The ceremony was held at noon.
That alone told Frankie everything she needed to know.
No dawn rites. No sunset reverence. Just midday, when the light was brightest and the gods could watch without casting shadows. The Academy's central courtyard had been cleared and polished until the marble reflected the sky like water. Banners hung from the surrounding colonnades, each marked with a divine sigil, each declaring preparation, unity, readiness.
The word survival appeared nowhere.
Frankie stood at the back with the auxiliaries.
They were arranged carefully, not officially separated from the gifted, but subtly distanced. Different rows. Different spacing. Enough to remind everyone who mattered when people were watching.
She spotted familiar faces from the failed clearance mission. Fewer than there should have been.
Bandaged arms. Wrapped ribs. One girl with her left hand bound in a stiff brace, staring straight ahead as if she'd decided that looking anywhere else might break her. Another auxiliary leaned on a crutch, face pale, jaw tight with the effort of standing this long.
Marco stood two rows ahead of Frankie.
He wasn't leaning on his cane today.
He stood upright, shoulders squared, hands clasped behind his back like a soldier who hadn't yet learned how to relax. His eyes stayed forward. He didn't look at the banners. Didn't look at the gods' statues. Didn't look at the gifted students already whispering to one another with barely contained excitement.
Frankie noticed how many of them wore fresh insignia.
Victory markers.
She also noticed how many auxiliaries had been told to wear plain grey.
A priest stepped forward.
Not Dorian. Someone older. Someone whose robes carried more weight than ornament. The symbol of Athena rested at his chest, worked in gold thread so fine it caught the light with every breath.
"Students of Grecko Academy," the priest intoned. "Today we honour resilience."
Resilience.
Not bravery. Not sacrifice. Not loss.
Just endurance.
He spoke of the recent engagement in careful terms. A "doctrinal deviation." An "unexpected resistance cluster." A "successful containment through coordinated response."
Frankie watched the gifted students as the words washed over them.
Some nodded solemnly.
Some smiled.
A few couldn't stop glancing at one another, clearly waiting for their names.
"Several gifted units demonstrated exemplary control under pressure," the priest continued. "They engaged angelic hostiles and emerged victorious."
That was a lie.
It was a polite one. A useful one.
But Frankie had been there. She had seen the way angels fell with wings torn, momentum stolen, strikes arriving too late. She had seen the confusion on gifted faces when their targets collapsed before doctrine could explain why.
She had seen panic.
Names were called.
Cassian Aurelius stepped forward first, smirking faintly as a bronze medal was placed around his neck. Applause followed, loud, enthusiastic, practiced. Others followed. Each gifted student received recognition, a symbol, a few words praising their courage.
One of them boasted under his breath as he returned to his place.
"Tier Two," he muttered to his friends. "Dropped it clean."
Frankie kept her gaze forward.
Another gifted laughed softly. "Would've been messy if we hadn't hit it fast."
Frankie thought of a Watcher spiraling from the sky with one wing shredded and no understanding of how it had happened.
You didn't hit it first, she thought. You just finished it.
When the priest turned his attention to the auxiliaries, the tone shifted.
"There are those," he said, "who served without divine blessing, yet fulfilled their assigned roles."
A pause.
Measured.
"As doctrine dictates."
A few auxiliary names were read.
Not many.
Commendations were handed out, not medals, but folded parchments stamped with temple ink. Survival citations. Official acknowledgement that the bearer had endured conditions beyond expectation.
No applause followed.
Just polite silence.
Marco's name was called.
Frankie felt a flicker of surprise, quickly buried.
Marco stepped forward. The priest hesitated just a fraction before handing him the parchment.
"For exceptional load-bearing under hostile conditions," the priest said.
Load-bearing.
Not defense. Not protection.
Marco accepted the citation without comment. He didn't smile. Didn't bow deeply. He nodded once and returned to his place.
Frankie noticed the way a few instructors exchanged glances.
They had expected Marco to break.
He hadn't.
The ceremony concluded quickly after that. No speeches from gods. No benedictions. Just a dismissal and the slow unravelling of groups into conversation.
That was when the whispers started.
"They shouldn't have survived that," one gifted said openly.
"Auxiliaries always get lucky once," another replied. "Then they die."
Frankie felt the weight of eyes as people reassessed.
Not her.
Not yet.
Marco.
A few auxiliaries gathered around him, murmuring quietly. Someone clapped his shoulder. Someone else asked if he was all right. Marco answered in short sentences, his voice steady.
Frankie stayed back.
She always did.
Across the courtyard, Celeste stood with a cluster of gifted students, her expression unreadable. She wasn't boasting. She wasn't laughing. She was watching the auxiliaries with a thoughtful frown.
When her gaze flicked to Frankie, it lingered.
Just long enough.
Frankie looked away first.
The announcement came as people were already starting to disperse.
A bell rang sharp, insistent.
An instructor stepped forward, voice amplified by a minor blessing.
"In honour of Lord Ares' presence in the city," he announced, "the Academy will host preparatory exercises."
Preparatory exercises.
Not games.
Not trials.
Exercises.
"Participation will be mandatory. Injury thresholds will be monitored. Fatalities are not expected."
Not expected, Frankie noted.
She felt the words settle like a weight in her stomach.
Around her, gifted students straightened. Excitement rippled through them, thinly veiled as discipline.
Auxiliaries exchanged glances.
No one cheered.
No one asked questions.
Marco turned his head slightly, just enough to catch Frankie's eye.
"You hear that?" he murmured.
"Yes."
"Feels like they're gearing up."
Frankie didn't answer right away.
She thought of Callista's words.
Markers.
She thought of the way angels had waited.
"I think," Frankie said quietly, "they're trying to see what breaks."
Marco frowned. "Who?"
"All of us."
They walked out of the courtyard together, blending into the movement of students heading toward lectures. The banners fluttered overhead, bright and confident.
Frankie felt none of that confidence.
Only pressure.
Because medals didn't mean victory.
They meant narrative control.
And survival citations weren't rewards.
They were proof that someone had exceeded the Academy's expectations.
That kind of thing never went unnoticed for long.
As they reached the archway, Frankie glanced back once.
The marble gleamed.
The gods' statues stood serene and unmoving.
Above them all, banners proclaimed readiness for war.
Frankie tightened her grip on her satchel strap and walked on.
The Academy wasn't preparing heroes.
It was preparing outcomes.
And she had a growing suspicion that she was becoming one of them whether she wanted to be or not.