The morning after the duels settled over Aurenheim like a quiet judgment. Dawn was bright, but not warm—clean light spilling over the cliffs as if the sky itself were inspecting every bruise left behind from yesterday. Serene woke before the bells again, the ache beneath her ribs humming with each breath. She sat up carefully, feeling the stiffness in her arms and shoulders. The salve Lira had given her had dulled the worst of it, but nothing softened the reality of impact.
She dressed slowly, fingers steady even when her muscles weren't. Her braid was tighter than usual, her ribbon firmly tied at her wrist, tucked beneath her glove as a quiet anchor. When she stepped into the corridor, the air felt unusually hushed. Trainees walked slower, softer, quieter—each carrying something new inside them: doubt, pride, or perhaps a little of both.
Lira waited near the stairwell, her satchel held close. Her eyes warmed instantly when she saw Serene.
"Morning."
"Morning."
"You slept?" Lira asked.
"A little."
"And the ribs…?"
"Manageable."
Lira's small exhale of relief was enough of an answer.
The dining hall buzzed with a low, subdued hum. Taren sat hunched over a bowl of porridge, glaring at it like it was an enemy.
"This tastes like I lost my duel," he muttered.
Kael, passing behind him, corrected without slowing, "It tastes like breakfast. Stop dramatizing."
"It tastes like despair," Taren insisted.
Serene took her seat with Lira. Kael chose a distant table but glanced once in Serene's direction—a brief, evaluating look that held neither hostility nor warmth. Simply… awareness.
Rowen entered late, as usual. He moved with quiet precision, the kind that didn't demand attention but received it anyway. Nothing in his posture revealed strain from yesterday. Calm, steady, self-contained. He nodded once at Serene in casual acknowledgement before moving on.
Taren leaned in, whispering, "How does he walk like he's never known gravity?"
"He has," Lira said softly. "He nearly slipped during the endurance trial."
"There is hope," Taren whispered reverently.
The breakfast bell ended their chatter, and the hall emptied in waves toward the training grounds.
---
The field smelled of dew and cold stone. Instructor Thane stood at the center, hands clasped behind his back, posture so rigid it straightened anyone within sight. Silence fell fast—no one risked disappointing him today.
"Your duels were evaluations," Thane said. "Today is correction."
A collective groan rolled through the group. Thane ignored it.
"You will train with someone who exposes your weakness—not someone who makes you comfortable."
Serene's pulse tightened. She knew what that meant.
Thane began calling pairs.
"Taren Vayne and Soren Halden."
Taren's groan was dramatic enough for the entire field.
"Kael Drakov and Jolaine Crest."
Kael exhaled sharply; Jolaine was famously fast.
"Lira Ciryne and Alden Rook."
Lira stiffened, eyes flicking to Alden—a quiet, observant trainee who practiced defense with unusual discipline. Not intimidating, but unnervingly precise.
Then:
"Serene Valehart and Arin Fenn."
Serene bowed her head slightly, acknowledging the pairing. Arin mirrored the gesture, calm as ever.
Thane's gaze moved across them like a blade's edge.
"Begin."
---
Training with Arin felt different now—where the duel had tested composure, this pushed endurance. Arin's strikes were measured but firm, pressing her wrists, forcing her ribs to remember yesterday's mistakes. Each block sent a pulse of discomfort through her side, but she stayed steady, adjusting her footing, keeping her breath even.
"Guard higher," Arin said quietly, shifting his angle. "Your elbow dips when the pain spikes."
She raised it.
He tapped her blade immediately. "Too high."
She adjusted again.
"Better."
They moved in silence—focused, respectful. On the far side of the field, Kael struggled against Jolaine's speed, irritation bunching in his shoulders. He missed two strikes simply because she sidestepped. Thane would definitely notice.
Lira's training with Alden was quieter but tense. Alden moved with a controlled rhythm, tapping her guard repeatedly to test balance. Lira stumbled at first, but each correction made her steadier.
Serene inhaled through a sharp pulse of pain. Arin noticed instantly.
"You're shifting your stance left to avoid your ribs," he said. "That'll make you predictable."
"I know."
"Then stop hiding it."
The words startled her—not because they were harsh, but because they were true. Arin wasn't unkind. He simply refused to let her pretend.
"Reset," he ordered.
She did.
This time, she held the stance without flinching.
Pain throbbed.
She remained steady.
Arin's eyes softened—just a flicker. "Good."
Training continued until her arms felt hollow and her legs trembled beneath her. Sweat dripped from her jaw. The ache in her ribs blurred from sharp to dull, the kind of pain that no longer distracted but sharpened focus.
When Thane finally dismissed them, Serene stood panting quietly, her posture still upright. Taren stumbled to her side.
"If I collapse," he said weakly, "bury me under the training field. At least then I'll be honored."
"You won't collapse," Serene replied.
"That's what worries me."
Lira jogged to them, breath light but proud. "Alden said I improved. He doesn't say it lightly."
Serene nodded. "You did improve."
Lira's smile blossomed with shy delight.
Before they could say more, Commander Eira walked across the field. Trainees straightened automatically. Her shadow cut across the grass like a steady line.
Her eyes paused on Serene.
"Your stance is more grounded today," Eira said. "You adjusted. That is discipline."
"Thank you, Commander."
"Keep correcting it. Bruises fade. Habits don't."
Then she moved on, her presence leaving a quiet ripple behind her.
Taren whispered, "Why does everything she says feel like prophecy?"
"Because she earned it," Lira murmured.
---
Evening light washed the dormitory corridors in muted rose. Trainees limped through the halls, some groaning dramatically, others too tired to speak. Serene walked slower than usual, her ribs reminding her of each misstep, each adjustment, each lesson.
In her room, she set her blade down, unfastened her gloves, and retrieved Lira's salve. As she applied it, coolness eased the throbbing beneath her skin. She breathed deeply, letting exhaustion settle like warm sand in her limbs.
A knock sounded.
Not hesitant.
Not rushed.
Measured.
She opened the door.
Arin stood there, still in his training uniform, dust smudged faintly on his jaw.
"How are the ribs?" he asked.
"Manageable."
He nodded once. "Good."
A quiet beat.
"You corrected the drop in your guard," he added. Not praise—just truth.
"Thank you."
Another nod. "See you in drills tomorrow."
And he walked away without waiting for anything more.
Serene lingered in the doorway for a breath, then closed it gently.
As evening murmurs filled the corridor, she rested back on her bed, eyes half-closed, muscles heavy with earned fatigue. Outside, the academy breathed—tired, restless, growing.
No applause.
No celebration.
No spotlight.
Just steady work.
Just improvement.
Just quiet strength.
She had not excelled.
She had not shone.
But she had endured.
And in Aurellian steel, that was the beginning of everything.