Time in the academy had a strange way of passing. What began as days filled with exhaustion and aching muscles slowly stretched into weeks, and before anyone realized it, months had gone by. The early eagerness that once lit the eyes of new students dulled into quiet determination, or in some cases, despair.
For Alex and his friends, the struggle was constant. Every morning started with classes on ruins, magic theories, or history of the kingdoms. Afternoons dragged into long drills under strict instructors, followed by nights in their chosen clubs where the real grind began. The combat grounds tested their bodies, while the ancient library tested their patience and focus.
Yet, even as their bodies toughened and their minds sharpened, the sneers never stopped.
"Still wasting your time, peasants?" one of the Varlen boys scoffed as Alex and his friends passed by in the corridor. "All that training, and yet you still look like beggars with books."
Laughter followed from the other three, echoing off the stone walls.
Toren's fists balled up immediately, his knuckles whitening. Joren's jaw flexed as though he was biting back a retort. Even Alex felt the sting of heat rush to his face. But before any of them could speak, Silas, still nursing the faint traces of his earlier injuries, raised his hand.
"Not here. Not now," Silas said firmly, his voice quiet but steady. "We'll answer them where it matters."
The words cut through their anger like cold water. Toren swore under his breath but didn't lash out. Alex exhaled, reminding himself of Silas's fiery vow weeks ago. Their time would come.
Despite the constant taunting, their growth was undeniable.
Alex had grown sharper with the sword, his movements less clumsy and more precise. The instructors often noted how quickly he picked up new footwork and blade forms. He wasn't the strongest, but his adaptability stood out.
Joren honed his shield work with relentless dedication. His ability to block even complex strike combinations was slowly gaining admiration. He was steady as a wall, and in mock spars, the instructors began calling him "Stoneback."
Toren, though reckless, had become a whirlwind of energy. His strikes were wild but powerful, and when paired with Joren's steadiness, the two became a fearsome duo in practice battles.
And Silas—though his body still bore the limits of his injuries—proved invaluable in strategy classes. He could dissect a battlefield map within minutes, predicting enemy movements with uncanny accuracy. Professors began calling on him more frequently, and even other students started seeking his advice.
Still, life wasn't all pain and seriousness.
One evening, Toren insisted on cooking dinner for everyone. He bragged about how he had watched his mother prepare stew countless times. By the time the pot was done, however, the meat was half-burned, the broth too salty, and the vegetables floating like sad survivors in a swamp.
"This," Alex said, staring at his bowl, "isn't stew. This is betrayal."
Joren gagged on his first spoonful, coughing as Silas raised an eyebrow and muttered, "You're trying to kill us before the exams, aren't you?"
Toren's ears went red as he snapped back, "You all just don't have the palate for genius cooking!"
The whole room erupted into laughter, the exhaustion of the day melting away in shared amusement.
Another time, Alex and Joren had a mock duel in the training yard. What started as a serious spar quickly descended into chaos when Alex slipped on the dust, dragging Joren down with him. Both ended up rolling in the dirt while Toren nearly fell over laughing and Silas muttered, "Children. Actual children." Yet even he cracked a rare smile before shaking his head.
These moments stitched them closer together, a bond forged not only in hardship but also in laughter.
Slowly, the atmosphere in the academy began to shift.
Instructors noticed their relentless dedication. They weren't the best individually, but as a group, their synergy was becoming impossible to ignore. Other students—once amused by the Varlen boys' insults—began to glance at Alex's group with something closer to respect.
And the Varlen boys noticed too. Their taunts didn't stop, but their laughter grew thinner, forced. They mocked louder when crowds were nearby, but when alone, their gazes lingered with a sharpness that betrayed unease.
One late evening, after a particularly grueling sparring session, the four friends collapsed on their dorm floor, chests heaving.
"I swear," Toren panted, "if I keep training like this, I'll die before exams."
"You won't die," Joren replied, tossing him a flask of water. "You'll just end up slightly less annoying."
That got a laugh out of everyone, even Silas, who sat by the window, his eyes watching the fading orange glow of sunset. His voice was quieter when he finally spoke.
"We've come far," he said. "But not far enough. The exams are close. And that's when we'll truly show them—the Varlen boys, the instructors, everyone—that we're not to be dismissed."
Alex lay back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. He thought about his family back in Embervale, about his father's unshakable strength and his mother's hidden power he'd never seen. He thought about the promise he'd made to himself when he first entered Crownspire—that he would rise, not just for his family, but for himself.
As his friends' voices faded into tired chatter, Alex whispered to himself, a vow no one else heard:
"We'll prove it. We'll prove it to all of them."
The months had weighed on them, grinding them down, reshaping them like iron hammered by a relentless blacksmith. But with each strike, they were becoming sharper, stronger.
The year end exams loomed closer, a storm on the horizon. For Alex and his friends, it was no longer just about passing. It was about making a statement—loud and clear—that no amount of arrogance, no amount of mockery, could stand against those who refused to break.
And though none of them said it aloud, they all felt the same fire burning quietly within:
Their time was coming.