The mid-afternoon sun baked the red clay of the western practical field until the dust rose in thin, hot plumes under heavy boots. High above the gallery wall, a dozen second-year cadets leaned against the stone coping, watching Squad 3 work the long line of reinforced iron targets.
"Anchor set!" Cade's voice cut across the courtyard like an iron blade. "Five-erg threshold. Full release on three!"
Behind him, Squad 3 moved as a single organism. Four hands hit the bronze boundary frame in exact synchronization. Cade drew his breath deep into his chest, squared his shoulders, locked his right heel three inches deep into the packed soil, and released.
The resulting blast wasn't a flare; it was a wall of white-hot pressure. The five-erg surge hit the iron target square in the center plate, shattering the heavy oak backing into kindling and throwing a spray of molten slag fifteen paces across the clay.
Up on the gallery wall, the second-years let out a low murmur of appreciation. It was textbook execution — clean, devastating, and delivered with absolute authority.
"Clear target!" the proctor called out from his wooden dais, marking a full ten on his slate. "Squad Three, reset for drill two."
Cade didn't move immediately. He stood in the settling dust, his right heel still buried in the chalk box, his jaw clamped shut. The target was obliterated, but the backpressure of five ergs absorbed directly through a locked spine and an unyielding leg traveled straight into his knee joint. A dull, throbbing heat spiked through his ankle and up into his lower back.
His breath came in short, jagged hitches. He took half a second longer than usual to unclamp his fingers from the iron frame.
"Cade," his squad's secondary caller murmured, stepping up alongside him, eyes flicking to the white-knuckled grip. "You ready for the return vector?"
"Ready," Cade said flatly. He rolled his right shoulder, ignoring the dull ache behind his shoulder blade, and set his heel back into the exact same impression in the dirt. He forced his posture even stiffer, locking his joints harder to crush the tremor before it reached his hands.
Master Chawng walked down the stone steps from the upper gallery, his wooden staff tapping rhythmically against the dirt. He stopped ten feet from Squad 3's chalk box, resting his weight on the polished wood.
"You're fighting your own foot," Chawng said softly.
Cade didn't break his stance. "The manual requires a locked anchor to stabilize a five-erg output."
"The manual tells you where to put your foot," Chawng replied, his voice unhurried. "It doesn't tell you to fight the ground with it."
Chawng pointed the tip of his staff at Cade's locked right heel, where the muscle in his calf was quivering under the strain.
"You breathe after you strike," Chawng said. "Breathe with the movement, or your body will treat your own power like an attack."
Cade's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He wasn't a novice; he had spent four years becoming one of the top strikers in Havenwood by doing exactly this — holding harder, bracing longer, enduring what others couldn't. Loosening felt like giving up ground he'd paid for.
He took a short breath, shifted his heel half an inch to loosen the joint, and called the next volley before he could think it through.
"Anchor set! Release on three!"
The output detonated — but without the rigid bracing of his heel, his footing slipped on the dry lime. The heel that had been a fixed post became a pivot. His hips turned a fraction too far, his shoulder overcompensated, and the beam clipped the target's edge instead of striking dead center, scoring a shallow gouge across the iron plate.
See? Cade thought bitterly, his teeth grinding together as he immediately locked his heel back into the dirt, driving his weight down with twice the force. Dust puffed up around the boot. He didn't need to change his entire discipline. He just needed to endure it. The manual had worked for four years.
Chawng didn't argue. He tapped his staff once against the dirt, watched the tremor run up Cade's calf again, and turned away.
Up in the shaded archway of the upper arcade, Lucas stood leaning against a stone pillar. He watched Cade lead Squad 3 into their third consecutive run, his eyes trailing across the courtyard. Nearby, a second-year cadet who had been watching Cade quietly loosened the straps on his own wrist guards before stepping into the lower ring. Two rows over, an instructor sharply ordered the cadet to tighten them again.
The sun began to dip behind the western barracks, painting the red clay in long shadows. Squad 3 was dismissed for mess call, their armor clinking as they walked off the field toward the washbasins. No one said anything to Cade.
Cade remained in the chalk box alone. He sat down on the edge of the wooden target frame, unlaced his right boot with stiff fingers, and pulled his foot free.
He flexed his swollen ankle into the cool air and looked down at the deep boot print left behind in the white lime. His heel had barely moved during the entire drill. His knee had done enough moving for both of them.