The road back to Lionhearth was quieter than the road away from it.
Not peaceful—just heavy.
The carriage moved steadily through rolling plains and stone-lined roads, wheels crunching over gravel that felt far too loud in the silence. I sat upright across from Sir Adranous, hands resting on my knees, posture straight out of habit rather than comfort. Lumiel sat between us, hood pulled low, eyes half-lidded as she pretended to nap. I didn't believe her for a second.
The wind slipped in through the open side panels, carrying the scent of earth and iron. Somewhere far behind us was Newoaga—its harbor, its laughter, its buried chambers. Somewhere far behind us were broken crowns and burned symbols.
Ahead was Lionhearth.
Sir Adranous broke the silence first.
"Extend your will," he said casually, like he was asking me to stretch.
I stiffened. "…Here?"
"Here," he repeated.
I closed my eyes.
Will wasn't aura. Aura responded to flow, to direction, to intent. Will was different. It didn't move outward so much as press. It was weight. Presence. A declaration that reality had to acknowledge you before proceeding.
I inhaled slowly.
The world did not change.
Then—I decided it would.
Something subtle pulsed outward from my chest. No light. No color. Just pressure. The air near my skin thickened, like water resisting movement. The wooden floor beneath my boots creaked faintly, not from force, but from recognition.
Sir Adranous nodded once.
"Too narrow," he said. "You're bracing, not asserting."
I adjusted. The pressure softened, then expanded—not sharper, but broader. Less like a blade and more like an incoming tide.
Lumiel cracked one eye open.
"…That's uncomfortable," she muttered.
I cut the output immediately. "Sorry."
Sir Adranous huffed. "Don't apologize. You're learning what not to do."
We trained like that for hours.
Between rest stops, between meals eaten in silence or broken only by the clink of cutlery, Sir Adranous had me test things that made no sense at first.
Extend will without aura.
Anchor aura without motion.
Let emotion rise—then deny it expression.
At one point, he ordered me to maintain a thin layer of will while walking beside the carriage for half a mile.
My legs burned. My lungs screamed. My focus fractured.
"That's enough," I gasped.
Sir Adranous didn't slow the horses. "No," he said. "That's almost enough."
By the time we reached the outer ridges overlooking Lionhearth's territory, my body felt hollowed out. Not empty—scoured.
Then I saw the city.
Lionhearth rose from the land like a blade driven into the earth—white stone walls, towering spires, banners snapping in the wind. The academy sat proud and immovable near the inner bastion, unchanged by distance or time.
Something in my chest tightened.
I wasn't relieved.
I wasn't excited.
I was… aware.
We passed through the gates without delay. Soldiers stiffened at the sight of Sir Adranous. The red Lionhearth banner was lowered in acknowledgment. Whispers followed us through the streets, but no one approached.
As soon as we crossed into the inner ward, a runner was already moving.
By the time the carriage halted inside the academy grounds, waiting guards were in place.
"Rain of Ignis," one said. "General Izekel summons you immediately."
Sir Adranous smiled faintly. "Straight to it, then."
The audience chamber was colder than I remembered.
General Izekel stood before the tall windows, hands clasped behind his back, cloak falling perfectly despite the lack of wind. He did not turn when we entered.
Lumiel was escorted out quietly by attendants. The doors closed behind her.
Silence pressed down.
"Report," General Izekel said.
Sir Adranous spoke first. Clean. Precise. No embellishment.
Azazel.
The chamber beneath Newoaga.
The corrupted saintess protocols.
The casualties avoided only by intervention.
When he finished, General Izekel finally turned his gaze on me.
I did not look away.
"You should have withdrawn," he said calmly.
"Yes, sir."
"You chose to proceed."
"Yes, sir."
"You placed students in war conditions."
I clenched my jaw. "Yes, sir."
The room did not erupt. There was no anger. That was worse.
General Izekel studied me like a battlefield map.
"Why?"
I answered honestly. "Because I believed delay would cost lives."
"And you still believe that?"
I thought of Kazen's broken arm. Of Varein barely standing. Of Lumiel unconscious beneath symbols she never chose.
"…No," I said. "I believe now that certainty is just another form of ignorance."
Sir Adranous glanced at me, sharp interest cutting through his calm.
General Izekel nodded once. "Good."
Then—unexpectedly—he stepped closer.
"You survived contact with an ancient demon. You coordinated under catastrophic failure. You did not break when leadership became liability."
His gaze hardened.
"And you learned that righteousness is not a shield."
I exhaled slowly.
General Izekel turned toward Sir Adranous. "Your proposal."
Sir Adranous met his eyes. "He should be trained in will, and vows."
"A dangerous combination."
"Yes."
General Izekel looked back at me. "You will not be permitted to use will freely until you master it."
"I understand."
"You will be watched."
"I expected that."
"You will fail again."
I nodded. "Probably."
A pause.
Then—quiet, absolute:
"Return to training," General Izekel said. "If you are to stand among legends one day, you will first learn how easily they fall."
After the debriefing, I left the chamber alone.
No escort.
No orders shouted after me.
No praise.
The doors of the high council hall closed behind my back with a dull, final sound that echoed longer than it should have.
Lionhearth at night was quieter than I remembered.
Not peaceful—just restrained.
Like a blade kept sheathed because drawing it too often dulls the edge.
The stone corridors stretched wide and tall, lit by floating luminance crystals that hummed softly in rhythm with the academy's wards. Every student quarter, every training ring, every tower carried layers of protection I'd once taken for granted.
Now I could feel them.
Not as magic.
As pressure.
Each step forward pulled at something behind my eyes. My will—what I'd forced into existence over the last few days—hadn't settled. It pulsed irregularly, like a second heartbeat that refused to slow.
I stopped walking.
My hand pressed against the stone wall as a sudden wave of dizziness hit.
Not pain.
Something worse.
Hollowness.
Like gripping a sword after the battle's already ended and realizing your arm is still shaking—not from fear, but from what it had to become.
So this is the cost, I thought.
Using Will wasn't free.
Sir Adranous had warned me without saying the words outright.
Will didn't drain your energy.
It drained your certainty.
I exhaled slowly and pushed myself upright again.
Move.
Stopping only made the weight heavier.
The main training grounds were empty at this hour.
No spectators.
No instructors pacing the perimeter.
No ranking boards lit with names.
Just open stone, moonlight, and the faint scent of iron lingering in the air.
I stepped into the center ring.
Instinct.
I drew my sword.
The blade was still chipped. Still imperfect. Still mine.
When I raised it—
Nothing happened.
No aura flare.
No lightning crackle.
No response.
For the first time since Newoaga, my power didn't answer immediately.
My grip tightened.
I focused.
Not on strength.
Not on technique.
Not on intent.
On weight.
On every decision that had brought me here.
On Kazen's broken arm.
On Liam standing when he shouldn't have.
On Seraphyne refusing to step back even while bleeding.
On Varein's back pressed against mine, steady even when mine wasn't.
On Lumiel lying unconscious beneath symbols meant to erase her will.
My chest tightened.
The blade trembled.
Then—
A low, invisible force rippled outward.
The sand beneath my feet shifted. Not explosively. Not violently.
Controlled.
Measured.
The air bent—just slightly—as if acknowledging something had changed.
I lowered the sword immediately.
My hands shook.
Not from fear.
From restraint.
Will wasn't about overpowering.
It was about not letting go, even when letting go would be easier.
A presence made itself known without footsteps.
"You didn't break the ring."
I turned.
Sir Adranous stood at the edge of the grounds, arms folded, red cape resting still against the night air.
"I almost did," I said honestly.
He nodded once. Not approving. Not critical.
"Then you stopped."
"Yes, sir."
"That," he said calmly, "is the difference between a weapon and a knight."
He stepped closer but did not enter the ring.
"Your Will is unstable."
"I know."
"Good. If you didn't, I'd worry."
I frowned slightly but said nothing.
He continued, eyes fixed on the blade in my hand.
"You forced your soul into alignment under extreme pressure," he said. "That kind of awakening leaves fractures."
"Will they heal?"
"They don't," he replied. "You learn how not to tear them wider."
Silence settled between us.
Then he added, softer—
"General Izekel doesn't hand out permission lightly."
I looked up.
"He authorized your participation in the First Trial Cycle."
My breath caught.
Trial… cycle?
Not a test.
Not a spar.
A reckoning.
"When?" I asked.
"Soon," Sir Adranous said. "Soon enough that you won't feel ready. Late enough that delay would be mercy."
I nodded.
That was fair.
He turned to leave, then paused.
"One more thing, Rain."
"Yes, sir?"
"You survived Newoaga because you fought like a blade."
He looked back at me fully now, eyes reflecting faint firelight.
"If you face what comes next like that—"
His gaze sharpened.
"—Lionhearth will break you before the enemy ever gets the chance."
He left.
No farewell.
No reassurance.
Just truth, delivered cleanly.
I remained in the ring long after he was gone.
Lionhearth loomed around me—not as a sanctuary, not as a threat.
But as a forge.
Newoaga had burned away ignorance.
This place would test what remained.
I sheathed my sword.
Not because I was done.
Because tomorrow, I'd need it drawn again—and it had to remember why.
I wasn't preparing to win.
I was preparing to endure.
The road ahead wasn't glorious.
But it was mine to walk.
And this time—
I would choose every step knowing exactly what it might cost.