The bell hadn't even finished ringing before Lysandra's heels clicked to the front of the room, her voice slicing through the low hum of early morning chatter like a scalpel.
"Suit up. Your field simulation begins in twenty. Dismissed."
A collective exhale — a mix of dread, excitement, and manufactured bravado — filled the classroom. I didn't move. Just sat there, pen still in hand, eyes flicking from the projection screen to my barely touched notebook. Another training exercise. Another staged war under the illusion of teamwork.
I already felt the headache blooming behind my right eye.
Tracks.
That's what they called them. The neat little compartments the academy used to categorize us.
Combat. Strategy. Support. Recon.
Boxes. Labels. Assumptions.
I was Support — the people who were supposed to help.
Wardsmithing. Healing. Barrier stabilization. Tactical assistance.
But none of them knew I could kill them all if I stopped pretending.
I closed my notebook, fingers tightening slightly over the spine before slipping it into my bag.
* * *
The training grounds were massive — a sterile stadium of jagged stone terrain and modular walls built to simulate everything from urban combat to battlefield scenarios. Drones buzzed above us like hungry flies, feeding data to the control room where the instructors sat sipping coffee and silently judging.
I stood at the edge, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.
I wasn't worried about winning.
I was worried about exposure.
Too many eyes. Too much attention. And I already felt the rot of ego beginning to ferment in the air.
Another power struggle was brewing. You could feel it.
Everyone wanted to be top of the food chain — or at least die trying.
"Now calling squads," Lysandra's voice crackled through the field intercom. "Pairings are final. Hero names only."
Here we go.
The announcer's voice was sharp, clinical — someone else, maybe an assistant under Lysandra's thumb. Each student was paired and called to step into the center as their names echoed across the arena.
"Starflare and Pulsewave — Combat.
Rift and Monsoon — Recon.
Argent — Support. Paired with Equinox — Gravity."
My name. Argent.
A placeholder title I'd registered years ago, soft-sounding and forgettable. A silver coin tossed into a wishing well.
I stepped forward.
Then her.
Rhea Amani. Equinox.
I glanced at her from the corner of my eye as we moved to our starting point. Quiet, always. Like she'd been carved from still water. Her long black braids were tied into a neat coil, her suit as smooth and monochrome as her expression.
Her power? Gravity Manipulation.
She could bend the world sideways if she wanted.
And she probably would — if it served her purpose.
Rhea rarely spoke. She didn't need to. Her presence alone was weight. Literal and metaphorical. Cold and calculating. The kind of partner I respected and feared in equal measure.
Then our opponents were called. And my mood soured like milk in the sun.
"Aetherstrike — Kinetic Redirection.
Infernaut — Molecular Acceleration."
Zach Monroe and Devon Lin.
My personal hell.
Zach — the golden boy bully. Every teacher's pet, every student's nightmare. With a smirk that made you want to bleach your own brain. His gift let him absorb impact and send it back tenfold. Every punch you threw made him stronger.
There was nothing more dangerous than a cruel man who thought he was invincible.
And Devon? Just as loud as Zach, but not nearly as charming.
He could speed up molecules in anything. Air. Water. Flesh.
Explosions were his love language.
Lucky me.
"Mock engagement scenario. Field suppression exercise." Lysandra's voice returned, cool and dry. "The objective is simple: disable your opponents or force them to yield. Non-lethal force only. Barriers are active. Monitors are tracking everything. Any excessive force will result in penalties and demerits."
She let that hang in the air for a beat.
"Support classes are permitted to defend and act offensively. No direct interference from instructors unless injury reaches threshold."
In other words: We can stop you if you're dying. Not before.
Classic academy ethics.
"Each battle has a five-minute time limit. Victory is awarded by takedown, submission, or point advantage based on combat effectiveness. Begin on my signal."
I slid my gloves tighter around my fingers, the threads of runes inside them quietly humming against my skin. Light wards, illusion preps, emergency seals. All hidden.
I glanced at Rhea.
She was already hovering — barely a few inches above the ground, her feet drifting in place like she weighed nothing at all. Her eyes flicked to me once. That was the signal. We were ready.
Zach cracked his knuckles. Devon sparked.
I sighed.
This was going to be a crappy situation for me.
I stepped forward anyway.
Lysandra raised her hand.
"Begin."
Zach charges first. Of course. He's always the first to move and the last to think. He launches a chunk of kinetic energy from his palm, a ripple of compressed force aimed straight at Rhea.
She slides backward, barely lifting a hand. The energy curve bends midair—she drags it down with a flicker of gravity shift and slams it into the ground like it was nothing.
Devon comes next, fast and wild. He blurs, his molecules vibrating as he zips toward me like a living bolt. I panic. React. I throw a barrier up—hexagonal, reflective. It cracks on impact but holds long enough for me to dive out of the way.
Rhea manipulates the field mid-fall, slamming Devon downward. He rolls with it, already recovering. Too fast. Too reckless.
I stumble to my feet, trying to recalibrate. Rhea doesn't need orders. She flows—gravity bends around her in subtle pulses. She makes Zach's next blast miss entirely and throws him off-balance just long enough for me to tag him with a disorientation glyph. He stumbles, eyes wide, nauseous.
I almost smile.
But then Devon roars and slams the ground—his molecules accelerate the terrain beneath us, causing a shockwave. I'm airborne.
I scream. Definitely scream.
Then—gentle impact.
Rhea catches me in a gravity pocket, lowering me back down like a feather. I mutter a quiet thank-you she'll probably ignore.
Zach's recovered. He's charging again. He draws kinetic energy from Devon's last blast, hurling it like a wrecking ball.
"Down!" Rhea yells. It's the first word she's said all day.
I hit the ground. The air above me explodes in ripples of pure force. Rhea absorbs the rest, distorting it away with her powers.
And then—calm.
Zach overextends.
Rhea flicks her wrist and gravity turns cruel. Zach slams into the ground with enough force to rattle teeth.
Devon stares.
Then my trap activates.
The glyph I laid during my fall lights up beneath his feet. A bind. His molecules are forced into stasis for three seconds—long enough for Rhea to send him flying with a surge of inverted gravity.
Both of them are on the ground.
Lysandra's voice buzzes in over the speakers.
"Simulation complete. Victory: Argent and Equinox."
I stare at the floor.
I won? Wait—we won?
I barely did anything.
Everyone starts clapping. Some polite, some surprised.
Rhea turns to me, offering the smallest nod. I nod back, awkward and sweaty and probably blushing.
I can already feel Zach's glare.
On our way out, someone pats me on the shoulder.
"You were amazing, Argent."
I flinch. Laugh it off.
"Oh, that was all Rhea. I just ran around and screamed a lot."
They chuckle.
I fake a smile.
Inside, my pulse is still racing. Not from exertion—but from how good it felt.
To win. To be invisible and still pull strings. To not be suspected.
But outside?
I'm just paper-thin Calla.
Scared, soft-spoken, a nobody Support track girl.
And I like it that way.
* * *
I sit with my knees tucked in, sketchbook balanced on my lap, fingers drumming the spine of my pen. The air in the observation room feels heavier than usual. Maybe it's the condensation on the glass from too many overclocked magic conduits, or maybe it's just me. A support-class student watching a battle she's technically not qualified to critique.
Still, I'm here.
The reinforced viewing dome hums faintly overhead, giving us a clear panoramic of the mock arena below. A cragged metal terrain shaped by previous battles—scorched, jagged, and riddled with elevation drops meant to test mobility and adaptability.
Lysandra's voice cuts clean through the speakers. "Match commencing: Team Tatiana Volkova and Kai Nakamura versus Maria Estrella and Calder Voss. You have two minutes to prepare."
The room shifts. Every student sits straighter, silent. No one wants to miss this.
I lower my gaze to the field.
Tatiana Volkova — Codename: Ironfrost. Power: ice and metal manipulation. Cold, beautiful, methodical. Her posture never shifts more than necessary. Like her body was calibrated rather than raised. She's terrifying because she makes you forget she's dangerous.
Kai Nakamura — Resonant. Power: harmonic sound manipulation. Uses vibrational resonance through a gauntlet system. Wears headphones even during class. People say it's to focus. I think it's so he doesn't hear himself scream when he finally snaps.
Versus…
Maria Estrella — Mirage. Power: psychic barrier generation. A witty girl with a mouth that runs faster than her hands. I've always hated how likable she is. How people gravitate to her like moths around a pretty light they don't realize is fire.
And her partner…
Calder Voss. Codename: Stonetide. Power: geokinesis + moisture extraction. He can pull minerals from the environment and layer it with kinetic moisture, basically making sand-based armor and projectiles. He's bulky, slow, and oddly graceful for someone who always looks like he's about to fall asleep mid-punch.
I chew the inside of my cheek and start writing
00:00
The buzzer sounds. Ice blossoms instantly across the arena—Tatiana doesn't waste time. Spikes, not walls. Offensive coverage.
Maria deflects with a curved psychic wall, reshaping the spikes mid-flight and sending them back. They shatter harmlessly against a second metallic wave—Kai's harmonics pulse, and the metal vibrates, absorbing shock. Beautiful coordination.
Kai steps forward, arms wide, palms open. Vibrations ripple through the ground like sonar pulses. Calder reacts, coating his limbs in compact earth-ice, launching a boulder directly at Kai.
Kai hums. The air shimmers—sound bends, momentum dies. The boulder slows in midair before disintegrating. Reverse frequency pressure? Impressive.
00:47
Tatiana controls high ground. Every time Maria tries to reposition, she's met with a freezing pin or metallic stake. Her tactics are to corral, not crush. She's herding them. Maria doesn't see it yet.
I do.
Kai stays midrange, like a net. Every sound he makes becomes a trap. He's calculating. Not impulsive like Zach or Devon. No, he's the kind who memorizes your rhythm, lets you feel confident… then breaks your ribs with a note you didn't know you'd heard.
Maria makes a mistake.
She tries to push forward with a barrier charge. Overextends.
Tatiana seizes it. A crescent blade of iron slices the ground in front of her, erupting into spikes. Maria throws up a dome just in time—she's safe, but she's pinned.
Calder tries to help but his terrain's compromised. Kai activates his sonic blast. The dome cracks. I hear it even up here.
Maria falls.
Match over.
I stop writing.
The buzzer's still ringing faintly when the crowd starts clapping. Some cheer. Some groan.
I only write two words:
"Kill Second."
Kai is the real threat. Tatiana's a control type—easier to outmaneuver when isolated. Kai? He adapts. You don't fight people like him. You eliminate them before the field ever tilts.
I underline his name and draw a small, curved line beneath it.
Target acquired.
"Taking notes again, Sunshine?"
Zach's voice.
Of course he'd be here.
I don't even look at him. I just keep writing. Acting like I'm nervous. Like I'm trying too hard to keep up. He'll interpret that the way I need him to.
Beside him, Lysandra stands with her arms crossed. I feel her eyes scan my page. I keep my script tight. Normal. Safe.
Just a Support track student trying to understand her betters.
She says nothing.
Good.
I let my posture sag, rubbing the back of my neck like I'm overwhelmed. Then I turn the page.
I'll kill both of them. Just… not yet.
Too many variables. Too many watching eyes.
But one day, Zach Monroe will beg. And Lysandra will regret turning a blind eye.
I glance back at the arena.
Maria's limping off the field, giggling like it didn't matter. Calder pats her on the shoulder. She's alive.
For now.