Grecko Academy did not teach courage.
It taught efficiency.
Frankie understood that within the first ten minutes of the joint lecture.
The amphitheatre was cut directly into white stone, tiered benches circling a central platform marked with concentric sigils. Gifted students filled the upper rows, their posture relaxed, confidence carried openly. Below them sat the auxiliaries, plainer clothes, straighter backs, eyes forward.
Frankie took her usual seat near the edge of the auxiliary section, close enough to hear, far enough to be ignored.
The bell rang once.
Silence followed immediately.
High Priest Strategos Valen stepped into the circle.
He was old. Not frail, but shaped by time in a way power could not erase. His hair was white, his back straight, and the sigil of Athena was etched permanently into his left palm, a blessing that allowed him perfect recall of battlefield doctrine.
When he spoke, he did not raise his voice.
"You are here," Valen said, "because another war is coming. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not this year, but I assure you, it is coming "
No dramatic pause. No flourish.
Just fact.
Frankie felt it ripple through the room anyway.
"Twenty years ago," Valen continued, "the angels declared humanity a terminal instability. The gods responded. Walls were raised. Champions were chosen. The purge was halted."
He gestured, and the sigils beneath his feet ignited.
Illusions bloomed above the platform, angelic formations, wings spread in rigid symmetry. Lines of light marked ranks and command chains.
"Angels operate on hierarchy," Valen said. "Orders flow downward. Authority stabilizes their formations. Remove the commander, and cohesion fails."
A gifted student nodded knowingly.
Frankie's jaw tightened.
"That," Valen went on, "is why the gifted are trained for disruption."
The illusion shifted. Divine champions surged forward, lightning and flame breaking through angel ranks.
"The gifted strike decisively. They collapse authority."
Then Valen's hand moved again.
The image changed.
Auxiliaries appeared.
Human figures without divine glow, moving behind the champions. Carrying supplies. Securing flanks. Dragging wounded clear.
"The auxiliary exists to ensure the gifted can operate," Valen said calmly. "You maintain momentum. You hold ground temporarily. You extract when commanded."
Someone behind Frankie swallowed.
"You are not expected to defeat angels," Valen continued. "You are expected to be useful."
That word landed harder than any insult.
Useful.
"An auxiliary's success," Valen said, "is measured in time."
He let that settle.
"Time bought. Time preserved. Time surrendered."
The illusion showed an auxiliary line holding against angelic advance, breaking, retreating, buying seconds while champions repositioned.
"If you survive," Valen added, "it is because the gods required you later. If you do not, you have fulfilled your function."
No outrage followed.
No murmurs.
This was not news to most of them.
Frankie's fingers curled slowly against the stone bench.
She had survived more than three trips into the waste land.
According to doctrine, that meant something had gone wrong.
Valen turned toward the gifted rows.
"You," he said, "are taught to wield power."
He turned back toward the auxiliaries.
"You are taught to endure its absence."
Frankie thought of the Death Zone. Of how often plans failed the moment something unexpected happened. Of gifted patrols freezing when formations broke. Of auxiliaries adapting because they had no choice.
Valen was preparing soldiers.
But he was preparing them for a war angels no longer fought the same way.
"And remember this," Valen concluded. "Improvisation is a failure of preparation."
The words echoed in Frankie's mind long after the bell rang again.
The auxiliary evaluation followed immediately.
No warning. No buildup.
Just instructions and clipboards.
They were taken to a different wing narrower halls, fewer murals, stone left undecorated. Here, instructors waited with measured expressions and sealed tablets.
"No combat," one announced. "No heroics."
Frankie almost smiled.
They were tested on response.
A map appeared on the wall. A projected urban zone collapsed buildings, limited exits, marked angel patrol paths.
"Your gifted unit is compromised," the evaluator said. "Commander neutralized. Orders cease. What do you do?"
Hands went up.
Frankie did not raise hers.
Auxiliaries spoke in turn. Retreat protocols. Fallback positions. Signal flares.
The evaluator nodded at each answer.
Then his eyes slid to Frankie.
"Rinaldi."
She looked up.
"What do you do?"
Frankie chose her words carefully.
"I preserve resources," she said. "I prevent panic. I disengage without drawing attention."
The evaluator tilted his head.
"How?"
"I break line-of-sight," Frankie replied. "I move survivors separately, not as a unit. I leave false trails. I don't try to regroup until pursuit breaks."
A pause.
"That is not doctrine," the evaluator said.
"No," Frankie agreed. "Doctrine assumes command still matters."
The silence stretched.
Several gifted observers frowned from the doorway.
The evaluator made a note.
"Reaction time test," he said abruptly.
Lights flashed. Symbols shifted. Frankie moved only when required never fast, never slow. Correct. Consistent.
Too consistent.
When it ended, the evaluator reviewed his tablet again.
Then again.
Frankie felt it the subtle shift. The moment when she stopped being background.
"Operational Support Candidate," he said finally.
He didn't explain.
He didn't need to.
Callista stood near the exit when Frankie left the chamber.
"That classification," Callista said quietly, falling into step beside her, "means you get assigned to problems no one else can solve."
Frankie didn't look at her. "That sounds generous."
"It isn't," Callista replied. "It means they don't know where to put you."
Frankie absorbed that.
They walked in silence for a few moments.
Then Callista spoke again.
"The doctrine," she said. "It's outdated."
Frankie stopped.
Callista hesitated, then continued anyway.
"My god values preparation," she said. "Not worship. Not obedience. Preparation."
"And?" Frankie asked.
"And the angels aren't behaving like the records say they should."
Frankie's chest tightened, not fear, not surprise. Confirmation.
Callista glanced around, lowered her voice.
"I checked older texts. Pre-Olympian archives. Things don't line up."
Frankie's mind flickered briefly to the system. To greyed-out panels. To the word integrity.
"Be careful," Frankie said.
Callista smiled faintly. "So should you."
They parted at the stairwell.
That night, Frankie sat alone on the apartment floor while Sofia slept.
She closed her eyes.
The system unfolded.
No alerts. No rewards.
Just presence.
She thought of Valen's words.
Improvisation is a failure of preparation.
The system did not agree.
Somewhere beyond the walls, angels were adapting.
Inside the Academy, gods were preparing for a war already changing.
And Frankie classified, misfiled, still pretending to be small, understood something none of them did yet.
Preparation only worked against an enemy that stayed the same.
And nothing ever did.
She opened her eyes.
Tomorrow, she would sit quietly in class again.
She would listen.
She would learn.
And she would prepare not the way the Academy intended.
But for the war that was actually coming.