "Oh, my stars," I muttered to myself, a half-hearted protest against the gentle incursion of Sgaegyl's persistent optimism. Her words, though spoken in jest, were a lantern in the fog—guiding and uplifting, an anchor to the future we were set to embrace together.

"First subject of the day," Professor Devera intoned with a gravitas that stilled the air. Her strides, a measured dance of purpose and poise, carried her toward the colossal map that graced the back wall. With the assured grace of one who bends the weave of magic to her will, she extended her hand, and a luminous mote of magic coalesced above the map, its brilliance an ethereal spotlight over the eastern frontier with the Poromiel Province in Braevick.

A collective lean forward marked the cadets' response, as every pair of eyes anchored to the glow that heralded dire news. She continued, her voice the harbinger of sobering reality, "The eastern wing withstood an onslaught last eve near the hamlet of Chakir, beset by a squadron of Braevi Gryphons and their riders."

The room constricted with the gravity of her revelation, the weight of battle casting long shadows over the faces of would-be defenders. Each mention of the attack was a brushstroke in an ominous canvas, painting the visualization of wing and talon, fire and enthusiasm, played out under the shroud of twilight skies. It was a silent, harrowing ballet of conflict gripped the minds of all present, an echo of the constant vigilance that the borderlands demanded.

"Well, that's not good," I muse silently, the thought an understated response to the gravity of Professor Devera's announcement. My hand moves of its own accord, the quill nearly dancing across the parchment as I jot down the details as swiftly as they are uttered — each word a sad note in the symphony of our education.

Glancing sideways, I catch the earnest scribblings of Violet and Rhiannon, and despite the sobering news, I can't help but smile. They may not belong to the scribe's square, but their quills dance enthusiastically, surpassing any official title. They wield their pens with agility and purpose, capturing the moment's urgency with an almost poetic poise.

Though I know that Violet once harbored dreams of joining the ranks of chroniclers, a different sort of pride swells within me now. Here we are, side by side, steadfast in our journey, having traversed paths we never imagined, and yet we remain unyielding.

In our unity, there's an unspoken strength, a bond forged in the face of shared challenges. We have come a long way, with countless tests of resolve trailing behind us and Tresing's trials looming ahead. But as I share a fleeting look with my comrades, their determination mirrored in my own, I'm filled with an unwavering conviction. Together, we will conquer Tresing with the same tenacity that lights our every endeavor.

"Understandably, certain details are withheld for the safety of the realm," Professor Devera's tone was steady, yet within it lurked an undercurrent of urgency. With a deliberate motion, her hands parted like the wings of a great bird in flight, and the pool of magical light on the map swelled to engulf the towering Esben Mountains that stood as silent guardians along our border with Braevick.

The revelation seemed to reverberate through the room, palpable as the tremor of the earth itself. "This breach not only allowed the Gryphon pack entry into Navarrian territory but also allowed their riders to channel and wield their powers near midnight."

A collective intake of breath cut through the auditorium, a sharp note amidst the rising murmur of cadets. The implications hung over us like a stormcloud ready to burst. It wasn't just the dragons whose symbiosis allowed for the transference of magical might; the Gryphons of Poromiel shared this rare gift, a fact that drew lines of worry more plunging into the young faces around me.

Dragons, the source of our defenses, the weavers of wards that rendered all foreign magic impotent within our realm, were our bulwark, our silent sentinels. Our borders' very shape, an almost circular embrace, was a testament to their emanating power that stretched from the Valley to the outposts at the edge of what could be shielded. A gnawing emptiness settled in my stomach as I contemplated the grim scenario.

Without the wards, Navarre was exposed, as vulnerable as a nestling without its mother's shadow. The prospect of Poromiel raiding parties descending upon Navarrian villages was not just a possibility but an awaiting certainty, a predation upon peace itself. These rapacious marauders, never content with their lands' yield, invariably lusted after ours.

The cadets understood. With each grim nod and each steely look passed between us, there was the acknowledgment of a future without respite. Until Poromiel learned contentment with our trade, until they sheathed their greed, our conscription would not end. Peace — an elusive dream, a fragile hope cradled in the hands of those poised to defend but slipping like sand through collective fingers.

"Do not distress yourself too deeply," Sgaeyl's whisper flowed through my mind, a soothing balm amidst the din of apprehension. "Should Gryphons dare to approach, I and my fellow æraogn will sear them into ebony crisps long before they near the college. Trust in me." Her conviction was a fortress in the ether, a vow etched between us.

Her reassurance was a beacon, a pulse of comfort that spurred a fragile solace in my heart. In that profound, unspoken way, you know the sky will clear after a storm, that she would fulfill her promise — a fiery sentinel poised to protect at a moment's notice.

I sighed, a breath laden with complex relief threads and concealed trepidation. It was a layered exhale, revealing the turmoil beneath my trained composure. For a fleeting moment, I basked in the sanctuary of Sgaeyl's words, allowing myself to feel somewhat ensconced from the hovering specter of danger. Yet, it was a transient fortress, as my mind couldn't help but wander to the other cadets whose fates were not aligned with the might of dragons. They faced a vulnerability I was spared, and this knowledge forged a kinship of concern within me, tethering my fate to theirs in silent solidarity.

"Thirty-seven civilians fell in the skirmish in the hour before a detachment from the eastern wing could engage, but the riders and their dragons managed to repel the swarm," Professor Devera concluded, her arms folding across her chest in a gesture that was as much a shield as it was a perch for her solemnity. The room absorbed her stark declaration, with its tally of loss that seemed to etch itself into the walls.

"Based upon this account, what queries would arise within your minds?" Her question cut through the hush of the auditorium, the weight of it demanding contemplation, demanding growth. She raised a finger with the precision of a maestro commanding silence before the symphony's storm. "I seek inquiries from first-years to start."

My question was poised on the tip of my tongue, itching for air — why would our storied wards crumble? Yet, I recognized the futility of such a query among a sea of cadets whose security clearances were as fledgling as their wings. Such enigmas were well beyond the confines of our current reach, veiled in layers of secrecy as thick as keep walls. The frustration was a bitter draught, the thirst for answers unquenched by the waters of discretion. I restrained the impulse, knowing full well the silence that would greet me was no different than the blank face of a sphinx guarding untold truths.

My internal monologue wove a careful path, not wishing to tread too far into the realm of the forbidden with my burgeoning curiosity. I don't want to be perceived as overly intrusive either, I mused internally, acutely aware of the delicate line I walked—a tightrope between the thirst for knowledge and the etiquette expected of a cadet in these storied halls.

A soft sigh, inaudible to those around me, escaped as I tempered the urge to probe deeper. I understood, with a subdued clarity, that the pieces of the puzzle I yearned to piece together were part of a giant mosaic, one that was, for now, beyond the scope of my novice gaze.

I settled back into my chair, the excellent, smooth surface of the wood a subtle reminder of the stability and order expected from us as future defenders of the realm. Professor Devera's commanding presence loomed at the front of the room, her finger still raised in poised silence, waiting for the questions that would surface from thoughtful restraint rather than unfiltered inquisition. The lesson, I realized, was not just in the facts we were given but in learning the discipline to wield our curiosity as judiciously as we would one day wield our power.

"Has the ward ever failed before?" a voice piped up from a few rows ahead. A first-year had broached the silence, his question slicing into the thick of our collective musings, as significant as it was unexpected.

It was a query that struck a resonant tone in the symphony of concerns swirling around the room, yet it wasn't the chord that resonated with my inner harmonies. The itch to voice my pressing wonderment clawed within, urging me to uncover the tactical nuances we might be overlooking.

I glanced sidelong at Violet, my subtle conspirator in the quest for knowledge. "Ask about the elevation of the village," I whispered covertly, and she understood the gravity that laced the words, nodding in quiet accord. "What altitude does the village stand?" she asked aloud.

Surprisal briefly flickered across Professor Devera's features before she turned the query over to her colleague. "Markham?"

"A touch below ten thousand feet," he responded, his answer triggering a puzzle of implications in our seasoned minds. "Why?" he asked, his tone's seasoning of curiosity evident.

Violet feigned a casual shrug. "Just seems a bit high for a planned Gryphon attack."

"Good job," I whispered to her, a spark of approval kindling within. Violet returned my smile with a soft beam of triumph, and Rhiannon prodded my side beside me, her sly inquiry as pointed as her elbow. "What the hell are you playing at, asking them yourself?" she whispered just for my ears, and I shot her a look brimming with skepticism before falling into silence again.

In this intricate dance of inquiry, we were all players on a board of strategy and survival. Each question posed, each answer considered, wove together pieces of a larger pattern that could determine the outcome of a conflict far beyond the classroom's walls. It was clear that Violet's astute question brought us one step closer, unearthing the subtext behind enemy movements — could it be a ruse meant to scatter our focus to the winds?

We persisted with our questions, weaving a tapestry of curiosity until the fabric of the truth began to emerge. At last, it was revealed – the enemies possessed knowledge that the wards were on the brink of faltering. Jack, the cadet with a history tethered to darker days and near-misdeeds against Violet, ventured the guess that was met with nods of respect. His insight proved adept despite the tension that previously crackled between him and me.

I had nearly let irritation flare into confrontation, but Professor Devera intervened with the agility of an experienced peacekeeper. Her nod, accompanied by a satisfied smile, confirmed our collective hunch, balming the anxious queries rising like smoke within the room. "Correct," she affirmed, her voice a blend of approval and readiness to delve deeper into the implications of this newfound edge of the enemy.

It hung in the air, potent and tantalizing—the realization that adversaries beyond our walls had pierced through the veil of our most ancient and reliable defenses. How could they possibly have known? The question was now an ember in our minds, smoldering with the urgency to uncover more, anticipate and adapt, and protect what was ours from those who would seek to claim it with cunning and force.

"Upperclassmen, take over," commands Professor Devera with an authoritative timbre. "Let's see if you can exhibit a bit more respect for your fellow cadets." Her stern and evaluating gaze pauses on Jack as questions begin to peel like a barrage from the riders positioned behind us. The queries come rapid-fire, edged with the urgency of those who have already tasted the bitter draft of combat:

How many riders were dispatched to the site?

What felled the single knight who perished?

How long did it take to clear the hamlet of Gryphons?

Were any of the aggressors captured alive for questioning?

I scribble each inquiry and its respective retort, my mind's cogs whirring, arranging the facts like pieces on a chessboard. If I had been stationed at the Scriber's Quadrant, each detail would be a potential key, dotted with significance, begging to be woven into an analytical report. I ponder the balance between vital information and extra data, paring down to the essence of what must be conveyed.

"How was the village itself?" Such simple words, yet heavy with implication, come from a resonant voice that rises from the hall's shadows.

A shiver races up my spine, recognition dawning like the first morning light, and my body stiffens slightly, antennae tuned to the impending import behind me.

"Riorson?" Markham queries, shading his eyes from the mage lights as he peers toward the source of the profound question.

"The hamlet," Xaden repeats, his voice a bass line threading through the treble of the room. "Professor Devera mentioned that the damage could have been worse, but what was the state it was left in? Did they burn it, raze it? They wouldn't ruin it if they tried to stake a foothold, so the hamlet's condition is crucial to discern their motive."

Professor Devera's smile betrays her approval. "Structures they had already breached were set ablaze, the rest pillaged by the time the wing arrived."

"They were searching," Xaden pronounces with firm conviction, the words resonating through the hall. "Not for riches; this is no jewelry mine district. Which begs the question, what do we possess that they covet so desperately?"

"Indeed. That is the question," Professor Devera affirms, her gaze sweeping the sea of faces. "And that is why Riorson leads a wing. Being a great rider entails more than just strength and bravery."

"So, what's the answer?" A first-year cadet's eagerness to understand is palpable in their query.

"We do not know yet," Professor Devera responds, her shoulders lifting in a shrug that speaks volumes. "It's another puzzle piece as to why the kingdom of Poromiel rebuffs our continual bids for peace. What were they searching for? Why that Hamlet specifically? Did they cause the ward to fall, or was it already failing? Tomorrow, next week, next month — another strike will perhaps provide us with another clasp. Look to history if you seek answers. These wars are already parsed and dissected. Battle Brief is for fluid situations. In this class, you must learn which questions to ask to give everyone a fighting chance of returning home."

Her words shudder me, the reality settling like an icy mantle upon my shoulders. Perhaps it isn't just the upper-level students who might be called to service this year. A chill cascades through my frame, and despite the warmth of the classroom, a cold war brews within me.

◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥

"You seriously knew all the answers in history and every right question to ask in Battle Brief," Violet teases, elbowing me gently as we stand to the side of the sparring mat after lunch, and with a playful nudge, I elbow her back. "Hey, I'm not the smart one here," I retort, eliciting a giggle from her.

Our eyes are drawn to the center of the mat, where Ridoc and Aurelie are locked in an intricate combat dance, each clad in their training gear. They are closely matched in size — Ridoc leans slightly on the smaller side. At the same time, Aurelie's build is reminiscent of Mira's, which isn't surprising given her legacy status through her father's lineage. "You don't even need to study for tests, do you?"

The rest of the first-year students congregate on our side, forming a cohort of observers wide-eyed with anticipation. Across the mat, the upper-level students are stationed — a stoic audience. They bear the advantage of at least a year's worth of battle training under their belts — knowledge etched into muscle memory, experience that eclipses any textbook lore.

The sparring match unfolding before us is not just a test of physical prowess; it's a silent symposium of strategy and wit. Combat, like our classroom inquiries, demands critical thinking — understanding the opponent's next move, capitalizing on their weaknesses, and adapting quickly.

As I watch the duelists parry and thrust, I can't help but draw parallels to our earlier discussions. The battlefield and the sparring mat are kindred arenas, and whether by a quill or by the sword, survival hinges on the sharpness of your instincts as much as the steel you wield.

"Are you worried about this?" Violet asks me as we watch Ridoc and Aurelie circle each other, tension mounting with every step. I shake my head. "Not really, Vi. I'm not the one who wields daggers like they're extensions of my arms, but I'm good enough," I reply confidently.

Rhiannon snorts, "I want to see you take on a guy and hand his ass to him," she tells me, her tone dripping with playful challenge. I giggle, "I can do that, though I don't particularly enjoy hurting people," I say earnestly. She shrugs nonchalantly. "Why not? It's fun when you hear them scream, and here, you don't have to kill anyone," she muses. I hum in agreement, a thoughtful sound. "That's true enough."

"I'm pretty worried about this," Violet confesses softly.

"Really?" Rhiannon questions, genuine curiosity lacing her voice. Her braids are twisted neatly into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. "I figured as a Sorrengail, you'd be a hand-to-hand threat," she continues, her tone forecasting admiration for expected prowess.

I share a knowing look with Violet and chuckle, but this is her story. "Not exactly," she answers, her voice a wistful note amidst the hubbub of the sparring practice. I knew that at her age, her elder sister had already been training in hand-to-hand combat for twelve years. I had often trained with her sister since I was a bit older than Violet, not by much, but enough to stand my ground in our friendly bouts. Violet, however, still carried the weight of her family's expectations, like armor, which she was slowly learning to shed.

My attention snaps back to the present as Professor Emetterio's voice booms from beside the mat, lifting over the din with the authority of a battle horn. "No blades today!" he commands, reinforcing the gravity of the spar. "We're just assessing!" His presence is formidable, even though he's only the fourth professor I've met. Intimidation radiates from him, perhaps amplified by the rigorous subject he teaches, transforming his compact frame into the silhouette of a giant in my mind.

His instruction redirects the focus back to the fundamentals, the unadorned art of sparring. In this crucible of combat, strategy melds with instinct, where the theoretical yields ground to the practical. Ridoc and Aurelie matched in size but differed in style, epitomizing this dance of thought and reflex, each movement a calculated risk, and each stance a testament to their training.

With every strike and counter, I see the echo of our classroom queries—strategies unfolding, tactics tested. In sparring, as in our lessons, the aim remains the same: to adapt, to overcome, and to learn not just the art of battle but the artistry of survival.

We continue to watch Ridoc and Aurelie spar, their movements a seamless blend of agility and strength. Just slightly longer, and then I hear Rhiannon pipe up again. "I'm pretty good on the mat. My village is on the Cygnisen border, so we all learned to defend ourselves fairly young. Physics and math aren't problems, either. But history?" She shakes her head in mock despair, "That class might be the death of me."

I chuckle, appreciating the camaraderie she's extending. "I can help you there, and so can Violet. How about this — you help her on the mat, and she and I will help you with history and anything else you need," I offer.

Rhiannon's face breaks into a bright smile. "That sounds like a deal!"

Silently observing the sparring, Sawyer chimes in, "I could probably offer some tips to survive combat training." I look over at him, smiling, and thank him.

"Thank you," I say warmly, and he returns the smile, nodding in my direction, a silent pledge of support.

The sparring match intensifies until Professor Emetterio's voice slices through the air like a thunderclap. "Enough!" he shouts, authoritatively and finally.

Aurelie pushes herself off Ridoc, standing up and gingerly touching her split lip, her fingers stained with crimson. She examines the blood briefly before offering her hand to Ridoc, a gesture of sportsmanship amidst the silent echoes of their combat.

He takes it, pulling himself up with a nod of respect.

"Cianna, take Aurelie to the healers. No reason to lose a tooth during an assessment," Professor Emetterio orders, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Cianna steps forward, her expression a mix of concern and duty as she leads Aurelie away. The subtle interplay of relief and pride in Aurelie's eyes marks the end of the match; even in the face of blood and bruises, we learn and grow.

Our bonds, forged through both intellect and muscle, cement our place in a world where knowledge and strength must coexist if we are to safeguard our future.

Suddenly, a blood-curdling shriek slices through the air from a few mats over, jerking my attention towards the horror unfolding before my eyes. To my shock and mounting fury, I see Jack Barlowe, his arms snared around another first-year's neck in a headlock. The unfortunate cadet, more petite and slimmer than Jack but still about fifty pounds heavier than me, struggles futilely.

Jack's grip tightens, a sinister determination etched in the grim lines of his face. Before anyone can intervene, a sickening snap echoes across the gym — the unmistakable sound of bones breaking. The first year goes limp, lifeless in Jack's cruel embrace.

A storm brews within me, anger bubbling violently as I grapple with the instinct to lash out. My jaw sets in a hard line, and I glance at Violet, whose face has blanched with shock, her expression twisted as if she'd swallowed something vile.

"If you want, I will kill him at Threshing," Sgaeyl's voice seethes through my mind, laced with a primal protectiveness that makes me shudder.

"Please, no," I respond mentally, my voice slightly restrained. "I'd like to see him dealt with, but not now, not like this."

Sgaeyl hums, the sound vibrating through our bond, and there is silence in my mind except for the presence of Xaden, which looms with unsettling proximity. Ever since I first glimpsed his dragon a few days back, his presence has become an omnipresent shadow woven into the tapestry of my thoughts.

Even in the charged gym atmosphere, the promise of a future confrontation hangs heavily. We are all pawns and players, but in this moment of raw brutality, the strategic facade slips, revealing the raw edges of human nature and the challenges we must navigate.

Jack and his instructor have a bit of back-and-forth, their raised voices clashing in a heated exchange. But I tune it out, my focus turning inward, green eyes flicking with embers of barely contained rage. That guy will meet his end soon — but not now. It's like a mantra I repeat, a promise I cling to for sanity's sake. I know that once he's gone, my life and Violet's will become a bit less tainted by his malice.

The thought of Jack's eventual demise, prolonged and painful, festers in my mind. He deserves nothing less, I muse darkly. A spark of fear and confusion strikes me — What the hell? I think, shaking my head to clear the fog of vengeful thoughts. I can't tell if these emotions are my own or if Sgaeyl's influence amplifies them.

Either way, I grapple with the unsettling realization that I'm not inherently a killer. At least, I hope not. The anger swirling in me is potent, yes, but my core hesitates at the finality of taking a life.

This conflict within me is a crucible, a test of my character and limits. It's not merely about avenging wrongs but understanding the person I wish to become amidst the chaos of our training and the battles yet to come. My thoughts flicker back to the sparring mat, Ridoc and Aurelie's match momentarily forgotten in the shadow of this raw, unfiltered emotion.

When it erupts, violence leaves marks — not just on flesh, but on the spirit. In each decision, whether in the heat of combat or the quiet of reflection, I am reminded that strength lies not just in the ability to strike but in knowing when to stay in my hand.

For now, Jack Barlowe lives, but the fire within me burns brighter, tempered by the resolve that I will protect those I care about with whatever means necessary, even if the line between defender and avenger grows thin.

◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥

It feels like hours later, but just seconds before Violet steps onto the mat. She's paired against a tall, pink-haired girl whose fierce glare promises anything but mercy. Rage bubbles within me, and I cross my arms tightly over my chest.

Rhiannon notices my tension and leans in. "Hey, keep it down. I know you're her friend, but we need to stay back," she whispers.

I barely acknowledge her, a hiss escaping my lips. My focus narrows to a tunnel vision, locking on the pink-haired girl and my friend, Violet. They begin. The girl lunges forward, her swings wild and unrestrained. Lightly on her feet, Violet sidesteps quickly and spins away, her hands up defensively. They repeat this dance for several rounds, with Violet landing a few precise jabs.

But as the pink-haired girl's aggression escalates, my anxiety spikes. My instincts scream to intervene, to protect my friend, but Sgaeyl's commanding presence grounds me. "No, don't do anything. Violet needs to handle this herself. Stay still."

Her order reverberates through me, and I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood. Fine, I concede mentally, a reluctant sigh accompanying my consent. "But when this is over, I'm taking her to the healer, no matter what," I added firmly.

Sgaeyl snorts approvingly. "I didn't expect anything less from you, Emberlyn."

The tension on the mat is thick, the room's noise drowned out by our heavy breaths, our unspoken solidarity. Violet circles her opponent warily, her eyes sharp and calculating, embodying calm determination. Despite my internal turmoil, I am rooted in place, ready to spring to her side when the about concludes, my mind already mapping out the path to the healers.

Then it happens. The pink-haired girl executes a swift kick, catching Violet off guard and sending her crashing to the mat with a sickening thud. For a moment, the world narrows to that sound and the horrific, macabre crack that follows — unmistakably, the sound of a bone breaking.

My vision blurs and rage and helplessness coil together as I hear Violet's anguished cry. I let go. I let all of it fall away—the restraint, the rules, the concern for consequences.

I leap forward, barely registering Sgaeyl's commanding presence in my mind, turning into an urgent plea to hold back. But I can't. Not this time. My friend, my closest confidante, is hurt, and the primal instinct to protect overtakes every rational thought.

As I rush to her side, I see the fear and pain etched across her face, her arm hanging at an unnatural angle. My heart pounds in my chest, a war drum urging me toward action.

"Violet!" I kneel beside her, my hands trembling as I hover just above her injured limb. "Don't move, okay? Help is coming."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the instructors converging. Professor Emetterio's booming voice commands me to clear the area and summon the healers immediately.

Rhiannon and Sawyer are beside me instantly, their faces pale with shared concern. "We've got her," Sawyer assures me, his voice steady even as his eyes betray his worry.

"Stay with us, Violet," Rhiannon murmurs, gently squeezing her uninjured hand.

As the healers rush in, I feel an overwhelming mix of emotions swirling within — fury at the pink-haired girl, guilt for not intervening sooner, and a gut-wrenching fear for my friend's well-being. The thought of vengeance momentarily flares again, but Sgaeyl's presence quells it, reminding me of the importance of control, of thinking strategically even in the face of raw emotion.

I step back, giving the healers space to work, my breath coming in shallow gasps. This place may teach us to fight, but it also teaches us the cost of every battle and the fragility of even the strongest bonds. And as I stand there, watching over my friend, I resolve to find the balance between the protector and the strategist within me — for Violet, myself, and the battles yet to come.