The academy felt different the moment the announcement ended—like every stone had inhaled and refused to exhale. The murmurs of five hundred students followed Serene and the first-years as they walked back toward the dorm corridors, not openly hostile, not openly sympathetic, but electric with something dangerous:
Expectation.
Their footsteps echoed too loudly. Their hearts beat too quickly. Even the wind seemed to carry whispers.
"Valehart did this." "She invoked a Rite?" "What will happen in the arena?" "Is someone going to die?" "First-years will be crushed." "Or maybe… maybe not."
No one knew what to believe. That uncertainty made the academy tilt on its axis.
By the time Serene reached the dorm steps, the upper-year students had already created two invisible walls—one of curiosity, and one of panic. Third-years stared with tight mouths. Fourth-years bowed their heads, muttering things like "Impossible… after a hundred years?"
Second-years kept their distance, expressions twisted between anger and fear. Their captain shoved his way through the crowd and pointed at Serene.
"This won't save you."
Serene didn't respond.
Rowen stepped once into his line of sight, forcing the captain to look at him instead.
The captain hesitated.
Just for a second.
Alden stepped between two other second-years as they advanced.
Taren placed a hand on Lira's back when someone brushed too close.
Kael cracked his knuckles once, loud enough to warn anyone nearby.
It was the first time the first-years stood as a group—not because they were unified, but because the world had finally pushed them into the same corner.
The second-years backed off, but their eyes followed.
No one smiled.
No one laughed.
The academy was now a battlefield without swords.
They returned to their dorms in silence. The door shut behind them with a final-sounding click, as if sealing them inside a waiting room for judgment.
Taren collapsed onto his bunk.
Lira sat down and tucked her hands between her knees.
Alden leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, breathing through pain he still carried from yesterday.
Kael paced like a caged predator.
Rowen sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, expression unreadable.
Serene stood by the window, watching the main arena far in the distance. It lay dormant, its great iron gates shut, torches unlit, platforms untouched for years. Soon it would be awakened, its floor swept, its stands cleared, its boundaries marked.
A place waiting for blood.
A place waiting for her.
Lira's voice broke the silence, thin but steady. "Serene… this Rite. Tomorrow. What if we lose?"
Serene didn't turn from the window.
She didn't blink.
"We won't."
Kael scoffed. "Confidence is good. Arrogance isn't."
"It's neither," Serene said quietly. "It's mathematics."
Taren frowned. "Mathe–what?"
"The second-years underestimate us. They have numbers, strength, experience—yes. But they don't have cohesion. They bully as individuals, not as a unit." Serene turned. "We, on the other hand, have endured humiliation together for days. That does something to people."
Alden opened his eyes. "What does it do?"
"It forges."
Rowen stared at her for a long moment—not agreeing, not disagreeing, simply… seeing her.
Lira exhaled shakily. "Even so… the arena… Serene, it's… huge."
"They chose it on purpose," Kael muttered. "Bigger space, harder to control, more chances for them to overwhelm us."
Serene nodded. "Yes. But it also gives us more chances to think."
Rowen leaned back slightly. "And you already are."
"They forced me to," Serene said simply.
Kael slowed his pacing, looking at her with a strange mix of irritation and admiration. "You always think too much."
"And you think too little," Serene replied softly.
Kael huffed—almost a laugh, almost not.
Taren folded his arms. "So… what do we do?"
The room stilled.
For the first time, they looked to her—not as a leader, not as a noble, but as someone who had been unbreakable when everything around them cracked.
Serene took a slow breath. "Tonight, we rest. Tomorrow… we adapt. The arena will tell us how we fight when we see it. Until then—don't provoke, don't wander, don't fall apart."
Lira nodded. "We won't."
Alden placed a hand over his heart once, a silent vow.
Taren cracked his knuckles. "I'm scared. But not running."
Kael sat down finally, tension settling into something fiercer. "If we're going to do this… let's make sure the second-years regret pushing us."
Rowen spoke last, voice low and sharp. "We don't fight for pride. We fight because they crossed a line."
Serene looked at him. His eyes were steady, cold, and bright with something that wasn't anger—something sharper.
"For the first-years," Rowen said quietly, "no matter who stands beside us… or who doesn't."
Serene nodded. "For the first-years."
The room held that promise like a flame.
Outside, the academy was far from still.
On the instructor's terrace, a heated argument broke out—voices rising and snapping, muffled by distance.
"—we cannot let this proceed—" "—it is law—" "—nonsense, the Rite has no place—" "—the Commander decided—" "—she should have overridden it—" "—she cannot override law—" "—but these are children—"
Commander Eira's voice cut through the others like steel slicing parchment.
"They invoked it. They will see it through."
A long silence.
Then:
"Prepare the arena."
Torches were lit all across the academy.
Healers hurried across courtyards carrying crates of salves, bandages, and smelling salts.
Record-keepers moved scrolls into the Hall of Witnesses.
Blacksmiths hammered fittings for armor repairs.
Upper-years gathered in hushed circles, arguing, speculating, betting.
Second-years were dragged into their dorms by their own instructors, who barked at them to train, to prepare, to stop acting like this was a joke.
Servants scrubbed dust off the arena seats, lit lantern lines along the balconies, and oiled the gate hinges.
Every hallway held whispers.
Every shadow held tension.
Every breath held fear.
But the first-years?
They stayed in one room together.
Not because they were united — but because none of them could bear to be alone.
Lira finally slept, breaths trembling.
Taren sat against the wall humming nervously.
Alden kept watch by the door.
Kael leaned on the windowsill staring at the sky.
Rowen sharpened his blade slowly, rhythm steady as a heartbeat.
And Serene…
She sat on her bunk with the torn lily ribbon in her hands.
She traced the frayed edges gently, as though memorizing each thread, each flaw. She tied it back around her wrist, tighter this time, so it stayed close to her pulse.
Tomorrow, she would fight with it.
Not for pride.
Not for vengeance.
For dignity.
For everyone humiliated.
For everyone bruised.
For everyone who had been made to kneel.
She lay back on her thin mattress and stared up at the ceiling, eyes open, unwavering.
The academy didn't sleep that night.
And neither did Serene.
Because tomorrow, she would walk into the arena not as a noble's daughter, not as a diplomat's heir, not as a girl who tied ribbons on her wrist—
—but as the one who invoked a Rite that shook the entire academy awake.