The first morning of Term Two arrived with a cold that refused negotiation. Hearthome University welcomed its students back the same way it always did, with frost biting at the windows and an atmosphere that whispered a universal message: hurry up, or get left behind. The sun had barely begun to rise, but noise already echoed through the dormitory corridors. Someone somewhere was shouting about losing their timetable, another was arguing with their Pokémon about leaving the warmth of their bed, and someone else was confidently declaring they were dropping out before breakfast.
Aaron had been awake long before any of them. He dressed with the same precision he brought into everything else, checked the day's schedule, then checked it again. Gible sat beside the desk, awake but conserving energy, eyes half-closed yet alert in the way a creature trained to focus would be. The dragon sensed the shift in pace just as sharply as its trainer.
Across the room, Clen was draped over his bed like a rag dumped carelessly by fate. Shinx had claimed his chest as its personal mattress, tail flicking with growing impatience each time Clen snored in its direction.
Aaron closed his drawer a little louder than necessary.
Clen shot upright instantly. "I'm awake!"
"You weren't," Aaron replied.
"I was resting my eyes," Clen insisted, rubbing his face. "And my brain. And possibly my soul."
"You were snoring."
"That's how I breathe when I'm deeply relaxed."
Shinx hopped off with a judgmental look that could've curdled milk.
"Don't give me attitude," Clen muttered. "At least I don't chew my pillow."
Gible gave a snort that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
Clen pointed at it. "Don't you start. I've seen you sleep-drool."
Gible huffed indignantly.
Aaron didn't look up from fastening his jacket. "Enough."
Both Pokémon froze with the sudden discipline of soldiers.
Clen sighed and stretched until his joints cracked. "Day one. New term. New me. Stronger, smarter, organised me."
"None of that will happen just because you announce it," Aaron said.
Clen put a hand dramatically over his chest. "Your faith warms me."
"It wasn't faith."
"It felt like faith."
"It wasn't."
"Still felt like it."
They left the dorm together, breath misting in the air. The snow had hardened into sparkling sheets along the walkways, and the grass crackled faintly underfoot. Gible hopped onto a mound of snow and stuck the landing like an Olympic athlete. Shinx eyed the snow as though the season personally offended it.
Battle Tactics II took place in the top-floor hall, its enormous windows overlooking the northern training fields. Students shuffled to their seats, bundled in scarves and thick jackets. Clen bounced lightly on his toes, pretending he wasn't freezing.
Professor Dunewold strode in with a stack of files so massive it looked like he was preparing for war crimes investigations. His expression did not suggest kindness.
"Welcome to Battle Tactics II," he began briskly. "Last term, you learned why you lose. This term, you will learn why your opponents lose."
Clen leaned toward Aaron, whispering, "Inspirational. A bit threatening, but inspirational."
"Listen," Aaron replied.
Dunewold continued. "Your Pokémon are stronger now. Your mistakes will therefore be more expensive. Confidence without foundation is the fastest path to humiliation."
Clen whispered, "That was directed at me."
"At everyone," Aaron said.
Throughout the lecture, Dunewold tore apart flawed reasoning with surgical precision. Aaron answered when called, each reply measured and exact. Clen answered only once. Incorrectly. Horrifically.
Dunewold stared at him. "Mr Rowan, were you hallucinating when you wrote that?"
Clen straightened. "Possibly."
Shinx buried its face behind its own tail.
The hall erupted in laughter, and even Dunewold's mouth twitched.
Clen leaned closer to Aaron again. "I'm starting the term strong."
"You are consistent," Aaron said.
"I will accept that as praise."
"It wasn't."
"I will still accept it."
Later, on the training field, Gible carved through the drills with sharpness that made even older students glance over. Its footwork was cleaner, its pace steadier, its reactions controlled. When it slipped on the icy ground, it corrected immediately and resumed like nothing had happened.
Clen watched with the devastation of a man comparing finger painting to professional artistry. "Show-off dragon."
Aaron didn't comment. "Your turn."
Clen puffed up importantly. "Right. Shinx! Lightning pivot, eight-cone pattern. Dramatic version."
Shinx strutted forward as if preparing for a performance rather than a drill. Turn one was perfect. Turn two was impressive. Turn three was elegant.
Turn four was catastrophic.
Shinx slipped on a muddy patch, skidded sideways, collided with a cone, ricocheted into another, and somehow managed to knock the entire arrangement over in the most spectacular pile-up the field had seen that day.
Clen stared at the wreckage. "That… was unexpected."
"Rebuild the cones," Aaron said.
"Have you no sympathy for the fallen?"
"Shinx is not injured."
Shinx sneezed mud aggressively.
"Emotionally injured," Clen corrected.
"Rebuild the cones."
Clen sighed grandly. "If I perish doing this, put on my gravestone: He Tried, Even Though His Pokémon Betrayed Him."
"You're not dying."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
Shinx's second attempt was flawless. Of course.
"That was my guidance," Clen declared.
"That was panic," Aaron said.
"Guided panic. It counts."
They trained until the sun dipped behind the western wing of the campus. Lights flickered on across the snow, painting the entire academy in warm gold hues. Students trudged back indoors muttering about muscles they didn't know they owned.
Clen collapsed into his bed the moment the door closed. "I am finished."
"You trained for thirty minutes," Aaron said.
"That's thirty minutes more than I wanted. My spirit left my body twice."
Shinx hopped onto Clen's back and sat like a judge deciding his sentence.
"Traitor," Clen groaned.
Aaron moved to his desk, deepening his strategy outline for the term. Not grand ideas, nothing flamboyant—just structure, intention, discipline.
Clen eventually rolled over, hair a mess and face exhausted but hopeful. "Hey, Aaron."
Aaron didn't look up. "What."
"You think I'll catch something on the field trip?"
"Yes."
"That confident?"
"Prepared."
"You're terrifying."
"No."
"You are."
Gible curled beside Aaron's bed, settling with the relaxed vigilance of a creature who trusted its path.
The night quietened. The heater hummed. Outside, snow drifted in gentle arcs.
Clen's voice, half muffled by a pillow, floated across the dim light. "We'll survive this term, right?"
"Yes."
Aaron closed his notebook, switched off the lamp, and let the darkness settle naturally.
Term Two had begun. Mara would test them. Exams would grind them. Training would sharpen them. The field trip would challenge judgment. And whatever Pokémon Aaron found in Jubilife would change his trajectory.
He was not afraid.
Fear was only useful when controlled.
He lay back, eyes closing, breath steady.
The room fell silent.
And the semester moved forward.