"I've been here for four years and I still don't even know the name of the academy."
Julius laughed to himself, more to push down the nervousness than because it was funny.
From across the parade ground the students moved like a single machine: boots in time, blades catching the sun, black coats trimmed in gold.
Julius had watched them for years and never dared speak. Today he meant to change that. Today he would stand before the test and see whether the name his father left him would open a door or close it forever.
Octavia was readying herself at the doorway. She'd learned the horse trade from her father and she moved with the same practical, sure hands—folding a shawl, tucking their small bundle into the satchel. Her face wore the calm she had taught herself since the fire; beneath it Julius could see the worry that never quite left her. He wanted to promise her something bright, so he said the one thing he could think of that felt like magic to a child: "We can get ice cream on the way."
Will stood at the Academy gate like he was part of the stonework—an old, reliable figure who seemed to belong to the yard as much as any flag. He lifted a hand when he saw them.
"Hey, old man, you're still here." Julius called with a grin.
"And you come here every day, kid," Will answered, the smile in his voice more a offering than a jest. "Persistence matters."
"Where is everybody? It's the test day," Julius asked, already half running.
"You're late, Julius. Try again next year, maybe next time you won't be late," Will said with mock severity. They laughed, but Will's eyes carried a small, careful warning. Julius felt the warmth of that look like a small blessing.
Stone and banner blurred as Julius skidded across the yard. A crowd of hopefuls had already gathered—about a hundred, a mix of patched tunics and neat coats, boys and a few girls, faces arranged between bravado and blank fear. The man at their head moved with the discipline of a commander; when Julius reached him the voice cut the murmur like a blade.
"And who are you?" the leader barked.
"Julius," he gasped.
"Julius, you're late. Your test will be harder than the others." The leader stepped aside and a broad-shouldered officer moved forward. "Magnus is your guide."
Magnus did not smile. He filled the space like a single, measured step: beard close-cut, shoulders like a wedge. "Now, newcomers—the Academy's name is the Solthar Academy of War," Magnus said.
"You will learn fighting, warcraft, logistics, and the study of men, how they move, how they break, and how to bend them without breaking yourself. You will see what it takes."
He walked them toward the drill ground. The yard smelled of oiled leather, sweat, and the metallic tang of practice steel. Training dummies stood scarred where students had labored until motions became muscle memory; banners snapped in a dry wind.
"Talk," Magnus said when they reached the ring. "You'll take the test here. Learn what you can from each other. You have little time." Then he left them with a curt nod.
Julius stayed where he was, feeling the press of bodies and the low current of conversation. A freckled boy sidled up, eager with the kind of blunt curiosity the young use to test strangers.
"You Julius, right?" the boy asked. "This year's harder than usual. Yours will be the worst—latecomers tend to get the rough end."
"Nothing to worry about—I'll get in," Julius said, and the words felt both true and fragile. "What's your name?"
The boy shrugged and drifted away; other faces rearranged, stories began, alliances guessed at like cards in a sleeve. Julius folded his hands around the broom-handle he'd stowed in his pack—the thing that had been a sword in his empty yard a thousand times. It smelled faintly of dust and oil and every night he'd practiced alone.
A bell rang sharp and a man climbed the platform. "Gather! I'll explain only once!" His voice held the practiced cadence of someone used to being obeyed.
"In this test you will face each other until midnight," he said, scanning the ring. "You have ten minutes to leave if you wish—this is your last chance." He paused so the meaning could settle on them like dust. "Julius, step forward."
Obedient from practice, Julius moved up.
"You were late. True?" the man asked, eyes like exams.
"Yes," Julius said. The word felt small and honest.
"Your trial will be different. You must put a scratch on my uniform. Do you believe you can do it?"
Julius breathed the steadying breath his father had shown him in a hundred small lessons—breath, step, strike. "Yes. I can," he answered, and the answer came steadier than he felt.
The man barked a dry laugh. "That's the spirit. Yours will actually be easier than the rest."
Julius did not believe the man. Easier—he suspected—was a word the Academy used like honey: to bait, to test, to sharpen. Still, the bell had sounded and there was no more time for doubt. Ten minutes ticked away like a small, merciless clock.
He edged back to the yard's fringe and practiced the motions: guard, advance, parry, counter. Muscle memory kept him honest; the broom-handle was not a blade, but it remembered cuts in the same way his arms remembered Conner's lessons. He thought of his father's patient corrections, the way Julius steadied a boy's wrist until the blade felt like an extension of the arm. He thought of Octavia's tired smile, of Will's understatement, and folded those things into a strange, private armor.
Around him the first matches began. Men clashed, leather and wood shrilling with impact. Each bout taught him in quick, practical flashes—where bravery becomes mistake, how a calm breath untangles a rush, when force needs patience. He watched and learned, note by note.
When his name rang and Magnus stepped to mark his ring, the broom-handle felt less like a prop and more like a promise. Julius planted his feet, felt stone under his soles and wind on his face, and stepped into the place the test had chosen for him. The yard cut its breath in half and the test began.