They were marched into the courtyard at dawn.
The sky above was pale steel, the sun a veiled smudge behind thin clouds. Mist clung low to the ground, curling around their boots as they moved in lines—silent, orderly, as they'd been trained.
Izen walked near the rear of the formation, his eyes half-lidded. The cold bit at his skin, and each breath steamed faintly in front of his lips. Around him, the other students moved like ghosts.
No one asked where they were going anymore.
No one wanted to know.
The courtyard was built in concentric layers—ringed platforms of ancient stone, bleached pale by time and sun. It felt older than the rest of the facility. Weatherworn. Cracked. Like something had happened here long ago, and the Academy had simply built around it.
At the center stood a single stone pillar, waist-high, stained at the top with something dark and old. Rust, perhaps.
Or blood.
Instructor Cael was already waiting.
Today, his mask was different. Bone-white, with black ink spiraling from the eyes like tears.
"This is your second lesson," he said, voice as flat and sharp as ever. "It will not be like the last."
His eyes scanned the group.
"It is not enough to act without hesitation. An assassin must also believe without doubt."
A pause.
"Belief," he continued, "is not about morality. It is about certainty. And in this place, the only thing you must believe in—absolutely—is the Academy."
Two masked assistants wheeled out a cart.
On it were cages.
Inside each, an animal: rats, birds, a few small dogs.
The students stiffened. Not from fear. From knowing.
Izen felt a quiet chill form in his chest.
"We are the knife," Cael said.
He gestured to the pillar. "And the knife must be tested."
One by one, the students were called forward.
Each had to take a creature from the cage.
Each had to kill it—cleanly, quickly, without hesitation—on the stone pillar.
It was not about cruelty.
It was about control.
Some did it without blinking. Deros, of course. Another boy, taller than the rest, snapped a bird's neck without a sound. Even Vellin did it—slowly, precisely—without flinching.
When Izen's name was called, he stepped forward in silence.
The cage they handed him was small. Inside, a rabbit—its fur mottled gray, its eyes wide.
He knelt.
The stone beneath him was slick with blood.
He opened the cage and reached in slowly. His fingers were steady. The rabbit trembled but didn't fight. It was tired. Cold.
He held it gently.
And then—
He froze.
His mind wandered, unbidden.
He remembered the cellar beneath his childhood home. The one his mother never spoke of. Where the air was always too still. Where her voice always dropped to a whisper.
He remembered her words that final night.
"You're not ready," she had said.
He hadn't understood what she meant.
Only that her eyes were full of tears when she said it. And that she'd tried to stop him.
Tried, and failed.
Izen looked down at the rabbit in his hands.
He didn't squeeze.
Didn't press.
Didn't move.
Seconds passed.
Behind him, he felt the attention of the crowd sharpening like knives.
Cael said nothing.
But he watched.
That was worse.
Finally, Izen stood.
He placed the rabbit back in the cage.
Turned.
Walked toward the instructor.
"I won't waste this," he said softly.
Then met Cael's gaze through the mask.
"It would've been too clean."
A long silence followed.
Then Cael spoke.
"Return to the line."
That night, Izen didn't sleep.
He sat cross-legged on his bunk, staring at the rabbit cage now tucked beneath it, wrapped in cloth. The animal had calmed. Its eyes were closed.
Some of the other students whispered about him now.
A few thought he was soft.
A few thought he was planning something.
Only Vellin looked at him with something like curiosity. Like someone staring at a locked box and wondering what was inside.
She didn't approach again.
But she watched him longer now.
The Academy taught through blood.
Through exhaustion. Deprivation. Fear.
But Izen had learned something else in the courtyard.
He'd learned how they measured defiance.
It wasn't about obedience. Not exactly.
It was about usefulness.
You could disobey—if it made you more valuable.
That was the secret rule no one spoke.
Three days later, the instructors tested them again.
A new room. Larger. Darker. The walls were obsidian black, floor tiled in some strange gray ceramic that clacked beneath their boots.
A voice spoke over the ceiling speakers.
"You will be paired. One of you will be marked."
A soft hiss. A screen lit up.
Names appeared in pairs.
Beside each pair, a designation: MARKED or PURSUER.
The task was simple.
The PURSUER had to catch the MARKED before time ran out.
The MARKED had to avoid capture by any means.
Izen was paired with a boy named Kel.
They had never spoken.
Kel had broad shoulders and quiet eyes. His hands were calloused in a way that suggested farm work, or long hours with tools.
Izen was the MARKED.
When the timer began, he didn't run.
He stood still for three full seconds.
Think, he told himself.
Kel would expect motion. Distance. Escape.
That's what most would do. Turn it into a chase.
But the room was designed like a maze—narrow paths, odd angles, sections blocked off by sudden walls that rose from the floor.
Running wouldn't save him.
He had to vanish.
Izen moved into the maze with slow precision, memorizing every angle.
He counted each step. Noted each sound. Mapped shadows in his mind.
Then he did something none of the others thought to do.
He circled back.
He waited near the entrance, pressed against a blind corner where the light didn't reach. His breathing slowed. His muscles still.
And when Kel passed, moving carefully—
Izen stepped behind him.
And whispered: "Found you."
The lights snapped on.
The voice over the speaker spoke again.
"Incorrect. The MARKED must evade, not capture."
Izen's lips twitched. He didn't smile.
But inside, he noted the phrasing. Not capture.
There was something more to these drills than rules.
They were watching how students bent the rules.
How they twisted meaning. Created advantage.
After the match, Kel approached him.
"You could've won," he said.
Izen shrugged.
"Didn't want to."
Kel frowned.
"Why?"
Izen looked at him.
And simply said: "I'm learning the rules."
The final part of the lesson came two days later.
By then, half the dormitory had changed. New faces. New silences. Some had cracked. Others had disappeared.
No announcements were made.
No names were read.
Just fewer footsteps in the night.
That morning, Izen woke with a single note placed beneath his pillow.
It bore no seal. No instructions.
Only a phrase.
"Meet me where the stone bleeds."
He found the message strange.
The Academy discouraged unsanctioned communication. Even whispers could earn punishment. Yet the note bore no sign of malice. Just quiet intent.
He waited until midday.
Then returned to the courtyard.
The pillar was still there.
This time, he wasn't alone.
Vellin stood by the base of the stone, arms crossed.
Her eyes were sharp. No cloak. No mask. Just a quiet readiness.
"I know you didn't kill it," she said.
He didn't pretend to misunderstand.
"And?"
"You're not here for the same reason the others are."
A pause.
"You're not here to survive. You're here for something else."
Izen stepped closer.
He looked at the pillar.
Blood still stained the top, dark against pale stone.
"I'm here because someone made a mistake," he said softly.
Vellin tilted her head.
"Whose?"
He didn't answer.
Not yet.
Far above, unseen, a pair of instructors watched from a glass room embedded in the upper wall.
"He's patient," one of them said.
The other nodded.
"Too patient. We need to accelerate."
"No," the first replied. "Let him steep. The sharpest blades take longest in the forge."
That night, Izen dreamed again.
The rabbit's eyes. His mother's final breath. The sound of rain against the cellar walls.
And beneath it all, a ticking.
Steady.
Rhythmic.
Like a clock buried beneath the world.
Waiting to be heard.