The clearing stank of char and blood. Smoke curled up from the Horror's corpse, molten fragments cooling into black stone. For a long moment, no one moved.
Then the adrenaline broke.
Soren dropped to the dirt, gasping. Callen leaned against a shattered tree, his blades still trembling in his grip. Lyanna sat at Eryndor's side, wiping soot from his cheek with shaking hands, her bow discarded.
"You're insane," she whispered, voice cracking, "throwing yourself at that thing like that."
Eryndor's smirk was faint, but it held. "Worked, didn't it?"
She wanted to scold him. Instead, she just pressed her forehead to his shoulder, silent tears cutting lines down her ash-streaked face.
The others gathered slowly, eyes flicking from Eryndor to the corpse and back again. No one said it outright, but the thought weighed on them all: Without him, we'd be dead.
The quiet girl—the one who had raised stone pillars—spoke first, voice low. "They'll never believe us."
"They'll have to," Callen shot back, forcing a grin. "We've got the proof." He gestured toward the massive remains.
Eryndor forced himself to stand. His body screamed, his vision blurred, but he planted his boots firm. Looking at the molten husk, he felt a hollow satisfaction. Victory, yes—but not triumph. If monsters like this existed in the wilds, then the academy hadn't been training them for sport. They were being forged for war.
By the time they limped back through the academy gates two days later, word had already begun to spread. Whispers moved faster than fire:
"A first-year team took down a Horror?"
"Impossible. They're lying."
"No—Kael confirmed the energy signature."
"And the leader… some no-name boy, right? Eryndor?"
The courtyard buzzed with rumors as they passed. Older students sneered at first, then quieted when they saw the burn scars across Eryndor's arms, the way he walked as if every step was dragging iron.
Kael himself waited at the steps, arms folded. His sharp gaze swept the battered group before settling on Eryndor.
"You're still alive," he said flatly.
"Barely," Eryndor answered, meeting his eyes without flinching.
Kael's lips curved, the faintest ghost of approval. "Good."
Behind them, murmurs thickened. Some voices carried awe, others bitterness, others envy. Rivalries sharpened before they'd even cooled down.
Eryndor felt it all—the weight of eyes, the birth of whispers, the shifting of air around his name. He didn't ask for it. But he didn't shy from it either.
Let them talk.
If the world wanted to measure him, then he'd give them something worth measuring.
And for the first time, as he stood there with Lyanna close and his battered allies behind him, Eryndor realized—he was no longer just surviving.
He was beginning to leave a mark.