The sun clawed its way above the horizon like a dying beast, veiled in a smear of yellowed clouds.
What little light it offered was pale and sickly, casting no warmth—only shadows.
A week of torturous academic lessons had passed, and now it was time to begin their formal training.
Siege stood in a line of twenty-one students, all dressed in sleeveless black training garb, their breath fogging the cold morning air.
Their bodies bore bruises like second skin. The first day in the Pit had been a mercy compared to this.
Across from them, Instructor Thrakkor paced like a chained god, dragging a spiked training hammer in one hand that left gouges in the stone path with every lazy sweep.
"Understand that you are weak," he began, his voice low, but full of gravel and menace.
"And that's fine. Weak things break easy. Easier to rebuild."
He stopped and turned to face them. His eyes were fire under stone.
"Today, we begin your Aspect drills. Those of you still unable to summon your Armaments—fight trying. Those who can—fight learning to use them."
No one laughed.
He raised his hand.
"Summon your Aspects."
Like sparks igniting, the air shimmered with power.
Across the courtyard, bodies began to warp and shift—not grotesquely, but purposefully. Tattoos glowed. Skin shimmered. Eyes turned to coals, stars, clouds of ink.
A boy near Siege clenched his fists as scales of silver erupted down his arms—the telltale mark of the Aspect {Sky Serpent}.
Two girls twisted together into mirrored forms, their twin Aspects {Maenad} wreathing their limbs in ivy thorns and frenzied wind.
And further down the row, Albion Northwood stood still, unchanging, but heavily present, his Aspect unreadable but colossal, a void where attention went to die.
And Siege—
He stood perfectly still.
Nothing. No shift. No glow.
No Gram. No {Dragon Slayer}.
Just a faint tremble in his hands, a vein on his forehead, and clenched teeth.
Thrakkor noticed.
"Siegfried." The name fell like a hammer.
"Where is your Armament? Where is your Aspect?"
Siege's mouth was dry. He opened it anyway.
"I… can't summon it, sir."
"Can't, or won't?"
Silence.
"Step forward."
Siege obeyed.
The ground felt heavier with every step. A crowd of students watched him like vultures watching a crippled foal.
Thrakkor circled him once, then stopped in front. He raised his voice so all could hear.
"You all have heard of this boy. The {Dragon Slayer}. Titanic Aspect. One of our highest. Now look."
Thrakkor gestured to Siege's trembling frame.
"This is what greatness looks like when it's hollowed out."
Siege looked down at his hands. They had killed a man. They had touched the heart of Fafnir.
But they could not summon Gram.
"Is he for real?" a girl muttered sarcastically in the crowd. "Maybe he made it up, he's a commoner after all."
"Quiet," Thrakkor snapped. "We don't mock broken weapons. We melt them down."
He turned to Siege again.
"You feel fear, boy?"
Siege slowly nodded.
"Good. Let it grow teeth."
Then he shoved Siege backward—straight into the sparring ring.
"Pair up. You get him."
A tall, silent student stepped into the ring with him. One of the Titanic—a quiet boy called Tanreth with the Aspect {Ruin}, whose eyes were pitch black and whose arms bore deep red scars that never closed.
Siege didn't stand a chance.
The moment the signal horn blew, Tanreth closed the distance and struck.
Siege tried to roll, too slow.
The blow caught his ribs and lifted him clean off his feet.
He hit the ground with a wheeze. His vision blurred.
*Is this what it's like to not hold back your Aspect? Did I get lucky to pass last time?*
Tanreth gave him no time to breathe.
The next strike came, and Siege barely blocked it with his forearm.
Pain lanced up his arm. He could hear the bone groan.
A low sweeping kick, Siege barely dodge back, slightly losing his balance.
Adjusting his footing, Siege lunged forward, trying to break his guard.
Despite his precision, his blow somehow lost all it's momentum when it neared Tanreth's body.
Countering, Tanreth struck Siege's face with a devastating blow, send him reeling back.
"Summon it," Thrakkor barked from the sidelines. "Gram. Now."
Siege tried.
A memory of the sword not his own flickered behind his eyes.
Black Steel Uru. Forged to slay wyrms. It had sung when drove through Fafnir's flesh.
Then it vanished, silence.
Gone.
And in its place—
The dark.
The cavern.
Giant copper eyes.
Fafnir's voice.
"Run, little boy. I'll keep your bones warm."
Siege screamed—not in defiance, but in terror—as Tanreth's final strike knocked him to the ground again.
Thrakkor called the match.
"Pull him up. He's useless like this."
Two students dragged Siege to the side, tossing him next to a water trough. Blood leaked from his lip.
His chest ached.
He closed his eyes.
*I can't do this.*
---
The rest of the day was punishment.
They trained within a field of enhanced gravity.
Push-ups on jagged stone until palms bled.
Climbing black basalt pillars with ropes that bit into flesh.
Running with weights while instructors hurled barbed insults from balconies above.
Siege kept moving. Not from strength. From shame.
He watched the others.
The Maenad twins danced through obstacle courses like wind incarnate. Tanreth shattered stone targets with nothing but his fists.
Even the weakest in their class could summon flickers of their Armaments and Aspects.
But not him.
Not the {Dragon Slayer}.
---
Evening fell like a blade.
They were gathered one last time on the training field, every muscle screaming, sweat mingling with blood and grime.
Thrakkor stood before them, arms crossed.
"You are all pathetic."
No one argued.
"But that's why you're here. This academy isn't about talent. It's about survival."
He looked straight at Siege.
"You. Boy who fought Fafnir. You think that gave you strength?"
Siege stared back. Silent.
"No," Thrakkor growled. "It gave you fear. And that's better. Strength breaks. Fear learns."
"Don't prove me wrong."
The sky cracked with distant thunder.
"You'll thank your trauma one day. If it doesn't kill you first."
---
Later, Siege sat alone on the dormitory balcony, his knuckles wrapped in gauze, his back bruised.
Below, the lights of Anatheon flickered like dying stars.
He tried again. Quietly. Sternly.
"Gram," he whispered.
Nothing came.
Not the blade.
Not even a spark.
But still, Siege kept his hand out.
Waiting.
Not for glory.
Not for redemption.
Just a whisper.
A flicker.
Anything.