Serene woke before the bell.
It wasn't discipline that pulled her from sleep, but pain—deep and dull, settling through her ribs and shoulders like cooling iron. For a moment she lay still, watching faint morning light bleed across the ceiling of her small dormitory room. Her limbs felt heavy, as though the weight of yesterday's pack still sat on her spine.
When she finally moved, everything ached at once. Not sharply, not intolerably—just enough to remind her of every step she'd taken, every rung she'd climbed, every breath she'd forced through bruised cartilage.
She sat up slowly, fingers pressing briefly into her side. The soreness spread beneath her touch. She inhaled carefully, testing. Pain rippled—but she could breathe. She would train.
She stood, tied her hair into a tight braid, washed her face in cold water, and dressed in the academy's uniform. The fabric scraped lightly against her skin. She didn't wince. She didn't need to.
When she stepped into the hallway, the morning bell chimed its layered tones—gentler than yesterday's harsh warning. Trainees spilled out from rooms around her, all moving stiffly, some limping, some clutching their shoulders or backs. The academy did not spare anyone, noble or commoner.
Her steps were measured as she made her way toward the dining hall. The scent of warm bread, boiled oats, and something faintly herbal drifted through the corridors. As she entered the hall, a wave of heat washed over her from the kitchen fires.
Noise filled the room: clattering bowls, low chatter, groans of complaint.
Taren was the first familiar face she saw—sitting with his head practically in his bowl, hair sticking up in all directions like he had lost a fight with his blanket.
He lifted his head when Serene passed by, blinking blearily. "Serene…?" His voice cracked. "You're alive."
"Unfortunately," she replied mildly.
He groaned and dropped his forehead back to the table. "How are you walking? My legs forgot their purpose."
"Slowly," she corrected.
Lira sat across from him, hands wrapped around a cup of steaming tea. She had dark circles under her eyes, though her posture remained composed. She offered Serene a quiet nod—a tiny greeting, but warmer than yesterday's distance.
Serene took a bowl of oats and sat beside Lira. The heat from the bowl helped ease the stiffness in her fingers. She stirred it slowly before eating, letting her body adjust to movement again.
Taren lifted one hand weakly. "I think I died sometime in my sleep and my ghost is eating breakfast."
"Your ghost is very loud," Serene said.
Lira's lips twitched, a faint smile. "He was louder before you arrived."
"That's impossible," Serene murmured.
"It's not," Lira assured her.
Taren looked between them with exaggerated betrayal. "You're both cruel in the morning."
"You're loud every hour," Lira replied, sipping her tea.
Serene focused on her breakfast, letting the warmth settle into her stomach. Around them, trainees complained about the trial, the soreness, the cold morning wind. But none of it felt like weakness. It felt like something shared—an unspoken understanding that today hurt because yesterday had mattered.
Eventually the morning cadence shifted—trainees rose, leaving empty bowls and cold cups behind. Serene stood as well, wincing only a little as her ribs tugged.
"Strategy lecture first," Lira said quietly, falling into step beside her.
Taren dragged himself upright and followed, massaging his calves. "If Instructor Albrecht makes us write anything today… I'll die."
"If you die twice, does that make you twice as quiet?" Serene asked.
Lira covered a soft laugh behind her hand.
They reached the lecture hall where rows of wooden desks faced a small raised platform. Serene sat in the second row—close enough to focus, far enough to remain unobtrusive. Lira sat beside her. Taren collapsed into the seat behind them.
Kael entered moments later, stiff but determined, jaw clenched as though holding his body together through pride alone. He gave Serene a brief, sharp glance—one she returned calmly before lowering her gaze to her notes.
Rowen arrived last, almost soundless, taking a seat near the back. He moved with less stiffness than the rest, but even he showed faint signs of strain in the way he rolled his shoulders.
Instructor Rhett Albrecht strode in—black uniform, sharp eyes, expression carved from intellect rather than stone. He surveyed the room with cool precision.
"Open your journals," he said. "Yesterday's trial tested your bodies. Today, we test your minds."
Taren choked quietly behind Serene.
Albrecht continued. "Write three observations from the trial—about yourself, not others. Then write one realization."
Pens scratched across parchment. Serene wrote slowly; her hands still trembled faintly from the strain.
Her observations were simple:
My balance falters under uneven weight.
My breath shortens sharply under pain.
I overcorrect when climbing.
Her realization took longer.
Endurance is not strength—it is choice.
She set her pen down.
Albrecht walked between rows, glancing over shoulders. When he reached Serene's desk, he paused. His eyes flicked over her notes, unreadable.
He moved on without comment.
The lecture stretched into tactical discussion—predicting danger, recognizing fatigue, identifying weaknesses without letting ego cloud judgment. Serene absorbed each word carefully. Lira took meticulous notes. Taren doodled an exhausted stick figure on the corner of his parchment.
When Albrecht dismissed them, the trainees filtered out into the corridor. Serene stepped into the sunlight, blinking against the brightness.
Her ribs ached again.
She steadied her breath.
The training yard waited next.
Wooden dummies stood in neat rows, their surfaces scarred from years of strikes. The air carried the scent of dust and sweat. Instructors barked orders, distributing practice swords.
Serene accepted hers carefully. The wooden blade was lighter than steel but still enough to send shocks through her sore ribs.
They practiced footwork first—forward steps, backward steps, pivots. Serene's movements were precise but slower than usual. Pain followed each twist of her torso.
Instructor Harlon noticed. "Valehart," he called.
She paused and faced him.
"You're compensating."
"I am, sir."
"Don't." His tone was blunt, not cruel. "Compensating builds bad habits. Slow your movement. Keep your form."
"Yes, sir."
She adjusted. It hurt. She did it anyway.
Lira moved a few rows away, her strikes gentle but exact. Taren's blows were enthusiastic, though uneven. Kael practiced nearby, expression sharp with determination, every motion crisp despite his evident soreness.
Serene caught a quick glare from him—brief, as if he hated that she'd seen him struggle yesterday. But she turned away, uninterested in a silent contest.
When the instructors called for pair drills, the trainees formed lines. Serene stepped into place, breath shallow from the ache in her ribs.
She was paired with Lira.
Lira offered a small, steady nod before raising her wooden blade.
Their first exchange was slow—testing balance, testing pain, testing distance. Lira's movements were clean but cautious, her strikes light. Serene met each blow with controlled blocks, turning her torso just enough to avoid jolting her ribs.
"Are you hurt?" Lira asked softly during a pause.
"Yes," Serene admitted.
Lira nodded. "I thought so."
"You saw?"
"I listened," Lira said. "Your breath is shorter today."
Serene didn't deny it.
They resumed the drill, moving with a rhythm that wasn't fast but was steady—like two sides of a tide shifting around one another. Pain burned through Serene's side, but she kept her posture clean. Lira adjusted her strikes slightly, making them challenging but not harmful.
It wasn't pity.
It was precision.
"Switch partners!" an instructor called.
Serene stepped back, chest rising and falling carefully. The next partner in line was Taren, who grinned despite looking like he wanted to lie down.
"Go easy on me," he whispered.
"We're supposed to practice," Serene replied.
"Yes. Practice mercy."
She didn't smile, but her stance eased slightly. Their exchange was messy—Taren too eager, Serene too stiff—but they improved with each strike. Taren tripped once. Serene helped him up. He thanked her with dramatic gratitude.
Kael ended up paired with Rowen. Their movements were sharp, fast, competitive without words. Their strikes cracked loudly against each other's wooden blades.
Serene caught glimpses of Rowen's form—clean, disciplined. Kael's was forceful but strained at the edges.
Hours passed in drills until the bell signaled noon. Sweat dampened Serene's hair. Her ribs felt aflame. When the instructors dismissed them, she walked slowly toward the dormitory path, muscles trembling.
Lira walked beside her again without needing invitation. "You should rest," she murmured.
"I will."
"Before evening training?"
"Yes."
Taren dragged himself along behind them. "Are either of you planning my funeral? I want lilies."
"No," Serene said.
"Why not?"
"Because you're walking," Lira said.
Barely," Taren replied.
They reached the dormitory. Serene opened her door, the quiet of the small room wrapping around her like cool cloth. She sank onto the bed slowly, easing herself down with careful breaths.
Her body throbbed, but not with defeat.
Just with effort.
She unwrapped her gloves, flexing her fingers. The faint calluses along her palms ached.
She closed her eyes.
Not to sleep—just to breathe.
For the first time since arriving at the academy, she let herself lie still long enough to notice something beyond pain:
A sense of belonging, faint but present.
Not pride.
Not comfort.
Not recognition.
Just the quiet truth that she had survived yesterday, met today, and would face tomorrow.
Not as a Valehart.
Not as a lily.
Not as a noble decoration.
But as a trainee learning the shape of her own endurance.
Outside, laughter and complaints drifted through the corridor, the sounds of people living side by side through shared struggle.
Serene breathed in slowly.
Tomorrow would bruise her again.
Tomorrow would test her again.
But tomorrow would also teach her.
She opened her eyes.
The academy waited.
And she would not stop.