The forest was quiet at last. Too quiet.
Waterfalls thundered in the distance, their silver spray catching the pale dawn. Smoke curled from broken trees and charred roots. Ravines split the earth where spells had torn through the undergrowth, and here and there, the bodies of slain beasts sprawled in the mud, their ichor seeping into the soil.
The surviving students staggered back into a clearing. Faces bruised, armor dented, breath ragged. Yet in their eyes flickered something different than fear—growth, the raw gleam of power grasped through blood and pain.
But all gazes drifted, inevitably, to her.
Lyra stood with her blade still in hand. Its sheen had faded, but everyone had seen it: how the steel had darkened, mirroring the cold face of the moon. How her slashes had cut through monsters where their strongest blows had failed.
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"Did you see…?""That sword—it wasn't normal.""Her family… wasn't it tied to the traitors?""She shouldn't even have that kind of strength."
Recognition and doubt tangled in equal measure. Some students nodded at her with grudging respect; others looked away, whispering, suspicion thick in their eyes. Lyra herself stood silent, chin lifted, but her hand tightened around the hilt. She heard every word.
Above them, high in the air, a shadow reclined casually on nothing. Goggles glinting, coat fluttering lazily in the breeze—Joren Dawnmere.
He yawned and spread his arms wide, voice carrying down like thunder wrapped in sarcasm.
"Well, look at that. Half of you aren't corpses. Guess you're better than my last class."
A few heads tilted upward, eyes narrowing, but Joren only smirked wider, as though daring them to complain.
"Don't get excited, kiddos. Survival isn't talent. Survival's just… dumb luck. And you? You've got a long way to go before any of you are worth teaching."
His gaze lingered on Gareth and Lyra—one with fists still bleeding, the other with a blade still trembling faintly in the moonlight.
"Though maybe," he drawled, "just maybe, there's a spark or two worth watching."
The forest was quiet at last. Dawn painted pale streaks across the canopy, light catching on bloodied leaves and broken branches. Around the clearing, students slumped against rocks or tree trunks, too drained to move. Their blades dripped, their robes were torn, their hands shook.
Above them, a shadow stretched long.
Joren floated lazily in the sky, goggles catching the morning sun, arms crossed like he was simply waiting for breakfast.
"Well, well. You didn't all croak. Congrats, Class one oh one. You survived one night in the kiddie forest."
A few students groaned. Some dared a cheer. Others, like Gareth, just stared, chest heaving, trying to piece together what "victory" even meant.
Then Joren dropped his words like an anvil:
"Thing is… you're not prodigies. You're not elites. Hell, you're not even mid-tier. You are Class 101—the bottom. The weakest. Beneath a hundred other classes in this school."
The clearing froze.
One boy shouted, "Lies!" Another spat blood into the dirt, trembling with rage. A girl collapsed to her knees, whispering we're nothing over and over.
Lyra's hand tightened around her sword. The faint moonlit shimmer at its edge drew hostile eyes from classmates who had depended on it just hours ago. Whispers of "traitor blood" licked at the back of her neck.
Joren yawned, unimpressed by their despair.
"Don't cry, bros. Think of it this way—when you're at the bottom, the only way is up. Or you flame out faster than anyone else. Either way, entertaining."
He lifted a single finger, snapped—
And the world folded.
The broken forest vanished. In the blink of an eye, students found themselves sprawled on rows of cots, wrapped in the cold scent of herbs and antiseptic. White-draped healers bustled around in shock at the sudden appearance of thirty half-dead kids dumped into the infirmary.
Joren was leaning against the doorframe now, smirking like a man who'd just delivered groceries.
"Patch 'em up, doc squad. They'll need their arms if they want to crawl out of the grave I just dug for 'em."
He winked at Gareth, then vanished in a ripple of air.
The room filled with silence. Only the sound of shallow breathing and strained hearts remained.
The infirmary stank of herbs and blood. Students groaned in their cots, bandages soaked through, healers muttering under their breath. Dawn light bled through the tall windows, soft and golden — but Kael Draven's eyes saw nothing but ash.
He sat rigid on the edge of his cot, his blackened gauntlet resting on his knee. Every muscle in his jaw screamed tension as he glared across the room.
Gareth Valven.
Alive. Breathing. Sitting there like nothing weighed on him.
Kael's hand curled into a fist.
If not for you, my father would still stand among the living.
The name of Xenta Draven was carved into every war memorial in Sunstead. A commander, a symbol. And Kael had been forced to watch his funeral pyre burn — flames licking the sky while whispers spread that Gareth Valven, the "Sun's Pallbearer," had played a role in the disaster that claimed him.
Kael spat on the floor, low and bitter.
He wanted to march across the infirmary, draw steel, and settle it here and now. But the memory of Joren's mocking grin last night kept him in check. He couldn't outmatch Gareth's strange luck — not yet.
Beside him, a few students muttered, their voices hushed.
"That's the Valven kid? He's the one Joren picked out.""Why him? He looked half-dead out there.""Guess even trash catches luck."
Kael's lip curled.
Luck won't save you from me, Valven. Not when the time comes.
His gaze darkened as the healers moved past him. His classmates only saw another battered boy with scars of war. But inside Kael burned a vow:
"I'll avenge you, Father. I'll carve your name into the boy who stole your life. Even if I have to climb over the corpses of every classmate in this pathetic room."
Gareth shifted on his cot, his body still aching from last night's endless fights. The healers had worked their craft, but bruises lingered deep. He noticed Kael sitting across the aisle, armored hand resting heavy on his leg, eyes half-shadowed.
For a moment, Gareth hesitated. He knew the weight in Kael's gaze — the kind of hate a man tried to bury but couldn't. Yet something in him pushed forward.
He rose, crossing the narrow space between their cots.
"Draven," Gareth said evenly. "Rough night. You held your ground out there."
Kael looked up, blinking as if caught off guard. Then, slowly, his lips pulled into a practiced smirk.
"Guess even weaklings can swing a blade when they're cornered," Kael said, his voice carrying just enough humor to mask the venom.
Gareth didn't flinch. "Weaklings or not, we made it through. Together."
Kael chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. He leaned back, letting the golden light catch on his scarred cheek. "Hnh. You're not what I expected, Valven. Not at all."
He extended a hand, gauntlet fingers curling open. "Maybe I judged too quickly."
Gareth studied the hand for a heartbeat. He knew the distrust lingering under Kael's smile, but he clasped it anyway. The shake was firm, iron against flesh.
For the others in the infirmary, it looked like a truce — two classmates finding common ground after hell.
But Kael's thoughts were cold and sharp.
Enjoy this moment, Pallbearer. I'll play the friend if I must. But when the time comes… your sun sets by my hand.
The infirmary reeked of herbs and blood. Pale light filtered through tall windows, catching on rows of cots where the battered first-years lay scattered like broken toys. Bandages glimmered white against skin mottled with bruises; poultices steamed faintly where wounds still burned.
The room was anything but quiet.
On one side, a boy rocked on his cot, muttering, "It was still there—I swear it followed me out of the trees—still watching." His fingers twitched until a healer pressed a vial to his lips and forced him to drink. Nearby, a girl curled up small, whispering half-remembered prayers under her breath.
Others had fire in their eyes. Two bruised boys grinned at each other, swapping war stories like veterans."Did you see when I split that wolf's jaw?" one bragged, puffing his chest."Split it? You barely nicked it. I held the line while you screamed."They laughed, then winced at their own cracked ribs.
Not everyone was so sure. A knot of students sat staring at their hands, whispering."Why were we even thrown there?""Was this… a test? Or did someone want us dead?"
In the far corner, a cluster of girls leaned close, their voices like needles."Did you see her sword? Went all dark—unnatural.""Figures, with her heritage.""She'll get us all killed. Just watch."Their quiet laughter spread like poison, glances darting toward Lyra's empty cot.
Elsewhere, some tried to push forward. A boy stitched his torn sleeve with shaking hands. Another polished a cracked blade, every scrape of whetstone sharp with determination. A few sat back-to-back, talking in low tones about what they'd learned, already planning how to last longer next time.
And then there were those who masked their fear with banter. Two limped down the aisle of cots, bumping shoulders."Next time you run, I'm tripping you first.""Next time, I'm leaving you for the wolves."They laughed, half-brotherly, half-deadly serious.
Voices overlapped—fear, thrill, bitterness, resolve. But above it all hung one heavy truth, whispered from lip to lip until it sank in like rot:
They were the weakest class.
The low chatter in the infirmary broke like shards of glass when Gareth's voice cut through.
"Enough."
The girls who had been snickering about Lyra froze, their words dying on their lips. Gareth stood by the foot of Lyra's bed, arms crossed, eyes sharp. "You owe her more than you realize. Without her, half of you wouldn't even be breathing right now. So quit dragging her name through the mud."
Silence pressed down on the room. Nyx was the first to rise, leaning lazily against the wall but her tone carrying steel. "He's right. She stepped in when no one else could. Hate her style all you want—but it kept your veins from being shredded."
A few others stirred in agreement, voices joining Gareth's side.
Then, unexpectedly, Kael shifted in his chair. He didn't look at Gareth—he didn't look at Lyra either. His jaw clenched, the way his father's used to when swallowing his pride. "Mocking someone who fought to keep you alive… that's cowardice." His tone was reluctant, almost grudging, but it landed heavier than any shout.
Lyra, still pale and recovering, stirred faintly under her sheets, but her eyes stayed closed.
One by one, the students Lyra had saved—those whose lives had been dangling by threads of monster claws—spoke up. "She cut it down before it got me.""She dragged me out when I couldn't move.""She didn't hesitate."
The wave of support snowballed. Voices layered over one another until the whispering girls shrank back against their cots, red creeping into their faces.
Finally, someone muttered what everyone else was thinking. "You should apologize."
The demand grew until the entire class was staring the gossipers down. Reluctantly, stiffly, the girls muttered their apologies toward Lyra's bed.
Gareth gave a short nod. "Better. Now remember this next time you think about running your mouths against someone who's bleeding for you."
The room held its breath. For the first time since the test began, the weakest class stood on one side—united.
The infirmary air grew stifling after the storm of voices. Gareth lingered only a moment longer at Lyra's bedside before slipping quietly out.
The halls of Dawncrest's noble house were carved in pale stone, every surface alive with flickers of golden light from lanterns etched with runes. Murals stretched across the walls—sunlit victories, dawnlit crowns, battles long turned into myth. Servants passed with baskets of herbs, their footsteps light, the fragrance of lavender trailing in their wake.
When Gareth stepped outside, the estate itself seemed to breathe. Gardens spilled with blossoms that shifted their hues under the rising sun. Birds darted through sculpted archways, their wings catching stray beams of light. Even the cobblestones seemed to hum faintly, carrying the pulse of something older than the students training within these walls.
The path sloped downward, the noble air thinning with each step. The banners faded. The marble gave way to worn brick and crooked shingles. Gareth's boots carried him into the lower district—where laughter spilled louder than any song.
Here, the world was different. Children chased each other with sticks and shouts of triumph. Merchants hollered over steaming pots of spiced broth. A pair of musicians struck up a tune by the fountain, coins clinking into their hat as passersby clapped in rhythm. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meat, fried dough, and cheap ale.
For a moment, Gareth stopped in the heart of it all. He let the warmth of the crowd wash over him—their joy, their noise, their small victories. Unlike the noble halls where everything gleamed with heavy history, this place was alive with struggle and survival, yet somehow brighter.
The shouts of children and the clatter of markets faded behind him as Gareth lingered near the fountain. For a heartbeat, he thought he caught someone watching him, but when he turned, the crowd had already swallowed the feeling. He shook it off and continued down the lantern-lit street.
Far above, in the shadowed arch of a crumbling tower, two figures stood cloaked against the night.
Talia Nyx pulled back her hood, eyes like shards of obsidian catching the dim light. Her voice was low, precise.
"He's still under control. The curse hasn't surfaced—not yet."
The taller figure beside her remained hidden in the dark, their face unreadable. Only the faint scrape of a ring against stone betrayed their presence.
"Good," the voice said, deep and deliberate. "Then the boy still serves our purpose."
Talia lowered her gaze, lips tightening. "But for how long?"
The unknown figure didn't answer. Only the silence stretched between them, as below the sounds of laughter from the lower district carried into the night.