The sun bled gold across the training grounds, heat rolling in even before the day had properly begun. Students lined up in neat rows, shirts clinging to their backs as Kael barked orders.
"Again! Stance, strike, breathe—move as one, not like drunkards stumbling in the dark!"
Eryndor exhaled through his nose, knuckles whitening as his fists hammered against the padded post in rhythm. He wasn't hearing Kael anymore—just the dull thud of fist to leather, the tremor in his bones, the sharp pulse of mana winding through his arms. The new abilities he had unlocked hummed beneath his skin, still untested in the chaos of combat, begging to be unleashed.
Lyanna was across the yard, spinning her spear in precise arcs, the shaft a blur. Sweat gleamed along her brow, but her movements were fluid, dangerous, beautiful. She caught Eryndor watching, rolled her eyes, then smirked.
The students were finally finding a rhythm when the silence cracked.
A slow, deliberate clap echoed from the edge of the grounds.
Heads turned.
Veylan strolled into the field as if he owned it, his uniform half-buttoned, the crest on his chest glinting. His hair was tied back carelessly, his smile too sharp to be friendly. Behind him, three upperclassmen flanked his sides—each one broad, confident, the kind of men who moved with the ease of knowing they'd already won.
"Well, well," Veylan drawled, his voice cutting through the yard. "The little lambs are learning to swing their sticks. How adorable."
Kael's eyes narrowed, but he didn't intervene. Not yet.
Eryndor straightened, his pulse steady, gaze locked on Veylan. He could feel the shift ripple through the students around him—murmurs, sidelong glances, some stepping back, others whispering under their breath.
Veylan's eyes slid over the crowd before settling squarely on Eryndor. He smirked wider.
"Especially you," he said. "The wild dog who thinks he belongs among wolves."
Eryndor wiped the sweat from his brow, his lips curving in the faintest of smirks. "Funny," he murmured, loud enough to carry. "From here, you just look like jackals circling scraps."
A low ripple went through the field. Lyanna's grip on her spear tightened.
The upperclassmen behind Veylan chuckled darkly, rolling their shoulders like predators scenting blood.
Kael still hadn't spoken. His staff tapped once against the dirt. He was watching. Waiting. Testing.
The air between them thickened, heavy with the promise of violence.
And in that moment, Eryndor knew—this was no longer training. This was the line being drawn.