The second morning arrived with sore muscles and a sky the color of polished steel.
Freya woke to the ache in her shoulders first. It bloomed when she shifted, a reminder of yesterday's combat drills. For a few seconds she lay still, staring at the ceiling, listening to the muted sounds of the dormitory stirring to life.
Inky was already awake, seated on the windowsill like a carved silhouette. The city stretched beyond him, restless and bright.
Freya pushed herself upright and reached for her sketchbook. Her pencil traced the line of the horizon, the sharp angles of distant towers. Each stroke sanded the edge off the anxiety humming in her chest.
Today would be harder. Yesterday had been assessment. Today would be expectation.
The bell rang.
She dressed quickly and joined the flow of Verdant students heading toward the academic wing. Conversations buzzed around her, voices overlapping in excited fragments about sparring matches and instructors.
First period was Strategy and Command.
The classroom resembled a small amphitheater. A holographic map hovered above the central platform, lines of light sketching out terrain that shifted and reformed in slow cycles. Students filled the curved rows, their chatter dimming as the instructor entered.
Instructor Maelis was slight and sharp-eyed, her gaze sweeping the room with surgical precision.
"Power without coordination," she began, activating the map with a flick of her wrist, "is noise. We are here to learn music."
The terrain blossomed into a simulated battlefield. Colored markers appeared, representing units. Maelis divided the class into teams and assigned them control of opposing forces.
Freya found herself paired with Sera and two others. The exercise was deceptively simple: outmaneuver the opposing team using limited resources.
As the simulation unfolded, voices rose in urgent debate.
"They're pushing the ridge," one teammate said.
"Then we collapse the flank," Sera countered.
Freya studied the shifting markers. A pattern emerged in the chaos. The opposing team overextended whenever they sensed weakness.
"They're baiting us," she said quietly.
Her teammates paused.
"If we pull back here," she continued, indicating a narrow pass, "they'll chase. We can cut them off."
Sera's eyes lit. "Do it."
The trap snapped shut in a flurry of light. Their victory registered in a clear chime that echoed through the room.
Maelis inclined her head slightly in their direction. "Observation," she said. "Well executed."
Warmth flickered in Freya's chest. It was a small victory, but it was hers.
The next lesson blurred into motion. Frontier Survival took place outdoors, in a controlled section of the academy grounds designed to mimic unstable mana zones. The air shimmered faintly, reality bending at the edges.
Instructor Reave demonstrated how to navigate the distortions, his contract anchoring the space around him.
"Trust your senses," he barked. "But verify them. Mana lies."
Students moved through the zone in cautious lines. The ground shifted under Freya's feet, tilting at impossible angles. Her stomach lurched. She focused on her breathing, on the steady rhythm of her steps.
Inky padded beside her, unbothered by the warping landscape. His presence was a constant point in a world that refused to stay still.
When the exercise ended, sweat dampened the back of her neck. The academy was not easing them in. It was sharpening them.
By midday, tension threaded the air like a drawn wire.
It started small. A raised voice in the courtyard. A shove that lingered a fraction too long. Rivalries, born from house pride and bruised egos, simmered dangerously close to the surface.
Freya and Sera were crossing the central plaza when the crowd ahead thickened. Students clustered in a loose ring, their attention fixed on the center.
Two boys faced each other, contracts flaring in agitated bursts. One wore the crimson accents of Pyros, his expression blazing with anger. The other bore Aegis blue, his stance rigid with defensive fury.
"He cheated," the Pyros student spat.
"You lost," the Aegis student shot back. "Accept it."
Mana crackled between them.
Freya's pulse quickened. The air tasted sharp, charged with the promise of violence. Memories stirred uncomfortably in her chest.
Then the crowd shifted.
A path opened as if carved by an invisible blade. Conversations faltered. A hush rippled outward.
The prefects had arrived.
They moved with unhurried certainty, their uniforms marked by subtle insignia that caught the light. At their center walked a tall girl with silver-threaded braids and eyes like polished stone. Authority radiated from her in quiet waves.
"Stand down," she said.
Her voice was not loud. It did not need to be.
The two boys froze. Their contracts flickered, then dimmed. The tension in the plaza loosened, replaced by a palpable reverence.
"That's Lysara," Sera whispered. "Verdant prefect."
Lysara's gaze swept over the disputants. "Explain," she commanded.
Words tumbled out in heated fragments. She listened without interruption, her expression unreadable. When they finished, silence stretched.
"You will resolve this through a sanctioned duel," Lysara said. "Tomorrow. Under instructor supervision."
The Pyros student bristled. "But—"
Her eyes pinned him in place.
"You will accept the outcome," she continued evenly. "Or you will answer to faculty discipline. Do you understand?"
He swallowed. "Yes, Prefect."
The Aegis student nodded stiffly.
"Good," Lysara said. "Disperse."
The crowd obeyed instantly. Students peeled away, their murmurs subdued. Respect lingered in the air like a fading echo.
Lysara did not leave immediately.
As the crowd thinned, she spoke quietly with the Pyros and Aegis students, her tone low but firm. Freya could not hear the words, but she saw the way their shoulders eased. Whatever Lysara said did not humiliate them. It grounded them.
"That's the part people don't see," Sera murmured. "Anyone can stop a fight. Prefects stop the next one too."
Freya watched as the disputants finally separated with stiff nods. The plaza resumed its usual rhythm, but something had shifted. The air felt… aligned. As if invisible threads had been pulled taut and tied neatly in place.
Their next class was Ethics of Contract, held in a circular chamber lined with tall windows. Sunlight streamed across polished desks arranged in a ring. Instructor Pell stood at the center, hands clasped behind his back.
"A contract," he began, "is not a tool. It is a relationship. And relationships carry responsibility."
His gaze swept the room. Students shifted under its weight.
"You will be tempted," Pell continued, "to measure worth in strength alone. Resist that impulse. A powerful contractor without restraint is a danger to everyone, including themselves."
Freya felt Inky's presence stir faintly at the edge of her thoughts. The lecture pressed against something delicate inside her. She wondered what responsibility meant when your partner refused to speak.
Pell activated a projection. Scenes flickered above them. Historical duels. Disasters born from unchecked power. Moments where a single decision rippled outward into catastrophe.
"Control," he said softly, "is an act of mercy."
The words lodged deep.
When class ended, Freya lingered, staring at the fading images. Sera nudged her gently.
"You're thinking too hard," she teased.
"Probably," Freya admitted.
They stepped back into the corridor, joining the current of students flowing toward the training terraces. Afternoon light slanted across the stone, painting everything in warm gold.
A familiar voice called out.
"Valemont."
Freya turned. Lysara approached, her stride unhurried. Up close, her presence was even more striking. Not overwhelming. Focused. Like a blade honed to quiet perfection.
"Yes?" Freya managed.
"I saw your assessment match yesterday," Lysara said. "And your movement today in the plaza. You observe before you act."
It was not a question.
"I try to," Freya replied carefully.
"Good," Lysara said. "The academy rewards those who see clearly. Do not let noise drown that out."
Her gaze flicked briefly to Inky. Something unreadable passed through her expression. Then she inclined her head and continued on her way.
Freya stood frozen for a heartbeat.
Sera exhaled softly. "She doesn't do that often."
"Do what?"
"Single people out. If Lysara noticed you, that means something."
The thought sent a ripple of unease and pride through Freya's chest. She tucked it away, unsure what to do with it.
The final session of the day was Endurance Conditioning. The instructors wasted no time. Students ran obstacle circuits that twisted through elevated platforms and shifting barriers. Muscles screamed. Breath burned.
Freya pushed through the course on instinct and stubbornness. Each leap and climb carved a rhythm into her body. When she faltered, she thought of freezing. Of the cost of stillness.
She did not stop.
By the time the dismissal bell rang, her legs trembled. Laughter and groans mingled as students collapsed onto the grass. The shared exhaustion softened rivalries into fleeting camaraderie.
Freya lay on her back, staring up at the sky. Clouds drifted lazily overhead. For a moment, the academy felt distant. There was only the steady beat of her heart and the rough texture of grass beneath her fingers.
"You kept pace," Sera said, dropping beside her.
"Barely," Freya replied.
"Barely counts," Sera said cheerfully. "That's the secret."
They rested in companionable silence. Around them, contracts shimmered in and out of visibility as students relaxed their focus. Inky sat near Freya's shoulder, eyes half closed, yet unmistakably alert.
As dusk settled, the campus lights flickered to life. Freya returned to her room on unsteady legs. The city beyond her window glowed with restless energy.
She opened her sketchbook and let the day spill onto the page. Lysara's poised silhouette. The fractured geometry of the obstacle course. The circle of desks in Pell's classroom.
Her pencil slowed as she added a final image. A small figure standing at the center of converging lines. Watching. Listening.
Learning.
Inky leapt lightly onto the desk. His gaze followed the movement of her hand. When she finished, she looked up at him.
"They all carry something," she murmured. "The prefects. The instructors. Even the students. Weight. Expectation."
He blinked slowly.
"I want to carry it too," she admitted.
The confession felt fragile in the quiet room. Yet it did not break. It settled into the space between them, steady and real.
Outside, the academy hummed with distant voices. Inside, Freya closed her sketchbook and lay back on the bed. Fatigue wrapped around her, heavy and earned.
Sleep approached gently.
As her eyes drifted shut, she felt Inky settle at her feet. His presence was a silent promise. The world she had stepped into was vast and demanding. Its voices carried weight. So would hers, one day.
The thought lingered as darkness claimed her.
And beneath the layered sounds of the academy night, a quiet certainty took root. She was not just surviving this place.
She was beginning to belong.