Dawn clung weakly to the training grounds, a thin, pale wash of light that made the academy feel colder than usual. The first-years gathered in the lower yard, stretching stiff muscles and rubbing sleep from their eyes, still half-dazed from yesterday's drills.
Serene arrived last among her small circle—Lira, Taren, Alden, a few other familiar faces—each carrying the quiet fatigue of those who had survived only the first taste of knight training. Her ribs still ached, but she ignored the discomfort. Pain was normal here. Expectation.
But something felt… wrong.
Second-years were already on the training grounds.
Not passing through.
Not preparing for their own session.
Not even stretching.
They were simply… watching.
Arms crossed.
Weapons in hand.
Expressions unreadable.
A uneasy murmur began among the first-years.
"Why are they here?"
"Is this allowed?"
"Don't they train later?"
The second-year captain—a tall boy with a long stride and pale hair tied back loosely—stood at the center of his group like a conductor of silent tension. He didn't speak. He didn't give commands. He only observed.
Serene felt his gaze the moment she stepped into the yard.
Lira stiffened beside her. "They never come here during our slot."
Taren muttered, "Feels like we're prey."
Kael scoffed as he walked by, though his eyes were sharp. "Ignore them. They're probably bored."
"Kael," Serene said quietly, "this is intentional."
He paused—but only for a breath—then continued walking.
Rowen arrived shortly after, silent as always, but even he slowed when he saw the cluster of older cadets. His eyes narrowed slightly. Not fear. Not confusion.
Assessment.
Serene recognized the look. She scanned the yard the same way.
The second-years didn't speak. That was the first warning.
When older cadets wanted to intimidate juniors, they usually started loud—taunts, challenges, snide remarks.
Silence meant something else.
Control.
Dominance established before a word was spoken.
The instructors arrived, clipped and focused, barking roll calls. They barely glanced at the second-years. Not a single question. Not an eyebrow raised. As if this was normal.
It wasn't.
Serene felt the shift in the air even before the first sign of trouble appeared.
The second-years drifted closer—not enough to touch, not enough to interfere, but enough to stand where the first-years needed to line up for drills.
A subtle displacement.
One step forward from them meant one step back for the first-years.
"Line up!" Instructor Thane barked.
But the second-years were standing in the forming space.
The first-years hesitated.
Thane looked irritated. "MOVE!"
Alden tried to step around a second-year, but the older boy casually extended a spear shaft across his path—not hitting him, just blocking him.
"Oh?" the second-year murmured. "You need this lane?"
Alden froze, unsure.
Another second-year smiled. "Take another path."
There was no other path.
Serene watched quietly.
The instructors didn't intervene.
Kael's jaw clenched.
Lira looked down.
Taren rubbed the back of his neck, already uncomfortable.
Serene stepped forward, calm and poised. "We need to form ranks."
The second-year captain lifted an eyebrow. "Then rank yourselves somewhere else."
Thane's irritation flared. "FIRST-YEARS! Why are you out of line?"
Serene's silence was her answer.
The first-years squeezed awkwardly into the remaining space—too small, too cramped, making the formation uneven. Thane snapped at them for standing like "a cluster of frightened hens."
The second-years smirked.
The drills began.
The first exercise was standard—dummy swings with weighted wooden blades. But when first-years approached the weapon rack, half the wooden swords were missing.
Lira blinked at the nearly-empty rack. "But—there were enough yesterday."
Taren searched frantically. "Where are they?"
A second-year passed by, twirling a first-year training sword casually. "Borrowed. Hope you don't mind."
His friends held several more.
They weren't training with them.
They were simply making sure first-years couldn't.
Alden asked quietly, "Can we get replacements?"
"No time," Instructor Caldrin barked from across the field, not even looking at them. "Use what you have."
So the first-years shared swords.
Two people per blade.
Half the speed.
Double the frustration.
"Switch!" Taren yelled to Lira as they passed the sword between them.
A second-year girl leaned in slowly, smirking. "Is sharing cute? Or pathetic?"
Serene didn't react—but her breath tightened.
Next came footwork drills across the chalk grid. But the second-years "accidentally" scuffed the lines before the first-years could start, kicking dirt across the training field.
Thane shook his head, annoyed. "First-years! Fix the lines before you begin!"
It took precious minutes to redraw all the grids.
Minutes the second-years used to watch—and smirk.
Kael muttered, "They're doing this on purpose."
Rowen didn't answer. His eyes were cold.
The third exercise was supposed to be simple conditioning—the cliffside run without full packs. The path was narrow enough for two people to run side by side.
But the second-years jogged ahead just enough to block the route, then slowed, forcing the first-years behind them to slow as well.
Taren nearly ran into one. "Hey—!"
"Problem?" the older cadet asked sweetly.
Thane barked from behind, "FIRST-YEARS! Why are you slowing down?! RUN!"
They couldn't.
And the instructors didn't care.
Serene kept pace quietly, ribs aching, breath controlled. She stayed behind Rowen—he was the one who set steady rhythms—and moved deliberately, refusing to react.
Lira whispered shakily, "We're trapped."
"We're provoked," Serene corrected softly.
"They're allowed to do that?" Lira asked.
Serene inhaled through her nose. "Unfortunately."
The next blow came during water break.
First-years lined up for the trough, thirsty and exhausted. But second-years stepped in front of them, filling their own flasks slowly—painfully slowly—one drop at a time.
Kael lost his temper first. "MOVE. We've earned our break."
A second-year boy leaned closer, face inches from Kael's. "Earn more."
Kael's fists balled.
Rowen placed a hand on Kael's arm—not gently, but firmly. A warning.
The water ran out before half the first-years drank anything.
Thane yelled at them again. "Back to formation!"
Serene swallowed her dry throat.
Lira's lips were cracked.
Taren wheezed slightly.
Alden wiped mud from his uniform silently.
The afternoon drills shifted to paired combat. Serene and Lira took a ring, but the second-years drifted around, forming a tightening circle—quiet, ominous, pressing in.
Serene adjusted her stance, refusing to show discomfort.
A second-year girl pointed at her blade. "Hold it higher. Or lower. Or don't hold it at all."
Lira flinched. "Please don't—"
"Quiet, healer," the girl snapped.
Serene subtly stepped between them.
The second-year girl smirked. "Look at the little diplomat protecting her shadow."
Serene didn't respond.
But when she resumed her stance, the girl flicked a handful of dust at the ground intentionally. It didn't hit Serene—just hit close enough to distract.
Serene's grip tightened.
Kael's patience broke first. He threw his practice blade to the ground with a thud. "If you want to fight us, THEN FIGHT US."
The second-year captain smiled lazily. "Oh, not yet. We're enjoying the warm-up."
Kael lunged.
Rowen caught his arm again—tighter this time.
"Stop," Rowen said quietly. "Not now."
Kael shook him off violently. "Get your hand off me."
But he didn't lunge again.
Because Serene stepped behind Kael—not touching him, just a presence there—steady, unbroken.
Kael grit his teeth.
By evening, the bullying had seeped into every corner of the academy.
At lunch, second-years took all the shaded tables, leaving first-years to sit in the sun.
In hallways, they walked in lines that blocked passage.
During lectures, they coughed loudly whenever a first-year spoke, drowning them out.
They weren't breaking rules.
They were bending them.
The instructors didn't stop it.
Some didn't even notice.
Others did—and silently approved.
Because this wasn't children's school.
This was Aurellian.
This was war grooming.
Serene walked the entire day without losing posture once.
But by evening, her fingers trembled from exhaustion she wouldn't show.
Lira leaned against the wall at one point, near tears.
Taren muttered angrily, kicking a pebble like he wanted to kick someone's face instead.
Alden examined a cracked nail where someone had slammed a door into his hand.
Kael paced like a storm he couldn't unleash.
Rowen wiped sweat from his brow, jaw rigid, tension coiled under his skin.
The sun dipped behind the cliffs.
The last drill ended.
Serene didn't speak.
No one did.
They walked back slowly, the humiliation of the day weighing more than fatigue.
Lira whispered, "If it's like this every day… how do second-years ever survive to become third-years?"
No one had an answer.
Serene watched her friends.
Watched their breaking points.
Watched their pride erode.
Watched the academy's silence.
And inside her, something quiet—something born of diplomats and silver lilies—shifted.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Not defeat.
Calculation.
Serene Valehart turned toward the upper levels—not to rest, but to observe.
Second-years lounged across the higher terrace, boasting to each other, laughing at first-years' stumbling exhaustion. They weren't even hiding it anymore.
Serene's gaze sharpened.
The academy was a fortress of hierarchy.
The instructors were not arbiters of justice.
The rules were ancient—some buried, some forgotten, some weaponized.
A diplomat's daughter knew one truth better than anyone:
If someone uses silence as a weapon, you must answer with knowledge.
Tonight wasn't the night.
Tonight she would simply watch.
And remember.
Every slight.
Every humiliation.
Every loophole.
Every chance.
She walked back to her dorm with steady steps, ignoring the throbbing of her ribs.
When she closed the door behind her, Lira let out a shaky breath. "Serene… how did you stay calm today?"
Serene untied her braids slowly, placing the ribbon on her desk like a relic.
"Because panic wastes breath," she said quietly.
Lira sat beside her. "And tomorrow?"
Serene finally looked up—eyes calm, cold, thinking.
"Tomorrow," Serene said,
"we endure again."
Because enduring was not surrender.
Enduring was gathering information.
For use.
Later.