Serena tucked a stray blonde lock behind her ear, her eyes scanning the cafeteria over the rim of her sparkling water. The condensation felt cool against her palms—a sharp contrast to the simmering heat of the table.
"I'm just saying," Serena murmured, her voice breezy but carrying that practiced weight of someone used to being heard. She nudged her glass toward Anna. "That advice you gave actually worked. I've finally hit the Alignment Stage of my light path."
Anna didn't look up. She was peeling an orange with terrifying, surgical precision, the zest misting into the air. Her dark eyes remained fixed on the boys across the table. "You rely too much on my shortcuts, Serena. Read the source texts. Find your own rhythm, or your 'light' will just be a flicker when it actually matters."
"God, you guys are exhausting," Michael snapped. He was slumping so low in his chair he was practically horizontal, his combat boots kicked out into the aisle like a tripwire for passing freshmen. "Right way, wrong way... who gives a shit? It's all just noise to keep you from realizing the path you awakened is yours. You don't find it in a book; you carve it out. But please, Anna," he added, flashing a jagged, unkind grin, "Educate us. Tell us the 'proper' way to be a good little soldier while we're rotting in this prison."
"Language, Michael!" Arthur boomed, slamming a fist onto the table.
Serena winced as her water bottle rattled violently. Arthur sat directly across from her, chest puffed out like a Golden Age propaganda poster. "We are representatives of this institution! To speak of these halls as a prison is a slight against the legacy we are privileged to inherit. Have you no honor?"
"Honor doesn't pay for the cigarettes I'm gonna smoke the second I find a blind spot in the courtyard," Michael shot back.
Serena felt a familiar weight on her shoulder. Layla had materialized behind her, leaning in until her chin nearly rested on Serena's ear. "Oh, let them fight, Serena," Layla purred, her eyes dancing with feline mischief. "It's better than the actual mystery meat they're serving. I'll bet ten bucks Arthur tries to challenge him to a duel before the bell rings."
"You bet on it every day, Layla," Serena chided, though a small, conspiratorial smile tugged at her lips. "You're only encouraging them."
"Discipline is what they need, not encouragement," Rowan interrupted.
He sat at the far end of the table, his tray empty and spotless, his posture so rigid it made Serena's own back ache just looking at him. He wasn't looking at the argument; he was glaring at Ben, who was fast asleep at the opposite end, head pillowed on a stack of moss-green gym bags.
"Look at him," Rowan muttered, tapping his pen rhythmically against a leather-bound notebook. "Ben bought that food ten minutes ago. He's a disgrace to the uniform. Wake up and show some respect for the schedule."
"Leave him, Rowan," Serena said, trying to head off the 'Duty and Honor' speech before it hit its second act. "He stayed up all night in the gravity chambers. He's the only one at this table not giving me a headache right now."
Serena sighed, looking at the beautiful, chaotic mess of them. To her left, Layla was already trying to swipe a slice of Anna's orange; in front of her, Arthur and Michael were locked in a silent staring contest of pure, concentrated loathing.
Then, the atmosphere at the table shifted. The air grew heavy, the way it does just before a lightning strike.
"Look at this, Jake," a voice drawled from behind them. "The freshmen think they already own the place. Ain't that precious?"
Serena turned. Two seniors stood there, looming over their table. The leader was tall with a mop of black curls and a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Behind him stood a guy with long blonde hair tied back—Jake—who looked like he found the very sight of them offensive.
The black-haired senior leaned down, resting a hand on the back of Serena's chair. "Look at all these 'top tier' heroes-in-training gathered in one spot," he said, his voice dripping with mock-admiration. "I'm John, by the way. And I think you guys are in the wrong seats.
Michael didn't hesitate. A jagged, dangerous smirk pulled at his lips as he stood, bridging the gap until he was chest-to-chest with John. "Yeah? And what exactly are you going to do about it, Senior?"
John chuckled, a cold sound that lacked any warmth. "Look at this, Jake. It's the famous Michael Sterling. The biggest screw-up in the Sterling bloodline... at least until he got that Hero's Mark. I guess even a dog gets lucky sometimes."
Behind them, the table went silent. Serena and Anna exchanged a look of pure dread. They knew that name was the one button you never pushed.
Michael didn't roar. He didn't even yell. He just laughed—a low, manic sound that set the air humming—and then his fist was a blur. A heavy right hook connected with John's jaw, the force of it sending the senior stumbling back, his boots skidding across the linoleum.
"Michael, don't!" Anna shouted, but it was too late.
Jake lunged. He moved with the practiced grace of an upperclassman, throwing a precise right hook aimed at Michael's temple. Michael dipped his shoulder, dodging the blow with a mocking grin. Jake followed through immediately with a lightning-fast roundhouse kick, the air whistling as his leg cut through the space Michael had been a second ago.
Michael didn't dodge this time. He caught Jake's shin mid-air, his grip like a vice. With a grunt of effort, he pivoted and threw Jake full-force. The senior hit the far wall with a sickening thud, sliding down in a heap of tangled limbs.
Michael didn't stop. He stalked toward John, who was still scrambling to find his footing.
"Stop it, Michael! That's enough!" Anna's voice was sharp, but Michael was deaf to it. He dropped his weight onto John, pinning him to the floor. His fist rose and fell, rhythmically, brutally. "Who's the screw-up now, John? Say it again. Say it."
Suddenly, the light in the room seemed to dim. A massive, suffocating shadow stretched over Michael. He froze, his fist hovering inches from John's bloody nose.
He turned. Standing over him was a mountain of a man in a perfectly pressed Academy uniform: Veren Lockewell.
Before Michael could react, Veren's hand shot out, seizing him by the collar like a stray kitten. He hurled Michael backward. Michael tucked his chin, flipping mid-air and landing on his feet, his combat boots sparking against the floor.
"Know your place, Freshman," Veren rumbled.
Arcs of blue lightning suddenly danced across Veren's skin, snapping and hissing like angry vipers. With a crack of thunder, a bolt jumped toward Michael. Michael's eyes ignited with a reckless fire, his hand coating itself in a swirling, blood-red flame. He lunged.
Their fists collided in the center of the room. A shockwave rippled outward, shattering the nearby windows and sending trays flying off tables.
The raw power difference was immediate. Michael was blown back, his body slamming into the brick wall with enough force to leave cracks. Veren merely slid back a few inches, his expression unbothered as he dusted a stray spark off his sleeve.
Veren began to walk toward the fallen Michael, his steps heavy and purposeful. But he stopped when a blue-haired figure drifted into his path.
Ben was no longer slumped over his gym bags. He stood with a strange, fluid stillness, his hand resting on the hilt of a sheathed sword. His eyes, usually half-closed, were now sharp and piercing. Behind him, the rest of the table had risen, powers humming in the air.
Veren's eyes narrowed. Lightning crackled violently around his frame, and in a blink, he vanished.
He reappeared instantly in front of Michael, his fist pulled back for a finishing blow. But a streak of blinding, golden light intercepted him.
CRACK.
Serena appeared out of the radiance, her leg extended in a high, blurring kick that caught Veren square in the forearm. Her eyes glowed a fierce, molten gold, the "Alignment Stage" she had bragged about finally manifesting in raw, kinetic energy.
The impact was massive. Even with his guard up, Veren was sent tumbling back, his boots carving deep grooves into the floor before he regained his balance.
Serena touched down lightly next to Michael, her chest heaving as the golden light flickered around her like a halo. She let out a long, frustrated sigh.
"Seriously, Michael?" she muttered, not taking her eyes off the Senior. "You're really going to make me fight on my first day?"