Morning crept into the academy like a reluctant guest, pale gold slipping between stone pillars and pooling unevenly across the courtyard. The bells chimed—not sharp this time, not warning, but with the steady rhythm of routine returning. The sting of the Endurance Trial still lingered in everyone's legs. Even the wind felt tired as it pushed gently at cloaks and loose hair.
Serene stepped outside with a controlled breath, feeling yesterday's ache coil deep under her ribs. Her shoulders still carried a faint bruise where the pack had dug in. She didn't complain. Pain meant she had moved; pain meant she had not stopped.
Some trainees limped toward the yard, their pride bruised harder than their bodies. Others tried to pretend nothing hurt, failing miserably each time they stiffened while walking downhill.
Lira was already on the practice ground, hair braided neatly, expression composed yet softer than usual. She raised a hand in greeting when Serene approached—small, shy, but genuine.
"You're early," Serene said quietly.
Lira looked almost embarrassed. "Spirit trainees are told to practice breathing techniques before drills. It helps… or it's supposed to."
Her voice dropped slightly on the last words, and Serene realized with a faint warmth that Lira wasn't just sharing facts—she was sharing nerves. Trust, in her gentle way.
Serene nodded. "It seems to be working."
Lira smiled at that, just a little.
Around them, trainees stretched and winced. Taren tried to touch his toes, failed halfway, and groaned into the grass.
"This is cruel," he muttered. "I think my legs have detached from my soul."
"No soul to begin with," Kael said dryly as he passed, his own limp barely hidden beneath pride.
Taren made a face behind him. Serene hid the smallest flicker of amusement.
When Commander Eira entered the courtyard, conversations snapped silent. Her armor caught the light like a promise. Even the hungover wind seemed to steady itself.
"You endured yesterday," Eira began, her voice even. "Today, you continue."
No sympathy. No softening.
Just truth.
"Form pairs," she ordered. "Warm-up drills, then rotation."
The yard filled with movement. Serene stepped back, letting others choose first. She didn't wish to impose herself on any group that carried unspoken judgments about noble daughters and lily sigils.
But Lira touched her sleeve lightly. "If… if you don't mind?"
Serene nodded once, accepting the pairing without ceremony.
They began with basic footwork: stepping patterns, weight shifts, timing. Serene's muscles burned almost immediately—not because the drills were difficult, but because yesterday had carved her strength thin. Each motion tugged at the hidden tenderness beneath her ribs.
She slowed her pace just enough to maintain precision.
Across from her, Lira moved like a quiet current—soft steps, light arms, breath aligned with rhythm. She wasn't fast, but she adapted quickly. Her movements held no aggression, only steadiness.
"Breathe from the chest," Serene said softly when Lira faltered. "Don't lock your shoulders."
Lira tried again. Her movements smoothed.
"Better," Serene added.
Lira straightened, cheeks a faint pink—not from exertion, but from the surprise of being acknowledged. "You're good at explaining."
Serene blinked. "I simply repeated what the instructor said."
"Still," Lira murmured, eyes warm, "you repeat it kindly."
Before Serene could respond, Kael barked a frustrated noise as his partner—a broad-shouldered noble boy—kept losing balance.
"No," Kael snapped, grabbing the boy's elbow and repositioning him. "You pivot on this foot. Not that one. How do you even breathe with feet that stupid?"
Serene noted quietly that Kael's frustration wasn't cruelty—it was impatience sharpened by pride. He trained with the expectation that others should mirror Falcon precision.
Rowen trained farther down the yard, paired with a calm-faced trainee from the Plains. Their movements were measured, not flashy. Rowen corrected posture without raising his voice. There was nothing extraordinary in the moment, yet something about his steadiness carried weight.
Eira watched everyone with unreadable eyes, clipboard in hand. When her gaze slipped toward Serene, it paused—not long, not warmly, but with acknowledgement.
Serene continued drilling until the morning bell signaled shift.
"Spirit trainees to west hall," a voice called.
"Sword and Lance to the main yard."
"Tactics class begins in ten minutes."
Serene wiped sweat from her brow, adjusted her gloves, and followed the flow toward the lecture building. Lira drifted beside her for a few steps before splitting off toward her hall.
"Good work," Lira said unexpectedly before turning down the corridor.
Serene stopped briefly, absorbing the simplicity of the words. They felt strangely grounding.
She continued on.
The tactics hall smelled faintly of parchment and cool stone. Trainees filed in with caution, aware of the instructor waiting inside.
Sir Rhett Albrecht stood at the front, hands clasped behind him, posture relaxed yet entirely controlled. His amber-brown eyes flicked to each student with surgical precision, weighing something invisible.
"Sit," he said.
Not loud. Not sharp.
But every trainee sat instantly.
Serene chose a quiet seat toward the side. Rowen sat a few desks away, posture attentive but unreadable. Kael entered with that clipped stiffness Falcon heirs wore during academic evaluations.
Rhett unrolled a strip of parchment covered in diagrams—arrows, circles, siege outlines, terrain sketches. His voice remained calm as he spoke, but each word felt like it was placed with intention.
"Today's lesson," he began, "is not about battlefield brilliance. It is about reading people."
A ripple went through the class.
"Strength collapses without understanding," he continued. "Victory, however, begins often before the blade is drawn."
He tapped the board with a slender pointer.
"You will examine scenarios. Not to find answers, but to find the assumptions you make without thinking. Those will be your downfall."
The hall was silent.
He gestured toward the front row. "You."
A startled trainee stood.
"What do you believe your partner will do in a crisis?"
"I—um—fight, Instructor?"
"And why?" Rhett asked mildly.
"Because he's strong."
Rhett's gaze sharpened. "Dangerous assumption."
The trainee swallowed.
Rhett walked slowly down the aisle, hands tucked behind him. His gaze brushed Serene briefly—light but piercing. She kept her face composed, her breath steady.
"You," he said suddenly, stopping in front of Kael. "Explain why strength alone fails."
Kael stiffened. "Strength does not fail."
Rhett's brow lifted. "Does it not?"
Kael hesitated. "Not when it is disciplined."
"A half-answer," Rhett murmured. "But progress."
Kael clenched his jaw.
Rhett turned his attention to Serene.
"And you, Lady Valehart," he said, tone neither mocking nor sweet. "Why does strength that stands alone falter?"
Serene answered without pause.
"Because without purpose, it becomes directionless. And without restraint, it becomes destructive."
Rhett's eyes fixed on her for a fraction longer than on anyone else. "Restraint," he echoed. "An unusual answer for an initiate."
She didn't respond. She didn't need to.
Rhett stepped back, expression unreadable.
"Let us begin," he said.
The room filled with the sound of turning parchment, scratching quills, and quiet thought. It was not a loud class. It wasn't meant to be. Rhett taught by silence—silence sharper than any scolding.
When the bell finally rang, many trainees looked as though they had survived a battlefield.
Kael stalked out with a scowl. Taren slumped forward, muttering something about his brain leaking. Rowen gathered his parchment neatly, face thoughtful.
Serene left with controlled steps. The class had not been difficult—but it had been revealing.
She reached the dining hall just as lunch began. The room was alive with noise—laughter, groans, bragging, complaining, the clatter of trays. Serene took a seat near the wall, quiet, unobtrusive.
Moments later, Lira sat beside her with an apple and a bowl of porridge.
"You survived Rhett's class," Lira said lightly.
"Barely," Taren added, collapsing across from them with dramatic despair. "He asked me what I would do if my captain fell in battle. I said I'd catch him. He told me I'd die."
Lira hid her smile behind her cup. "That… sounds like him."
Serene took small bites of bread, listening to the ebb and flow of the table. It felt strangely grounding—this quiet group of mismatched trainees sharing exhaustion.
Kael entered later, head high, expression tight. He sat with other Falcon trainees but spared a sharp glance toward Serene—as if her calm annoyed him further.
Rowen slipped in almost unnoticed, taking a seat at a table near the window, posture relaxed but watchful. He glanced briefly in Serene's direction—not long enough to mean anything, but acknowledging her presence as he did with many in the hall.
After lunch, they returned to the yard for partnered drills. Serene paired with a different trainee this time—a girl with stiff shoulders and nervous hands. Their practice was clumsy at first. Serene had to adjust her own pace to match, guiding with minimal words.
By evening, her arms throbbed, her breath felt shallow, and her legs threatened to fold beneath her.
She remained until the final bell.
Back in the dormitory, she placed her training gear neatly on the rack, wiped sweat from her brow, and inhaled the quiet.
Outside, conversations drifted faintly along the hall—complaints, laughter, groans, predictions about the next trial. Someone had brought dessert from the dining hall and was bribing others with sweet buns. Taren's laugh echoed somewhere down the corridor. Lira murmured a soft goodnight before closing her door.
Serene sat on her bed, untying her braid. Strands of hair clung to her neck where sweat had dried. The window glowed faintly with moonrise.
Everything hurt. Everything felt earned.
Tomorrow would be new drills, new mistakes, new judgments.
But she had endured another day. Not with triumph. Not with applause. Just quiet, disciplined survival.
She lay back slowly, letting her muscles sink into the thin mattress. Her breathing evened, the ache settling into a familiar, grounding weight.
The academy did not soften for anyone.
But she did not buckle for it either.
The night wrapped the room in silver shadow as she closed her eyes.
Another day endured.
Another day shaped.
Another day closer to proving—
Grace was not weakness.
It was strength no one had learned to see yet.