Morning comes quietly.
Soft sunlight filters through the curtains of the dorm room, painting pale gold across the walls and the rumpled beds pushed together near the window. The world outside Beacon Academy is already waking-distant footsteps, faint voices-but inside the room, everything is still.
For a few precious moments longer.
Erik stirs first.
Not abruptly. Not alarmed.
Just the slow, practiced return to awareness.
He exhales softly, eyes still closed, registering warmth before anything else. An arm draped over his chest. A familiar weight resting against his side. The steady rhythm of breathing that doesn't belong to him alone.
He opens his eyes.
Pyrrha is still asleep.
Her crimson hair fans across the pillow, slightly tangled from the night before. One leg is hooked loosely over his, as if she'd claimed the space sometime in the early hours and never let go. Her expression is peaceful-unguarded in a way she rarely allows herself during the day.
Erik doesn't move.
He's learned that moving means waking her.
And right now, he doesn't want to.
Last night flickers through his mind in quiet fragments-the music, the lights, her laughter when he spun her a little too confidently, the way she'd rested her head against his shoulder afterward like it was the most natural thing in the world.
A small smile tugs at his lips.
Eventually, Pyrrha stirs.
Her brow furrows slightly, then relaxes. She shifts closer without opening her eyes, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt as if confirming he's still there.
"...Morning," she murmurs, voice soft and sleepy.
Erik hums. "Morning."
She blinks a few times, green eyes slowly focusing on him. For a second, she just looks at him-quiet, unhurried.
Then she smiles.
"That wasn't a dream," she says quietly.
"Nope," Erik replies. "Very real. You danced. I survived."
She laughs softly, the sound warm and unguarded. "You did more than survive."
He tilts his head. "High praise this early?"
She lifts herself slightly on one elbow, studying him with a playful seriousness. "I meant it. Last night was... really nice."
"Yeah," he agrees. "It was."
They lie there for a moment longer, neither in a hurry to get up. Pyrrha traces a small, idle pattern on his sleeve with her thumb.
"I don't usually let myself enjoy things like that," she admits quietly.
Erik glances at her. "Why not?"
She thinks for a moment. "Because I always feel like there's something else I should be doing. Someone I should be helping. Expectations."
He nods slowly. "And last night?"
She smiles again. "Last night, I didn't think about any of that."
"Good," Erik says simply. "That was kind of the point."
She shifts closer, resting her head against his shoulder now, comfortable and familiar.
"...We're going to be sore," she adds after a moment.
He chuckles. "Worth it."
She laughs softly, then sighs contentedly. "Very."
Outside, the morning continues to wake around them.
Morning doesn't wait forever.
Eventually, sunlight grows brighter, and the distant hum of Beacon Academy becomes impossible to ignore. Footsteps echo faintly in the halls. Doors open and close. The day moves on.
Pyrrha is the first to sigh and shift again.
"...We should probably get up," she says, though she makes no move to do so.
Erik hums in agreement. "Unfortunately."
She lifts her head, red hair falling over her shoulder, and gives him a fond look. "You say that like you're deeply offended."
"I am," he replies calmly. "By the concept of responsibility."
She laughs, rolling away from him at last. "Come on. If we're late, Professor Goodwitch will absolutely notice."
"That sounds like a threat," Erik says as he sits up.
They move through their routine with an ease that only comes from repetition.
Pyrrha gathers her things first-straightening the sheets, folding the blanket neatly at the foot of the bed out of habit. Erik stretches once, then stands, grabbing his towel and heading toward the bathroom.
"I'll be quick," he says over his shoulder.
"I'll believe that when I see it," Pyrrha replies lightly.
He glances back with a grin. "You wound me."
She shakes her head, smiling as the door closes behind him.
By the time Erik returns, hair damp and shirt half-buttoned, Pyrrha is already dressed in her training clothes, armor pieces laid out neatly on the bed.
"You're fast," Erik notes.
She shrugs. "I like having things in order."
"Shocking," he deadpans.
She swats his arm, amused.
They finish getting ready together, the space filled with soft sounds-buckles clicking, fabric shifting, the familiar weight of armor settling into place.
Erik reaches for his combat attire, shrugging into his jacket and adjusting the straps with practiced movements. Pyrrha watches him for a moment, arms crossed.
"You know," she says thoughtfully, "you look very different like this."
He glances up. "Different how?"
"More... focused," she replies. "Like you're already thinking three steps ahead."
He smirks. "Old habit."
She steps closer, adjusting one of his straps where it sits slightly crooked. "Still," she adds, "it suits you."
He meets her eyes. "Careful. You're starting my day dangerously well."
She laughs softly, then turns back to her own armor. Her movements are smooth, precise-each piece fitting like an extension of herself.
Erik watches her now.
Confident. Composed. Radiant, even in steel.
When she finishes, she straightens and rolls her shoulders once.
"Alright," she says. "Ready."
He nods. "Same."
She reaches out and laces her fingers with his, giving a small squeeze.
"Last night was special," she says quietly. "But I like this too."
He squeezes back. "Yeah. Me too."
They step out into the corridor together, the quiet comfort of the dorm giving way to the steady rhythm of Beacon Academy at full wakefulness.
Morning light spills through tall windows as students move through the halls-some already in combat gear, others half-awake and clutching mugs of coffee. Voices overlap in easy chatter. Laughter echoes briefly, then fades around corners.
Erik and Pyrrha walk at an unhurried pace.
Not lingering-but not rushing either.
"This feels... calmer than usual," Pyrrha notes, adjusting the strap of her armor as they pass through an open archway into the courtyard.
Erik hums. "Post-event lull. Everyone's tired, but in a good mood."
She smiles at that. "You make it sound very scientific."
Erik just smile at her.
They follow one of the stone paths that wind through the academy grounds. Leaves rustle softly in the breeze. Somewhere nearby, a group of first-years argue about breakfast options. The day feels... normal.
Almost deceptively so.
She nudges him gently with her shoulder, and he allows himself a small grin.
They're midway across the courtyard when the air shifts.
A soft chime rings out-clear, resonant.
Then Professor Goodwitch's voice carries across the grounds through the academy intercom, sharp and unmistakable.
"Attention, all students."
Conversations falter. Footsteps slow. Heads lift.
"Will all first year students please proceed to the Amphitheater."
The intercom clicks off.
For half a second, everything is silent.
Then-
Groans ripple through the courtyard. Students sigh, complain, and redirect en masse toward the same destination.
They fall into step with the flow of students heading toward the Amphitheater.
And as they walk together toward the rising stone structure ahead, Erik has the distinct sense that whatever awaits them there is about to set the tone for the day.
Possibly longer.
The Amphitheater fills quickly.
Stone tiers rise in wide arcs, students settling into place in uneven waves of color and metal as combat gear gleams under the open sky. The low murmur of conversation hums through the space-curiosity, speculation, half-awoken chatter-until a sharp sound cuts through it.
"Quiet! Quiet, please."
Professor Goodwitch stands at the center of the Amphitheater, posture straight, expression severe. Her voice carries without effort, amplified just enough to command attention. The murmurs die down, one by one, until only the rustle of fabric and the distant wind remain.
She gestures toward the platform behind her.
"Professor Ozpin would like a few words before we begin."
A tall, familiar figure steps forward.
Ozpin rests both hands on his cane as he looks out over the assembled students. His gaze is calm, thoughtful, as if he's weighing not just the crowd before him, but the meaning of the moment itself.
"Today," he begins, voice measured and warm, "we stand together. United."
The Amphitheater grows still.
"Mistral. Atlas. Vacuo. Vale," Ozpin continues. "The four kingdoms of Remnant."
Erik listens quietly, hands resting at his sides. Beside him, Pyrrha's posture straightens, attention absolute.
"On this day, nearly eighty years ago," Ozpin says, "the largest war in recorded history came to an end."
A few students shift. Others lean forward.
"It was a war born of ignorance. Of greed. Of oppression," he continues. "A war that was about far more than borders or trade agreements. It was a war about the very idea of individualism itself."
Ozpin pauses, letting the words settle.
"We fought for countless reasons," he says. "One of which was the attempted destruction of all forms of art and self-expression."
A faint tension ripples through the crowd.
"And as you are all well aware," Ozpin adds gently, "that was something many could not stand for."
Erik's eyes narrow slightly-not in suspicion, but interest.
"As a result," Ozpin continues, "those who opposed this tyranny began naming their children after one of the core aspects of art itself-color."
A few students exchange quiet glances. Ruby straightens somewhere in the crowd.
"It was their way of declaring that not only would they refuse to tolerate such oppression," Ozpin says, "but neither would the generations to come."
He smiles faintly.
"And it is a tradition held dear to this very day."
Pyrrha breathes in softly, the words resonating deeply with her.
"We encourage individuality," Ozpin says. "Expression. Unity through diversity."
He lifts his gaze slightly.
"As I have said-we stand together. United."
The moment lingers.
"But," Ozpin continues, his tone shifting just enough to sharpen, "unity does not exist without effort."
The air tightens.
"Which is why today, while the rest of the world celebrates peace," he says, "Huntsmen and Huntresses will work to uphold it."
A ripple of anticipation runs through the Amphitheater.
"As first-year students," Ozpin continues, "you will be tasked with shadowing a professional Huntsman or Huntress on a mission."
Whispers break out-quickly stifled.
"Some of you may be taken beyond the borders of the kingdom for several days," he says. "Others may work within Vale's walls for the remainder of the week."
Erik glances briefly at Pyrrha. Her eyes are bright-focused, ready.
"But no matter which path you are assigned," Ozpin concludes, "remember this."
"Be safe."
"Remember your training."
"And do your very best."
Ozpin steps back.
For a heartbeat, the Amphitheater is silent.
Then the sound returns-controlled excitement, sharp breaths, the unmistakable buzz of students realizing that something real is about to begin.
To Be Continued...