The Sanctuary of the Tides did not sleep.
It breathed.
Water slid endlessly through channels carved beneath stone. Wind threaded itself between towers and open courtyards. Somewhere far above, bells marked time—not for comfort, but for precision.
Midarion woke before the sound reached him.
His eyes opened in complete darkness, breath already steady, body alert by instinct rather than thought. For a moment, he did not move. He listened—counting his breaths, feeling the quiet weight of the room settle over him.
Ten beds.
Nine strangers.
All asleep.
The dormitory stretched long and narrow, stone walls bare except for a single lantern hook near the door. Beds were aligned with military precision—thin mattresses, folded blankets, no space beyond what was strictly necessary. The air carried the faint scent of salt, metal, and lingering fatigue.
No one stirred.
One recruit lay sprawled sideways, arm hanging off the bed. Another muttered in his sleep, brow tight, as if still marching. Near the far wall, someone snored softly, unaware of the world.
Lior von Morgenstern lay among them, turned on his side, breathing deep and slow.
Midarion did not look at him for long.
He rose quietly.
His broken hand throbbed the moment he shifted his weight. The pain was sharp, familiar, grounding. He welcomed it. Pain meant he was awake. Pain meant he was still standing.
He dressed with practiced efficiency—slow, controlled movements, careful not to disturb the room. No one noticed. No one woke.
When he slipped into the corridor, the Sanctuary was still cloaked in darkness.
No torches burned. No guards patrolled nearby.
But the way forward was clear.
The open passage widened into a training courtyard washed in dim blue light reflected from the water channels embedded in the stone. The sky above remained ink-black. Dawn was nowhere near breaking.
Reikika stepped out behind him.
She had dressed just as quietly.
Barefoot, she stretched at the edge of the courtyard, rolling her shoulders, loosening her legs. Her breathing was calm, measured. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders, catching faint traces of light.
They exchanged a glance.
No surprise.
They had both lived this rhythm before—waking before the world, training while others slept. In their previous academies, drills had always come after sunrise. Here, instinct told them otherwise.
Midarion took a step toward the open space.
A voice stopped him.
"Recruits."
A guard emerged from the shadow of a nearby archway, armor catching the dim light. His posture was relaxed but firm, hand resting near the hilt at his side.
"You don't train alone," the guard said evenly. "Not here."
Midarion frowned. "We're awake."
"That doesn't matter."
Reikika tilted her head. "We're not disturbing anyone."
"You don't have that freedom," the guard replied. "Recruits train as a unit. Rules exist for a reason."
Midarion's jaw tightened.
"I didn't come here to wait around," he said. "I'm training."
The guard's eyes narrowed slightly. "You don't decide that."
Midarion took another step forward.
"I'm going to train anyway."
The air tightened.
Reikika opened her mouth to speak—
A horn sounded.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Sharp.
Metal doors slammed open across the courtyard and surrounding corridors.
The guard glanced toward the sound. "That," he said calmly, "is the first horn."
Reikika frowned. "First?"
"It means soldiers wake and train," the guard continued. His gaze shifted back to Midarion. "For recruits, it means you have a few breaths to get dressed and in formation—unless you prefer being woken with ice water and running until you vomit."
Midarion froze.
Another horn echoed, closer now.
From the corridors, movement exploded.
Recruits poured out half-dressed, scrambling into boots, belts crooked, eyes wide with panic. Some tripped. One slammed into a wall and cursed before being yanked upright by an instructor.
The guard stepped aside. "Move."
Midarion and Reikika were already ready.
That did not go unnoticed.
Several soldiers crossing the courtyard glanced their way, surprise flickering across disciplined faces. A few slowed, eyes lingering just a moment too long.
The lines formed.
Instructors moved through them—men and women in dark training gear, expressions cold, voices precise. No insignias beyond rank markings. No warmth.
"You," one snapped, pointing at a recruit fumbling with his straps. "Late."
"I—I just—"
"Out."
The recruit stared. "What?"
"The Sanctuary doesn't wait for excuses," the instructor said flatly. "Leave the line."
The boy hesitated.
Two guards stepped forward.
He left.
The line tightened.
Another horn.
"Begin drills."
They ran.
Not sprints. Not displays of speed.
Endurance.
Lap after lap around the courtyard. Push-ups on stone slick with condensation. Squats held until legs trembled violently. Weighted packs passed down the line, heavier than they looked.
No shouting.
No encouragement.
Only correction.
"Back straight."
"Again."
"Hold it."
The sun had not risen when bodies began to shake.
By the time its first light brushed the upper towers, sweat soaked uniforms and breath came ragged.
One recruit collapsed outright.
Another vomited, wiped his mouth, and tried to stand again.
An instructor stopped him with a single hand to the chest. "You're done."
"I can—"
"You're done."
The boy sagged with equal parts relief and shame.
Midarion's arms burned. His lungs felt raw. His injured hand screamed every time weight shifted wrong.
He did not stop.
He did not excel.
He endured.
What surprised him was not the pain.
It was the others.
These recruits were not weak.
Some matched his pace. Others surpassed it. Their forms were disciplined, movements sharp, honed by years of structured training. They had not survived the road—but they had trained longer. Much longer.
Twice as long.
Maybe more.
Reikika noticed too.
She adjusted. Learned. Flowed with the drills instead of forcing through them. No wasted motion. No defiance.
When drills ended, no one cheered.
And after a small break,
they were marched straight into classes.
Wide lecture halls carved into the Sanctuary's inner stone awaited them. Tiered seating. Flowing water along the walls, cooling the air and sharpening focus.
They had history that day and learned about Hydros .
Its founding. Its wars. Its legends tied to the sea. The barrier that protected the region—and the cost of maintaining it.
Reikika sat at the front.
She took notes relentlessly.
Midarion sat at the back.
And slept.
His body finally claimed its due.
A sharp knock on his desk jolted him awake.
"Cleaning duty after the class," the instructor said coldly. "You sleep, you serve."
Midarion said nothing.
He stayed after, scrubbing benches until his arms shook again.
After classes came service.
Not training.
Service.
Water runs. Equipment cleaning. Carrying crates across the Sanctuary. Polishing armor still warm from use.
Someone complained.
Quietly.
Too quietly.
An instructor stopped walking.
"Say it again."
Silence.
"Good," the instructor said. "Because here, you serve before you fight."
Resentment grew.
Eyes followed Midarion when he didn't slow.
Whispers followed Reikika when she laughed softly under the weight of a crate.
By nightfall, bodies sagged.
Spirits frayed.
Back in the dormitory, Midarion wrapped his hand tighter, jaw clenched.
Lior sat beside him.
"They don't hate you," Lior said quietly. "They're afraid of what you'll become."
Midarion shook his head. "They're afraid of what I already am."
Across the Sanctuary, Reikika laughed softly with three recruits who had gravitated toward her.
"You're not normal," one of them said. "In a good way."
Reikika smiled. "That's usually how it starts."
The lights dimmed.
The Sanctuary did not sleep.
And high above, an instructor stood with arms crossed, gaze fixed on one dormitory window in particular.
Not on Reikika.
On Midarion.
Watching.
Measuring.
Waiting.