Almost two weeks passed before Midarion realized the days had stopped feeling separate.
Morning horn. Cold stone. Running. Drills. Instruction halls that smelled of salt and ink. Service. Silence. Night.
Repeat.
The Sanctuary of the Tides did not change its rhythm for anyone, and after enough repetitions, the rhythm began to erase the edges of time itself. Days bled into one another until Midarion could no longer tell whether the ache in his bones belonged to yesterday's drills or this morning's. His body stayed strong—leaner, harder, conditioned by repetition—but his fighting had not sharpened. Not really.
They trained endurance here. Control. Obedience.
Combat theory remained just that: theory.
Reikika adapted frighteningly fast.
She learned the Sanctuary's tempo within days—the pauses between orders, the unspoken expectations, the exact moment when silence mattered more than speed. She adjusted her posture, refined her timing, learned which questions earned acknowledgment and which invited reprimand. Her knowledge scores rose steadily. Her drills grew clean and economical. Other recruits began to watch her—not openly, not yet—but with attention sharpened by recognition.
Midarion noticed.
From the back rows.
He slept.
Not deeply. Never comfortably. He drifted—caught in that disobedient half-sleep state where the body refuses to stay upright no matter how strong the will. His broken hand never truly stopped throbbing, even as it healed poorly beneath bindings. Pain woke him at night and drained him during lectures. The water-cooled halls were calm, the instructors' voices measured and steady, and before he knew it, his vision blurred and his head dipped.
Once. Twice. Too many times.
The first knowledge test came and went without him realizing it had begun.
By the time he noticed the room shifting—recruits turning parchment, scratching quills—it was already over.
His name was called.
He did not answer.
By midday, he was summoned.
Two instructors waited for him in a narrow chamber off the main hall, water trickling audibly through a channel in the wall. They did not ask him to sit.
"You missed the examination," one said.
Midarion nodded. "I did."
"No excuse?" the other asked.
"I fell asleep."
Silence sharpened.
"You will speak with respect," the first instructor said coldly. "You will stand when addressed. You will not waste our time with admissions that insult the Sanctuary."
"I'm not insulting it," Midarion said. His voice was flat. Tired. "I'm stating what happened."
The second instructor stepped closer. "Do you understand what knowledge represents here?"
"Understanding," Midarion said.
"Wrong," the instructor replied. "Knowledge is survival. We do not train beasts. We train Sentinels who know what they defend, where they stand, and why they exist."
Midarion's jaw tightened.
"You have failed your first test," the first instructor continued. "And failure here has weight."
He was dismissed without further ceremony.
The real punishment came later.
Captain Aelyss summoned him just before dusk.
Her quarters sat higher within the Sanctuary, away from the recruits' dormitories. The corridors leading there were cleaner, quieter, the stone polished by centuries of authority passing through. Midarion walked alone, his boots echoing too loudly no matter how carefully he stepped.
He had faced monsters with less dread.
Aelyss did not ask him to kneel.
She did not shout.
She did not even raise her voice.
She stood by a wide table cluttered with charts and instruments, her uniform immaculate, hair pulled back with severe precision. She did not look at him when he entered.
"You sleep during instruction," she said.
"Yes, Captain."
"You missed your first examination."
"Yes, Captain."
"You embarrass the Sanctuary."
Midarion flinched despite himself.
Aelyss turned then. Her eyes were pale and sharp, like light reflecting off still water—beautiful, cold, and unforgiving.
"You are strong," she said. "Strong enough to survive things that would kill others. That has made you arrogant."
"I'm not—"
"Silence," she snapped, the first crack of steel in her tone. "You mistake endurance for discipline. You mistake pain tolerance for worth."
She walked closer, boots clicking softly.
"Hydros does not reward those who simply endure," she continued. "It rewards those who adapt."
Her gaze dropped to his wrapped hand. Lingering. Measuring.
"You will adapt," she said. "Or you will leave."
Midarion swallowed.
"I won't fail again," he said.
Aelyss's lips curved—not into a smile, but something thinner. Crueler.
"Oh, you will," she said calmly. "The question is whether you learn before that happens."
She turned back to the table, picked up a sealed document, and held it out without looking.
"You are reassigned."
Midarion hesitated before taking it.
"You are now my personal servant," Aelyss said. "You will clean my equipment. Maintain my quarters. Prepare my chambers before rest. Bring my water. Serve as cup-bearer during meetings."
His breath caught.
That wasn't reassignment.
It was degradation.
"You will wake before the first horn and sleep after the last," she continued. "You will wear no insignia. You will stand when others sit. You will speak only when addressed."
Her voice dropped.
"And you will be visible."
Midarion's hands shook—not from weakness, but from the effort of keeping himself still.
"If you fail another examination," Aelyss said, finally meeting his eyes, "you will be expelled from the Sanctuary immediately."
The words struck harder than any blow.
Expelled.
Cast out.
Not transferred. Not delayed.
Gone.
Something in Midarion cracked—not loudly, not cleanly, but enough for him to feel it shift.
"Yes, Captain," he said.
Aelyss dismissed him with a flick of her hand.
That evening, the announcement was made publicly.
All recruits were gathered in the lower courtyard, the sky darkening overhead, the air heavy with salt and cooling stone. Midarion stood among them, already drained from scrubbing armor plates until his fingers burned raw.
An instructor stepped forward.
"Effective immediately," he announced, "Recruit Midarion is assigned to Captain Aelyss as personal maid. He will clean equipment, maintain quarters, prepare chambers, bring water, and serve during official gatherings."
A pause.
Then laughter.
Not cruel at first. Disbelieving. Amused.
Someone snorted.
Another recruit whispered loudly, "Cup-bearer?"
More laughter followed.
Midarion stared straight ahead.
"You will show him the respect due his new position," the instructor continued dryly. "Which is to say—none beyond basic decency."
The laughter sharpened.
Eyes turned toward him openly now. Smiles stretched wide. A few recruits clapped mockingly.
"Careful," someone called. "He might spill the water."
"Hope you're good at cleaning," another said. "Wouldn't want the Captain upset."
Midarion felt the heat rise behind his eyes.
He had endured worse.
He had been beaten, starved, hunted.
But this—
This was different.
This wasn't pain meant to kill him.
This was pressure meant to reshape him.
The tears came before he could stop them.
Hot. Humiliating. Silent.
He turned away before anyone could see them fall, walking blindly toward the shadowed corridor that led back to the dormitories. His vision blurred. His chest ached in a way no wound ever had.
He made it halfway down the hall before his knees buckled.
He leaned against the stone, breath hitching, fists clenched so tightly his injured hand screamed.
So this is it, he thought bitterly. This is how they threat people.
The water channels whispered softly beside him.
Then another voice joined them.
Not outside.
Within.
You are not broken, Filandra said gently.
Midarion squeezed his eyes shut.
"Not now," he whispered.
Especially now, the spirit replied.
Her presence unfurled around him like cool water against fevered skin. Familiar. Steady.
You think humiliation is failure, she continued. It is not. It is a test of shape.
"Shape?" he rasped.
Water does not resent the vessel that holds it, Filandra said. It learns it.
He let out a shaky breath.
"They want me small," he said. "They want me invisible."
They want you useful, Filandra corrected softly. And usefulness is a blade that cuts both ways.
Her tone warmed.
You don't want to leave, she said. That matters.
Midarion wiped his face with his sleeve, ashamed of the wetness there but no longer drowning in it.
"No," he admitted. "I don't."
Then endure this too, Filandra said. Not by hardening—but by bending.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor.
"Midarion?"
Lior appeared first, worry etched deep into his face. Reikika followed close behind, eyes sharp, already furious on his behalf.
"There you are," Lior said softly. "We heard."
Reikika didn't speak at first. She looked at his red eyes, his stiff posture, the way he held his injured hand protectively.
"They had no right," she said finally, voice low and dangerous.
Midarion shook his head. "They did."
Lior stepped closer. "You don't deserve this."
"No," Midarion said quietly. "But I'll survive it."
Reikika studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "Good," she said. "Because if they think this will make you small—they're wrong."
Midarion straightened, squaring his shoulders.
The laughter still echoed faintly in his ears. The threat of expulsion loomed heavy in his chest.
But beneath it all, something else settled.
A colder understanding.
Endurance alone wasn't enough here.
And if he was going to survive the Sanctuary of the Tides—
He would have to become something sharper than he'd ever been before.